Part 8

YOUR dear desired grace, Your hands, your lips of red, The wonder of your perfect face Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed, When you are dead.

Your beautiful hair Dust in the dust will lie— But not the light I worship there, The gold the sunshine crowns you by— This will not die.

Your beautiful eyes Will be closed up with clay; But all the magic they comprise, The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies Pass not away.

All I desire and see Will be a carrion thing; But all that you have been to me Is, and can never cease to be. O Grave! where is thy victory? Where, Death, thy sting?

THE POINT OF VIEW: I.

THERE was never winter, summer only: roses, Pink and white and red, Shining down the warm rich garden closes; Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow, Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette, Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread; Good gold sun that kissed me when we met, Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow. In the hay-field, scented, grey, Loving life and love, I lay; By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep; Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.

Summer never was, was always winter only; Cold and ice and frost Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely, In a world of strangers, in the welter Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet, Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost In a bitter unfamiliar street, I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter, Crouched and fought in vain for breath, Cursed the cold and wished for death; Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep; Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.

THE POINT OF VIEW: II.

IN the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way; Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears: “It is night, it is night, it has never been day; Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight; It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night. Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.”

Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear: “It is day, it is day, it has never been night! Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves; It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”

MARY OF MAGDALA

MARY of Magdala came to bed; There were no soft curtains round her head; She had no mother to hold of worth The little baby she brought to birth.

Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed: “O God, I am very much afraid; For out of my body, by sin defiled, Thou biddest me make a little child.

“O God, I have turned my face from Thee To that which the angels may not see; How can I make, from my deep disgrace, A child whose angel shall see Thy face?

“O God, I have sinned, and I know well That the pains I bear are the pains of hell; But the thought of the child that sin has given Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven.”

Mary of Magdala held her breath In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death, And through her heart, like the mortal knife, Went the pang of joy and the pang of life.

“We two are two alone,” said she, “And we are two who should be three; Now who will clothe my baby fair In the little garments that babies wear?”

There came two angels with quiet wings And hands that were full of baby things; And the new-born child was bathed and dressed And laid again on his mother’s breast.

“Now who will sign on his brow the mark To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark? Who will my baby’s sponsor be?” “I, the Lord God, who died for thee.”

“Now who will comfort him if he cry; And who will suckle him by and bye? For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry, And I think that my time has come to die.”

“I will dandle thy son as a mother may; And his lips shall lie where my own Son’s lay. Come, dear little one, come to me; The Mother of God shall suckle thee.”

Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed; “I never deserved a child,” she cried. “Dear God, I am ready to go to hell, Since with my little one all is well.”

Then the Son of Mary did o’er her lean. “Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean. Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done, And My Mother shall give thee back thy son.”

Frozen grass for a bearing bed, A halo of frost round a woman’s head, And pious folks who looked and said: “A drab and her brat that are better dead.”

THE HOME-COMING

THIS was our house. To this we came Lighted by love with torch aflame, And in this chamber, door locked fast, I held you to my heart at last.

This was our house. In this we knew The worst that Time and Fate can do. You left the room bare, wide the door; You did not love me any more.

Where once the kind warm curtain hung The spider’s ghostly cloth is flung; The beetle and the woodlouse creep Where once I loved your lovely sleep.