Part 37

III

Now seems none but the spider lord; Star in circle his web waits prey, Silvering bush-mounds, blue brushing sward; Slow runs the hour, swift flits the ray. Now to his thread-shroud is he nigh, Nigh to the tangle where wings are sealed, He who frolicked the jewelled fly; All is adroop on the down and the weald.

Mists more lone for the sheep-bell enwrap Nights that tardily let slip a morn Paler than moons, and on noontide’s lap Flame dies cold, like the rose late born. Rose born late, born withered in bud!— I, even I, for a zenith of sun Cry, to fulfil me, nourish my blood: O for a day of the long light, one!

Master the blood, nor read by chills, Earth admonishes: Hast thou ploughed, Sown, reaped, harvested grain for the mills, Thou hast the light over shadow of cloud. Steadily eyeing, before that wail Animal-infant, thy mind began, Momently nearer me: should sight fail, Plod in the track of the husbandman.

Verily now is our season of seed, Now in our Autumn; and Earth discerns Them that have served her in them that can read, Glassing, where under the surface she burns, Quick at her wheel, while the fuel, decay, Brightens the fire of renewal: and we? Death is the word of a bovine day, Know you the breast of the springing To-be.

HARD WEATHER

BURSTS from a rending East in flaws The young green leaflet’s harrier, sworn To strew the garden, strip the shaws, And show our Spring with banner torn. Was ever such virago morn? The wind has teeth, the wind has claws. All the wind’s wolves through woods are loose, The wild wind’s falconry aloft. Shrill underfoot the grassblade shrews, At gallop, clumped, and down the croft Bestrid by shadows, beaten, tossed; It seems a scythe, it seems a rod. The howl is up at the howl’s accost; The shivers greet and the shivers nod.

Is the land ship? we are rolled, we drive Tritonly, cleaving hiss and hum; Whirl with the dead, or mount or dive, Or down in dregs, or on in scum. And drums the distant, pipes the near, And vale and hill are grey in grey, As when the surge is crumbling sheer, And sea-mews wing the haze of spray. Clouds—are they bony witches?—swarms, Darting swift on the robber’s flight, Hurry an infant sky in arms: It peeps, it becks; ’tis day, ’tis night. Black while over the loop of blue The swathe is closed, like shroud on corse. Lo, as if swift the Furies flew, The Fates at heel at a cry to horse!

Interpret me the savage whirr: And is it Nature scourged, or she, Her offspring’s executioner, Reducing land to barren sea? But is there meaning in a day When this fierce angel of the air, Intent to throw, and haply slay, Can for what breath of life we bear, Exact the wrestle?—Call to mind The many meanings glistening up When Nature to her nurslings kind, Hands them the fruitage and the cup! And seek we rich significance Not otherwhere than with those tides Of pleasure on the sunned expanse, Whose flow deludes, whose ebb derides?

Look in the face of men who fare Lock-mouthed, a match in lungs and thews For this fierce angel of the air, To twist with him and take his bruise. That is the face beloved of old Of Earth, young mother of her brood: Nor broken for us shows the mould When muscle is in mind renewed: Though farther from her nature rude, Yet nearer to her spirit’s hold: And though of gentler mood serene, Still forceful of her fountain-jet. So shall her blows be shrewdly met, Be luminously read the scene Where Life is at her grindstone set, That she may give us edgeing keen, String us for battle, till as play The common strokes of fortune shower. Such meaning in a dagger-day Our wits may clasp to wax in power. Yea, feel us warmer at her breast, By spin of blood in lusty drill, Than when her honeyed hands caressed, And Pleasure, sapping, seemed to fill.

Behold the life at ease; it drifts. The sharpened life commands its course. She winnows, winnows roughly; sifts, To dip her chosen in her source: Contention is the vital force, Whence pluck they brain, her prize of gifts, Sky of the senses! on which height, Not disconnected, yet released, They see how spirit comes to light, Through conquest of the inner beast, Which Measure tames to movement sane, In harmony with what is fair. Never is Earth misread by brain: That is the welling of her, there The mirror: with one step beyond, For likewise is it voice; and more, Benignest kinship bids respond, When wail the weak, and them restore Whom days as fell as this may rive, While Earth sits ebon in her gloom, Us atomies of life alive Unheeding, bent on life to come. Her children of the labouring brain, These are the champions of the race, True parents, and the sole humane, With understanding for their base. Earth yields the milk, but all her mind Is vowed to thresh for stouter stock. Her passion for old giantkind, That scaled the mount, uphurled the rock, Devolves on them who read aright Her meaning and devoutly serve; Nor in her starlessness of night Peruse her with the craven nerve: But even as she from grass to corn, To eagle high from grubbing mole, Prove in strong brain her noblest born, The station for the flight of soul.

THE SOUTH-WESTER

DAY of the cloud in fleets! O day Of wedded white and blue, that sail Immingled, with a footing ray In shadow-sandals down our vale!— And swift to ravish golden meads, Swift up the run of turf it speeds, Thy bright of head and dark of heel, To where the hilltop flings on sky, As hawk from wrist or dust from wheel, The tiptoe sealers tossed to fly:— Thee the last thunder’s caverned peal Delivered from a wailful night: All dusky round thy cradled light, Those brine-born issues, now in bloom Transfigured, wreathed as raven’s plume And briony-leaf to watch thee lie: Dark eyebrows o’er a dreamful eye Nigh opening: till in the braid Of purpled vapours thou wert rosed: Till that new babe a Goddess maid Appeared and vividly disclosed Her beat of life: then crimson played On edges of the plume and leaf: Shape had they and fair feature brief, The wings, the smiles: they flew the breast, Earth’s milk. But what imperial march Their standards led for earth, none guessed Ere upward of a coloured arch, An arrow straining eager head Lightened, and high for zenith sped. Fierier followed; followed Fire. Name the young lord of Earth’s desire, Whose look her wine is, and whose mouth Her music! Beauteous was she seen Beneath her midway West of South; And sister was her quivered green To sapphire of the Nereid eyes On sea when sun is breeze; she winked As they, and waved, heaved waterwise Her flood of leaves and grasses linked: A myriad lustrous butterflies A moment in the fluttering sheen; Becapped with the slate air that throws The reindeer’s antlers black between Low-frowning and wide-fallen snows, A minute after; hooded, stoled To suit a graveside Season’s dirge. Lo, but the breaking of a surge, And she is in her lover’s fold, Illumined o’er a boundless range Anew: and through quick morning hours The Tropic-Arctic countercharge Did seem to pant in beams and showers.

But noon beheld a larger heaven; Beheld on our reflecting field The Sower to the Bearer given, And both their inner sweetest yield, Fresh as when dews were grey or first Received the flush of hues athirst. Heard we the woodland, eyeing sun, As harp and harper were they one. A murky cloud a fair pursued, Assailed, and felt the limbs elude: He sat him down to pipe his woe, And some strange beast of sky became: A giant’s club withheld the blow; A milky cloud went all to flame. And there were groups where silvery springs The ethereal forest showed begirt By companies in choric rings, Whom but to see made ear alert. For music did each movement rouse, And motion was a minstrel’s rage To have our spirits out of house, And bathe them on the open page. This was a day that knew not age. Since flew the vapoury twos and threes From western pile to eastern rack; As on from peaks of Pyrenees To Graians; youngness ruled the track. When songful beams were shut in caves, And rainy drapery swept across; When the ranked clouds were downy waves, Breast of swan, eagle, albatross, In ordered lines to screen the blue, Youngest of light was nigh, we knew. The silver finger of it laughed Along the narrow rift: it shot, Slew the huge gloom with golden shaft, Then haled on high the volumed blot, To build the hurling palace, cleave The dazzling chasm; the flying nests, The many glory-garlands weave, Whose presence not our sight attests Till wonder with the splendour blent, And passion for the beauty flown, Make evanescence permanent, The thing at heart our endless own.

Only at gathered eve knew we The marvels of the day: for then Mount upon mountain out of sea Arose, and to our spacious ken Trebled sublime Olympus round In towering amphitheatre. Colossal on enormous mound, Majestic gods we saw confer. They wafted the Dream-messenger From off the loftiest, the crowned: That Lady of the hues of foam In sun-rays: who, close under dome, A figure on the foot’s descent, Irradiate to vapour went, As one whose mission was resigned, Dispieced, undraped, dissolved to threads; Melting she passed into the mind, Where immortal with mortal weds.

Whereby was known that we had viewed The union of our earth and skies Renewed: nor less alive renewed Than when old bards, in nature wise, Conceived pure beauty given to eyes, And with undyingness imbued. Pageant of man’s poetic brain, His grand procession of the song, It was; the Muses and their train; Their God to lead the glittering throng: At whiles a beat of forest gong; At whiles a glimpse of Python slain. Mostly divinest harmony, The lyre, the dance. We could believe A life in orb and brook and tree, And cloud; and still holds Memory A morning in the eyes of eve.

THE THRUSH IN FEBRUARY

I KNOW him, February’s thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.

Now ere the foreign singer thrills Our vale his plain-song pipe he pours, A herald of the million bills; And heed him not, the loss is yours.

My study, flanked with ivied fir And budded beech with dry leaves curled, Perched over yew and juniper, He neighbours, piping to his world:—

The wooded pathways dank on brown, The branches on grey cloud a web, The long green roller of the down, An image of the deluge-ebb:—

And farther, they may hear along The stream beneath the poplar row. By fits, like welling rocks, the song Spouts of a blushful Spring in flow.

But most he loves to front the vale When waves of warm South-western rains Have left our heavens clear in pale, With faintest beck of moist red veins:

Vermilion wings, by distance held To pause aflight while fleeting swift: And high aloft the pearl inshelled Her lucid glow in glow will lift;

A little south of coloured sky; Directing, gravely amorous, The human of a tender eye Through pure celestial on us:

Remote, not alien; still, not cold; Unraying yet, more pearl than star; She seems a while the vale to hold In trance, and homelier makes the far.

Then Earth her sweet unscented breathes, An orb of lustre quits the height; And like blue iris-flags, in wreaths The sky takes darkness, long ere quite.

His Island voice then shall you hear, Nor ever after separate From such a twilight of the year Advancing to the vernal gate.