Part 18

The Spirit of Wine Sang in my glass, and I listened With love to his odorous music, His flushed and magnificent song.

—‘I am health, I am heart, I am life! For I give for the asking The fire of my father, the Sun, And the strength of my mother, the Earth. Inspiration in essence, I am wisdom and wit to the wise, His visible muse to the poet, The soul of desire to the lover, The genius of laughter to all.

‘Come, lean on me, ye that are weary! Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting! Haste, ye that lag by the way! I am Pride, the consoler; Valour and Hope are my henchmen; I am the Angel of Rest.

‘I am life, I am wealth, I am fame: For I captain an army Of shining and generous dreams; And mine, too, all mine, are the keys Of that secret spiritual shrine, Where, his work-a-day soul put by, Shut in with his saint of saints— With his radiant and conquering self— Man worships, and talks, and is glad.

‘Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely, Ye that are paid with disdain, Ye that are chained and would soar! I am beauty and love; I am friendship, the comforter; I am that which forgives and forgets.’—

The Spirit of Wine Sang in my heart, and I triumphed In the savour and scent of his music, His magnetic and mastering song.

XLII

A WINK from Hesper, falling Fast in the wintry sky, Comes through the even blue, Dear, like a word from you . . . Is it good-bye?

Across the miles between us I send you sigh for sigh. Good-night, sweet friend, good-night: Till life and all take flight, Never good-bye.

XLII

FRIENDS . . . old friends . . . One sees how it ends. A woman looks Or a man tells lies, And the pleasant brooks And the quiet skies, Ruined with brawling And caterwauling, Enchant no more As they did before. And so it ends With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . . And what if it ends? Shall we dare to shirk What we live to learn? It has done its work, It has served its turn; And, forgive and forget Or hanker and fret, We can be no more As we were before. When it ends, it ends With friends.

Friends . . . old friends . . . So it breaks, so it ends. There let it rest! It has fought and won, And is still the best That either has done. Each as he stands The work of its hands, Which shall be more As he was before? . . . What is it ends With friends?

XLIV

IF it should come to be, This proof of you and me, This type and sign Of hours that smiled and shone, And yet seemed dead and gone As old-world wine:

Of Them Within the Gate Ask we no richer fate, No boon above, For girl child or for boy, My gift of life and joy, Your gift of love.

XLV To W. B.

FROM the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail, Fading even while she glows; Though he knows How it goes— Knows of last year’s Nightingale Dead with last year’s Rose.

Wise the enamoured Nightingale, Wise the well-belovèd Rose! Love and life shall still prevail, Nor the silence at the close Break the magic of the tale In the telling, though it shows— Who but knows How it goes!— Life a last year’s Nightingale, Love a last year’s Rose.

XLVI MATRI DILECTISSIMÆ I. M.

IN the waste hour Between to-day and yesterday We watched, while on my arm— Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone— Dabbled in sweat the sacred head Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: Till the dear face turned dead, And to a sound of lamentation The good, heroic soul with all its wealth— Its sixty years of love and sacrifice, Suffering and passionate faith—was reabsorbed In the inexorable Peace, And life was changed to us for evermore.

Was nothing left of her but tears Like blood-drops from the heart? Nought save remorse For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, And charity ignored? Nothing but love, Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth, But for this passing Into the unimaginable abyss These things had never been?

Nay, there were we, Her five strong sons! To her Death came—the great Deliverer came!— As equal comes to equal, throne to throne. She was a mother of men.

The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, Bent on his errand of immortal law, Works his appointed way To the immemorial sea. And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:— That she in us yet works and shines, Lives and fulfils herself, Unending as the river and the stars.

Dearest, live on In such an immortality As we thy sons, Born of thy body and nursed At those wild, faithful breasts, Can give—of generous thoughts, And honourable words, and deeds That make men half in love with fate! Live on, O brave and true, In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine— Our best and theirs! What is that best but thee— Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass Like light along the infinite of space To the immitigable end?

Between the river and the stars, O royal and radiant soul, Thou dost return, thine influences return Upon thy children as in life, and death Turns stingless! What is Death But Life in act? How should the Unteeming Grave Be victor over thee, Mother, a mother of men?

XLVII

CROSSES and troubles a-many have proved me. One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me. I have worked and dreamed, and I’ve talked at will. Of art and drink I have had my fill. I’ve comforted here, and I’ve succoured there. I’ve faced my foes, and I’ve backed my friends. I’ve blundered, and sometimes made amends. I have prayed for light, and I’ve known despair. Now I look before, as I look behind, Come storm, come shine, whatever befall, With a grateful heart and a constant mind, For the end I know is the best of all.