Part 18

DURING WIND AND RAIN

THEY sing their dearest songs— He, she, all of them—yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face . . . Ah, no; the years O! How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss— Elders and juniors—aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat . . . Ah, no; the years, the years; See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all— Men and maidens—yea, Under the summer tree, With a glimpse of the bay, While pet fowl come to the knee . . . Ah, no; the years O! And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house, He, she, all of them—aye, Clocks and carpets and chairs On the lawn all day, And brightest things that are theirs . . . Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

HE PREFERS HER EARTHLY

THIS after-sunset is a sight for seeing, Cliff-heads of craggy cloud surrounding it. —And dwell you in that glory-show? You may; for there are strange strange things in being, Stranger than I know.

Yet if that chasm of splendour claim your presence Which glows between the ash cloud and the dun, How changed must be your mortal mould! Changed to a firmament-riding earthless essence From what you were of old:

All too unlike the fond and fragile creature Then known to me . . . Well, shall I say it plain? I would not have you thus and there, But still would grieve on, missing you, still feature You as the one you were.

THE DOLLS

“WHENEVER you dress me dolls, mammy, Why do you dress them so, And make them gallant soldiers, When never a one I know; And not as gentle ladies With frills and frocks and curls, As people dress the dollies Of other little girls?”

Ah—why did she not answer:— “Because your mammy’s heed Is always gallant soldiers, As well may be, indeed. One of them was your daddy, His name I must not tell; He’s not the dad who lives here, But one I love too well.”

MOLLY GONE

NO more summer for Molly and me; There is snow on the tree, And the blackbirds plump large as the rooks are, almost, And the water is hard Where they used to dip bills at the dawn ere her figure was lost To these coasts, now my prison close-barred.

No more planting by Molly and me Where the beds used to be Of sweet-william; no training the clambering rose By the framework of fir Now bowering the pathway, whereon it swings gaily and blows As if calling commendment from her.

No more jauntings by Molly and me To the town by the sea, Or along over Whitesheet to Wynyard’s green Gap, Catching Montacute Crest To the right against Sedgmoor, and Corton-Hill’s far-distant cap, And Pilsdon and Lewsdon to west.

No more singing by Molly to me In the evenings when she Was in mood and in voice, and the candles were lit, And past the porch-quoin The rays would spring out on the laurels; and dumbledores hit On the pane, as if wishing to join.

Where, then, is Molly, who’s no more with me? —As I stand on this lea, Thinking thus, there’s a many-flamed star in the air, That tosses a sign That her glance is regarding its face from her home, so that there Her eyes may have meetings with mine.

A BACKWARD SPRING

THE trees are afraid to put forth buds, And there is timidity in the grass; The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds, And whether next week will pass Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop’s face betrays no gloom, And the primrose pants in its heedless push, Though the myrtle asks if it’s worth the fight This year with frost and rime To venture one more time On delicate leaves and buttons of white From the selfsame bough as at last year’s prime, And never to ruminate on or remember What happened to it in mid-December.

April 1917.

LOOKING ACROSS

IT is dark in the sky, And silence is where Our laughs rang high; And recall do I That One is out there.

The dawn is not nigh, And the trees are bare, And the waterways sigh That a year has drawn by, And Two are out there.

III

The wind drops to die Like the phantom of Care Too frail for a cry, And heart brings to eye That Three are out there.

This Life runs dry That once ran rare And rosy in dye, And fleet the days fly, And Four are out there.