Part 5

SONG OF THE DAY TO THE NIGHT

THE POET SINGS TO HIS POET

From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn, We two are sundered always, sweet. A few stars shake o'er the rocky lawn And the cold sea-shore when we meet. The twilight comes with thy shadowy feet.

We are not day and night, my Fair, But one. It is an hour of hours. And thoughts that are not otherwhere Are thought here 'mid the blown sea-flowers, This meeting and this dusk of ours.

Delight has taken Pain to her heart, And there is dusk and stars for these. Oh, linger, linger! They would not part; And the wild wind comes from over-seas With a new song to the olive trees.

And when we meet by the sounding pine Sleep draws near to his dreamless brother. And when thy sweet eyes answer mine, Peace nestles close to her mournful mother, And Hope and Weariness kiss each other.

'SOEUR MONIQUE'

A RONDEAU BY COUPERIN

Quiet form of silent nun, What has given you to my inward eyes? What has marked you, unknown one, In the throngs of centuries That mine ears do listen through? This old master's melody That expresses you, This admired simplicity, Tender, with a serious wit, And two words, the name of it, 'Soeur Monique.'

And if sad the music is, It is sad with mysteries Of a small immortal thing That the passing ages sing,-- Simple music making mirth Of the dying and the birth Of the people of the earth.

No, not sad; we are beguiled, Sad with living as we are; Ours the sorrow, outpouring Sad self on a selfless thing, As our eyes and hearts are mild With our sympathy for Spring, With a pity sweet and wild For the innocent and far, With our sadness in a star, Or our sadness in a child.

But two words, and this sweet air. Soeur Monique, Had he more, who set you there? Was his music-dream of you Of some perfect nun he knew, Or of some ideal, as true?

And I see you where you stand With your life held in your hand As a rosary of days. And your thoughts in calm arrays, And your innocent prayers are told On your rosary of days. And the young days and the old With their quiet prayers did meet When the chaplet was complete.

Did it vex you, the surmise Of this wind of words, this storm of cries, Though you kept the silence so In the storms of long ago, And you keep it, like a star? --Of the evils triumphing, Strong, for all your perfect conquering, Silenced conqueror that you are? And I wonder at your peace, I wonder. Would it trouble you to know, Tender soul, the world and sin By your calm feet trodden under Long ago, Living now, mighty to win? And your feet are vanished like the snow.

Vanished; but the poet, he In whose dream your face appears, He who ranges unknown years With your music in his heart, Speaks to you familiarly Where you keep apart, And invents you as you were. And your picture, O my nun! Is a strangely easy one, For the holy weed you wear, For your hidden eyes and hidden hair, And in picturing you I may Scarcely go astray.

O the vague reality! The mysterious certainty! O strange truth of these my guesses In the wide thought-wildernesses! --Truth of one divined of many flowers; Of one raindrop in the showers Of the long-ago swift rain; Of one tear of many tears In some world-renowned pain; Of one daisy 'mid the centuries of sun; Of a little living nun In the garden of the years.

Yes, I am not far astray; But I guess you as might one Pausing when young March is grey, In a violet-peopled day; All his thoughts go out to places that he knew, To his child-home in the sun, To the fields of his regret, To one place i' the innocent March air, By one olive, and invent The familiar form and scent Safely; a white violet Certainly is there.

Soeur Monique, remember me. 'Tis not in the past alone I am picturing you to be; But my little friend, my own, In my moment, pray for me. For another dream is mine, And another dream is true, Sweeter even, Of the little ones that shine Lost within the light divine,-- Of some meekest flower, or you, In the fields of Heaven.

IN EARLY SPRING

O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children's eyes. But I have learnt the years, and know the yet Leaf-folded violet. Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell The cuckoo's fitful bell. I wander in a grey time that encloses June and the wild hedge-roses. A year's procession of the flowers doth pass My feet, along the grass. And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know The notes that stir you so, Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear Beginnings of the year. In these young days you meditate your part; I have it all by heart.

I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers Hidden and warm with showers, And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall Alter his interval. But not a flower or song I ponder is My own, but memory's. I shall be silent in those days desired Before a world inspired. O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases Earth, thy familiar daisies.

The poet mused upon the dusky height, Between two stars towards night, His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space, The meaning of his face: There was the secret, fled from earth and skies, Hid in his grey young eyes. My heart and all the Summer wait his choice, And wonder for his voice. Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire But to divine his lyre? Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries, But he is lord of his.

PARTED

Farewell to one now silenced quite, Sent out of hearing, out of sight,-- My friend of friends, whom I shall miss. He is not banished, though, for this,-- Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.

Though I shall walk with him no more, A low voice sounds upon the shore. He must not watch my resting-place But who shall drive a mournful face From the sad winds about my door?

I shall not hear his voice complain, But who shall stop the patient rain? His tears must not disturb my heart, But who shall change the years, and part The world from every thought of pain?

Although my life is left so dim, The morning crowns the mountain-rim; Joy is not gone from summer skies, Nor innocence from children's eyes, And all these things are part of him.

He is not banished, for the showers Yet wake this green warm earth of ours. How can the summer but be sweet? I shall not have him at my feet, And yet my feet are on the flowers.