Part 12

“O MY pretty pink frock, I sha’n’t be able to wear it! Why is he dying just now? I hardly can bear it!

“He might have contrived to live on; But they say there’s no hope whatever: And must I shut myself up, And go out never?

“O my pretty pink frock, Puff-sleeved and accordion-pleated! He might have passed in July, And not so cheated!”

TRANSFORMATIONS

PORTION of this yew Is a man my grandsire knew, Bosomed here at its foot: This branch may be his wife, A ruddy human life Now turned to a green shoot.

These grasses must be made Of her who often prayed, Last century, for repose; And the fair girl long ago Whom I often tried to know May be entering this rose.

So, they are not underground, But as nerves and veins abound In the growths of upper air, And they feel the sun and rain, And the energy again That made them what they were!

IN HER PRECINCTS

HER house looked cold from the foggy lea, And the square of each window a dull black blur Where showed no stir: Yes, her gloom within at the lack of me Seemed matching mine at the lack of her.

The black squares grew to be squares of light As the eyeshade swathed the house and lawn, And viols gave tone; There was glee within. And I found that night The gloom of severance mine alone.

KINGSTON-MAURWARD PARK.

THE LAST SIGNAL (Oct. 11, 1886) A MEMORY OF WILLIAM BARNES

SILENTLY I footed by an uphill road That led from my abode to a spot yew-boughed; Yellowly the sun sloped low down to westward, And dark was the east with cloud.

Then, amid the shadow of that livid sad east, Where the light was least, and a gate stood wide, Something flashed the fire of the sun that was facing it, Like a brief blaze on that side.

Looking hard and harder I knew what it meant— The sudden shine sent from the livid east scene; It meant the west mirrored by the coffin of my friend there, Turning to the road from his green,

To take his last journey forth—he who in his prime Trudged so many a time from that gate athwart the land! Thus a farewell to me he signalled on his grave-way, As with a wave of his hand.

WINTERBORNE-CAME PATH.

THE HOUSE OF SILENCE

“THAT is a quiet place— That house in the trees with the shady lawn.” “—If, child, you knew what there goes on You would not call it a quiet place. Why, a phantom abides there, the last of its race, And a brain spins there till dawn.”

“But I see nobody there,— Nobody moves about the green, Or wanders the heavy trees between.” “—Ah, that’s because you do not bear The visioning powers of souls who dare To pierce the material screen.

“Morning, noon, and night, Mid those funereal shades that seem The uncanny scenery of a dream, Figures dance to a mind with sight, And music and laughter like floods of light Make all the precincts gleam.

“It is a poet’s bower, Through which there pass, in fleet arrays, Long teams of all the years and days, Of joys and sorrows, of earth and heaven, That meet mankind in its ages seven, An aion in an hour.”

GREAT THINGS

SWEET cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me, Spinning down to Weymouth town By Ridgway thirstily, And maid and mistress summoning Who tend the hostelry: O cyder is a great thing, A great thing to me!

The dance it is a great thing, A great thing to me, With candles lit and partners fit For night-long revelry; And going home when day-dawning Peeps pale upon the lea: O dancing is a great thing, A great thing to me!

Love is, yea, a great thing, A great thing to me, When, having drawn across the lawn In darkness silently, A figure flits like one a-wing Out from the nearest tree: O love is, yes, a great thing, A great thing to me!

Will these be always great things, Great things to me? . . . Let it befall that One will call, “Soul, I have need of thee:” What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings, Love, and its ecstasy, Will always have been great things, Great things to me!

THE CHIMES