The Haunted Hour Part 19

"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock, You should have felt it then; But since for you I stopped the clock It never goes again."

"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops Wet from your neck on mine?

What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes like brine?"

"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear 'Twill bleed because of it."

Under the stars the air was light But dark below the boughs, The still air of the speechless night, When lovers crown their vows.

HAUNTED: G.B. STUART

When candle-flames burn blue, Between the night and morning, I know that it is you, My love, that was so true, And that I killed with scorning.

The watch-dogs howl and bay; I pale, and leave off smiling.

Only the other day I held your heart in play Intent upon beguiling.

A little while ago I wrung your soul with sighing, Or brought a sudden glow Into your cheek by low Soft answers, in replying.

My life was all disguise, A mask of feints and fancies; I used to lift my eyes, And take you by surprise With smiles and upward glances.

And now, where'er I go, Your sad ghost follows after; And blue the flame burns low, And doors creak to and fro, And silent grows the laughter.

THE WHITE MOTH: SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

If a leaf rustled she would start: And yet she died, a year ago.

How had so frail a thing the heart To journey where she trembled so?

And do they turn and turn in fright, Those little feet, in so much night?

The light above the poet's head Streamed on the page and on the cloth, And twice and thrice there buffeted On the black pane a white-winged moth: 'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside, And, "Open, open, open!" cried.

"I could not find the way to G.o.d; There were too many flaming suns For signposts, and the fearful road Led over wastes where millions Of flaming comets hissed and burned-- I was bewildered and I turned.

"O, it was easy then! I knew Your window, and no star beside.

Look up and take me back to you!"

He rose and thrust the window wide.

'Twas but because his brain was hot With rhyming; for he saw her not.

But poets polishing a phrase Show anger over trivial things: And as she blundered in the blaze Towards him, on ecstatic wings, He raised a hand and smote her dead; Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"

THE GHOST: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I,--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air.

When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold."

"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"

"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain."

"Long dead these to thine...."

Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars.

In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast Sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.

LUKE HAVERGAL: EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,-- There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,-- And in the twilight wait for what will come.

The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,-- Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: G.o.d slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And h.e.l.l is more than half of paradise.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-- In eastern skies.

Out of the grave I come to tell you this,-- Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,-- Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.

Out of the grave I come to tell you this, To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.

Go,--for the winds are tearing them away,-- Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.

THE HIGHWAYMAN: ALFRED NOYES

1

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

2

He'd a French c.o.c.ked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol b.u.t.ts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

3

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

4

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter; The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

5

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though h.e.l.l should bar the way."