an annual of new poetry
TRANSCRIPT
LONDON
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY LTD.
N UA L O F
POETRY
1 9 f 7
PR INTED IN GREAT BR ITAIN .
CHI SWICK PRESS : CHARLE S WH I 'I‘TINGHAM AND CO .TOOK S COURT, CHANGER? LANE , LONDON.
CONTENTS
GORDON BOTTOMLEY m !
THE PLGUGHMAN
ATLANT I SA SU RREY N IGHTAVELINGLAS
HGMUNCULUS I N PENUMBRATHE PR I DE O F WESTMORELANDSONG
S I NA ITo
NEW YEAR’5 EVE, 1 9 1 3
ALL SOU LS, 1 9 14
IN M EMOR IAM A . M . W .
W . H . DAVIESBROTH ERSTHE BELLIN ENGLANDJOVE WARNS U s
ANGEL AND MYSTERYV
Contents
JOHN DRINKWATERMY ESTATEON READING TH E MS . OF DOROTH Y WORDS
WORTH ’S JOURNALSJUNE DANCE
EDWARD EASTAWAY
OLD MANSNOWTHE CUCKOOTHE NEW HOUSEW I ND AN D M I STTHE UNK NOWNTHE WORDAFTER RAINASPENSA PRIVATESEDGE WARBL ERSF OR TH ES EROADSTHE SOURCELOVERSBEAUTYTHE BROOK
SONGVi
Contents
ROBERT F ROST ! a !
CH R ISTMAS TREESA GIRL’S GARDENTHE L I N E GANGPEA BRUSHTHE OVEN B IRDHYLA BROOK
WILF RID WILSON GIBSONDAFFOD I LSTHE PLOUGHTHE DROVE- ROADIN TH E MEADOWTHE P LATELAYERMAK ESH IFTS
T . STURGE MOOREM ICAH
R . C. TREVELYAN
THE PEARL TREE
VI I
GORDON BOTTOMLEY
Gordon Bottom/e}
THE PLOUGHMAN
NDER the long fell ’s stony eavesThe ploughman
,going up and down
,
R idge after ridge man ’s tide- mark leaves,
And turns the hard grey soi l to brown .
Striding,he measures out the earth
In l ines o f l i fe,to rain and sun !
And every year that comes to birthSees h im still striding on and on .
The seasons change,and then return !
Yet still,in bl ind
,unsparing ways
,
However I may shrink or yearn,
The ploughman measures out my days .
His acre brought forth roots last year !This year i t bears the gleamy grain !Next Spring shall seed l ing grass appearThen roots and corn and grass again .
Five times the young corn 3 pallid greenI have seen spread and change and thrill !Five times the reapers I have seenGo creeping up the far- o ff hill
And,as the unknowing ploughman cl imbs
Slowly and inveterately,
I wonder long how many timesThe corn will spring again for me .
Gordon Bottomlqy
ATLANTIS
HAT po ets sang in Atlanti s ? Who can tellThe epics of Atlanti s or thei r names ?
The sea hath i ts own murmurs,and sounds not
The secrets of its s ilences beneath,
And knows not any cadences en foldedWhen the last bubbles of Atlanti s brokeAmong the quieting of i ts heaving floor .
0,years and tides and leagues and all thei r b i llows
Can alter not man ’s knowledge of men’ s heartsWhile trees and rocks and clouds include our be ingWe know the epics of Atlanti s stillA hero gave h imself to lesser men
,
Who first mi sunderstood and murdered h im,
And then misunderstood and worshipped him !A Woman Was lovely and men fought fo r her
,
Towns burnt for her,and men put men i n bondage
,
But she put lengthier bondage on them all !A wanderer toiled among all the i slesThat fleck thi s turning star of shifting sea
,
Or lonely purgatories of the mind,
In longing for hi s home or hi s lost love .
Poetry i s founded on the hearts o f menThough in Nirvana or the Heavenly courtsThe princi
ple of beauty shall pers i st
,
I ts body 0 poet as the body o f man,
I s but a terrenel
Firm,a terrene use
,
That swif ter being Will not loi ter wi th !And, when mankind i s dead and the world cold,Poetry ’s immortal i ty Will pass .
Gordon Bottom/e}
A SURREY NIGHT
THROUGH bare black oak- boughs spreadI watch a sickle moon
Follow a large and lonely starBeyond the low South Down .
The thin l ight films a wider skyThan I have l ived beneath !The trees ebb out more distantly
,
Past delicate Wild heath .
But when the moonlight is so clear,
And the sharp night so Still,
My thoughts Will never settle hereUpon thi s gentle hill !
For when the moonlight i s so paleAbove dark fields and woods,I only see my Northern valeAnd i ts steep solitudes !
The hard,lean fells against the night
,
Between the darker trees !The high and di stant farm- house light !The village stillnesses .
I hear the larch—wood brook draw near,
Lapper and lull and leap,
In far- OH: night, that I would hearBefore I go to sleep .
Gordon Bottomley
AVEL INGLAS
OW whether land or water win,
The sky will still be drear !There ’
s no place fo r K ing AvelinWho built hi s palace here .
Between the river and the tid eOnly one street may stand
,
But once the streets were seven and W ideBefore men came to the sand .
King Avelin steered out o f the North ,In the time o f the swans ’ fl ight !And whence hi s dark ships i ssued forthNone knew but a fog- bank white .
This lonely haven i s deep and clear,This land will hold my folk !And I shall build my palace here
,
Beyond the H a irfa ir’
s yoke .
His daughter had a golden gownThat lef t her young neck bare,And in the tower beyond the townShe washed her golden hai r
Through the window- hole she bowedAnd dropped i t in the sky !Sh e d ried i t till that waving cloudCould make men ’s hearts beat high .
6
Gordon Bottom/q)!She washed her hai r
,she combed
By night as well as day !She swung i t on the midnight airTo meet the ri sing spray .
She combed,and wrought the waking spell
Of the oldest wind on the seaFor then
,
! she said,the sea’s swell
Will bring a lover to me .
The sea grew,the sky sank !
Streets made the long waves fret !The river ran without a bank !The housewives ’ knees were wet.
Tower and town,pine-wood and willow
Melted as though \by rain !And once the trough of a pil ing billowWas paved with a golden mane .
K ing Avelin,K ing Avelin
Won to no kingly bierAh
,where i s now K ing Avelin
Who built h i s palace here ?
Gordon Bottom/e]
HOMUNCULUS IN PENUMBRA
WHEN I look down my limbs and movingbreast
I know that on a day these will commenceTo contradict my being that bids them beAnd sets the harmony by which they live .I love to cleanse them ! they reply to me,Exuding
,sloughing
,duteously renewing
,
For cleansing is the nature o f their growth !Yet i n that d ay they shall deny my will,And turn to filth
,refuse
,and dirty water
,
While a di spersing sentience that was IS tands close thereby in trouble
,i n travail
With words those l ips delay to utter i n time,
I n awe- full agony lest that flesh dissolveBefore I can get into i t again .
And when I see i t buried I shall cry outIf i t i s given to fire I shall have throesOf suff ering, o f unbearable regret,L onging
,apprehension
,that shall bind
Yet,yet a li ttle while the loosening wreaths
Of sentience that are continent o f me :Then shame and dread shall be the heart of meBecause I have no body to hide my thoughts
,
That are being scanned,as if by unseen eyes
,
Perused and j udged,ineluétably j udged,
I shivering in that expo suryUntil di ssemination 13 complete .
8
Gordon Bottom/e}
THE PRIDE OF WESTMORELAND
MET a man of ninety—threeWho took my hand in hi s
,
He took my hand and shook my handAnd gave my wife a ki ss !You’ve married the pride ofWestmorelandHe said
,and he looked hi s fill
But a hearty man of ninety- threeMay ki s s whomever he will .
There ’
s a deal of truth and wisdom tooIn a man o f ninety - three
,
Yet I did not need an aged manTo find the maid fo r me !When I married the pride o f WestmorelandYouth ’s wisdom d id not floor meI took my pick in Kendal townLike Harry the E ighth before me .
SONG
HE maids went down to dip in the poolWhen the mirrored moon had co o led the
But they never told the farmer’ s daughter,
For they knew she would tell her mother,the
That the girls were outAnd awaking the water
,
With never a cloutThough the n ight was cool .
10
Gordon Bottom/e]
W ITH A PLAY
ITH IN your Roman house,
Your white and calm abode,
Your L ares i n their niche(Nereid, nymph, and god)
Accept my alien vowsOf friendship to thei r friendBy bronze and marble richYou worship
,yet I send
(I the Old ko ro pla st)Image and figuri neEnamelled with gaudy plumes
,
Corin th ian,Pergamene .
Keep them until the las tBehind your L ares hiddenSuch mimes were meant fo r tombs,L et them to yours be bidden .
1 2
Gord on Bottom/e]
NEW YEAR ’S EVE,1 9 1 3
CARTMEL bell s ring soft to- night,
And Cartmel bell s r ing clear,
But I li e far away to- night,
Listening with my dear !
Listen ing in a frosty landWhere all the bells are stillAnd the small- windowed bell- towers standDark under heath and hill.
I thought that,with each dying year
,
As long as l i fe should lastThe bells of Cartmel I should hearRing out an aged past
The plunging,mingl ing sounds increase
Darkness ’s depth and height,
The hollow valley gains more peaceAnd ancientness to - night :
The loveliness, the frui tfulne ss,The power of li fe l ived thereReturn , revive, more clo sely pressUpon that midnight ai r .
But many deaths have place i n menBefore they come to die !Joys must be used and spen t
,and then
Abandoned and passed by.
I 3
Gordon Bottom/e}Earth i s not ours ! no cheri shed spaceCan hold us from life’ s flow
,
That bears us th i th er and thence by waysWe knew not we should go .
0,Cartmel bells ring loud
,ring clear
,
Through midnight d eep and hoar,A year new- born
,and I shall hear
The Cartmel bells no more .
Gordon Battom/ey
ALL SOULS , 1 9 14
N All Souls ’ night a year agoThe gentle
,ghostly dead
Beat at my thoughts as moths beatNear to my quiet bed
,
Upon the pane ! I did not knowWhat words they would have said .
They were remote wi thin my mind,
Remote beyond the pane !Whether wi th evil wills or kind
,
They could not come againThey had but swerved
,as things resigned
To learn return was vain .
TO- nigh t the young uneasy deadObscure the moonless night !Their energies of hope and dread
,
Of passion and delight,
Are still unspent ! thei r hearts unreadSurge mutinous in flight.
The life of earth beats in them yet,
Thei r pulses are n ot done !They suffer by thei r nerves that fretTo feel no wind nor sun !They fade
,but cannot yet forget
Their co nfl ic’ts are not won .
I S
Gordon Bottom/e) ,
IN MEMOR IAM
A . M . W .
SEPTEMBER,1 9 1 0
(FOR A SOLEMN MUSIC)UT of a S ilenceThe voice of mus ic speaks .
When words have no more power,When tears can tell no more
,
The heart of all regretI s uttered by a falling waveOf melody .
No more,no more
The voice that gathered usShall hush us wi th deep j oy !But in thi s hush
,
Out of i ts s ilence,In the awaking of music
,
I t shall return .
For music c an renewIts gladness and communion
,
Until we also sink,
Where sinks the voice of music,
Into a silence .
1 6
W . H . DAVIES
W. H . fl ames
THE BELL
T is the bell of death I hear,
Which tells me my own time i s near !When I must j oin those quiet soulsWhere nothing lives but worms and moles !And not come through the grass again
,
Like worms and moles,for breath or rain !
Yet let none weep when my life ’
s through,
For I myself have wept for few .
The only th ings that knew me wellWere children
,dogs
,and gi rls that fell !
I bought poor children cakes and sweets,
Dogs heard my voice and danced the streetsAnd
,gentle to a fallen lass
,
I made her weep for what she was.
Go od men and women know not me,
Nor love nor hate the mystery.
20
W. H .
‘Da v iey
IN ENGLAND
N7E have no grass locked up in ice so fastThat cattle cut thei r faces and at last,
When i t i s reached,must l i e them down and starve
Thei r bleeding mouths being froze too hard to move .We have not that deli rious state of coldThat makes men warm and sing when in Death ’s hold .
We have no roaring floods whose angry shocksCan kill the fishes dashed against thei r rocks .We have no winds that cut down street by street
,
As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat .No mountains here to spew their burn ing heartsInto the valleys
,on our human parts .
No earthquakes here,that ring church bells afar
,
A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are .We have no cause to set our dreaming eyes,Like Arabs
,on fresh streams in Paradi se .
We have no wilds to harbour m en that tellMore murders than they can remember well .No woman here shall wake from her night’s rest
,
And find a snake is sucking at her breast .Though I have travelled many and many a mile
,
And had a man to black my boots and smileWith teeth that had less bone in them than goldGive me thi s England now
,for all my world .
2 1
W. H . fl ames
JOVE WARNS US
OVE warns us wi th hi s l ightningBefore he sends h i s thunder !
Before the cock beg ins to crow,
He claps hi s wings down under.But I
,who go to see a maid
,
This springtime in the morning,
Fall under every spell she has,
Without a word of warning .
She l i ttle thinks what charms her breathTo cunning eyes reveal !
The waves that down her body glide,
That from her bosom steal .Her moth- l ike plumpness caught my eye
,
I watched i t l ike a spider !By her own hai r my web i s made
,
To fasten me beside her.
2 2
W. H .
‘
Z c z
'
e:
ANGEL AND MYSTERY
O,I,that once was Fear, that hears
Hi s own forgotten breath,and fears
The breath of something else i s heardAm now bold Love
,to dare the word !
No timid mouse am I,before
He ’ll cross a moonbeam on the floor .So
, si t thou close, and I will pourInto that rosy shell
,thy ear
,
My deep—sea passion ! let me swearThere ’
s nothing in this world as fairAs thy sweet face that does
,and will
,
Retain i ts baby roundness stillWith those two suns
,thine eyes
,th at keep
Their light from clouds till Night brings sleep .
Forget my features,only see
The soul in them that burns for thee !And never let i t cross thy mindThat I am ugly for my kind !Although the world may well declare
,
One i s an angel sweet and fair !But what i t i s that s its so close
,
Must rest wi th God—He only knows .
2 3
JOHN DRINKWATER
jo/mDrinkwater
ON READING THE M S . O F DOROTHYWORDSWORTH ’S JOURNALS
O-DAY I read the poet’s s i ster’s book,She who so comforted those Grasmere days
When song was at the flood,and thence I took
A larger note of forti tude and prai se .
And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred,
And happy fai th wa s i n my heart again,
Because the virtue of a simple wordWas durable above the lives of men .
For reading there that quiet record madeOf skies and hill s
,domestic hours
,and free
Trafli c of friends,and song
,and duty paid
,
I touched the wings of immortal ity.
2 8
D r inéw a ter
JUNE DANCE 1
HE chestnut cones were in the lanes,
Blushing,and eyed with ebony
,
And young oak- apples lovinglyClung to thei r stems wi th rosy veinsThreading thei r glossy amber ! stillAs wind may be
,among the bloom
Of lilac and the burn ing broomThe dear wind moved deliciously
,
And stayed upon th e fragrant hillAnd lightened on the sea !And brushed the nettles no‘dding throughThe budding globes of cloudy may
,
And wavelike flowed upon the blueFlowers of the woods .
I t was a dayWhen pearled blossom of peach and pearOf blossoming season made an end
,
Dri fting along the sunlight,rare
Of beauty as thoughts between fri end and friendThat have no cunning
,but merely know
The way of truth for the heart i s so .
I t was such a time at the birth of June,
When the day was hushed at the hour Of noon,And whispering leaves gave out a tuneGhostly as moves the bodiless moonHigh in the full—day skies of June
,
Written 1908, re -written 1 9 1 6.
29
fl r z
’
néwa ter
That they passed,a throng
Of toilers whose eyesWere dull wi th toil ing
,passed along
By a path that l i esBetween the c i ty of mean empri seAnd a forest set i n mellow lands
,
Far out from the city of broken hands .
Meanly clad,with bodies worn
,
They came upon the forest hour,
From open fields of springing cornTo clo i stered shadesThey passed
,from June light to June bower
,
Tall men,and maids
Deep - bosomed,apt for any seed
That l ife should passionately sow,
Yet pale and troubled o f a creedCried out by men who nothing knowOf joy’s diviner excellence .Along the silent glades they stept
,
Till,flowing in each drowsy sense
,
June came upon them,and they slept .
Beneath cool clustered branch and bloom,
Li ttered wi th stars o f amethyst,Sun- arrows glancing through the gloom
,
They slept ! the lush young bracken kissedThe tired forms . Ah
,wellaway
,
With in so wide a peace to seeFellows who measure every dayMerely the roads of misery.
Tall men,deep- bosomed maids were they
,
As who should face the world and run30
7 0572 fi r inéwa ter
Fleet- footed down the laughing way,With brows set fearless to the sun
,
But slackened were the rippling thewsAnd all clean moods of courage dead
,
Defeated by ignoble useAnd sullen dread .
So i n the sweet June- tide they slept,
Nor any dream of healing deepCame over them ! heart- sick they keptA troubled sleep !Companions Of calami ty,Thei r sleep was but remembered pain
,
And all their hunger but to bePoor pilgrims in oblivion’s train .
The stems each had a l i ttle shadowIn the early afternoon
,
When the toilers first were luredBy a music long immuredIn the central forest waysWhere no human footfall s trays ,To the dreaming dance of June .
One by one they woke,their faces
Sti ll wi th some new wonder,
As when in quiet shadowy placesWandering hands may move asunderSecret foliage
,and intrude
On the ancestral soli tudeOf some untutored forest thingNei ther doubt nor fear they bring
,
But just a strange new wonder.3 1
‘Dr z’
néwa ter
So now the toilers woke . No thoughtOf the old- time trouble cameOver them ! the cares deep-wrought
,
Furrow1ng, by years of shame,Lightened
,as upon thei r ears
Fell a music very low,
Sweet with moving of the years,
Burdened wi th the beat and flowOf a garnered ecstasyGathered from the deeps of pain,Music vaster than the sea
,
Softer than the rain .
Then they rose,—the music played
But a l i ttle way ahead .
And with never question madeThey were well to follow . Red
And gold and opal flashed the noonOn lichened trunk . Their raiment meanGrew heavy in the dance of June
,
And m an and maid among the greenUnburdened them
,and stood revealed
In clean unblushing lovel iness,
Clear glowing limbs,all supple
,steeled
And shining many a s tream ing tressSlipped beautiful to breast and knee
,
They proved a world where was no sin,Exultant
,pure in passion
,free
,
Young capt ives bidden to beginN ew being . Sweet the music called
,
Promi sing immortal boon,
Swift they set their feet, enthralled,To the dreaming dance of June.
3 2
jolm fDr inéwa ter
They passed into the forest’s heart,
Where the shadows thickened,
Soul and trembling body thrilledWith a j oy new- quickened.
I t was as though from early daysTheir famil iarsHad been the words of worship of the lonely woodland
wa 3,
And the ai-r
ticulate voices of the stars .
Keeping perfecf measureTo the music’s chime
,
Reaping all the treasureOf the summer time
,
Noiselessly along the glades,
L i the white limbs all glancing,Comely men and comely maidsDrifted in thei r dancing.
When chestnut cones were i n the lanes,
Blush ing,and eyed with ebony
,
And young oak—apples lovinglyClung to their stems wi th rosy veinsThreading thei r glossy amber—thenThey took them to faring
,maids and men
,
Whose eyes were dull wi th toil ing,far
From their toil i n the time of a perfeét noon,To where the quiet shadows are
,
And j oined the dreaming dance of June.
8dwa rd Ea sta way
OLD MAN
LD Man,or Lad’s- love
,—in the name there ’
s
nothingTo one that knows not Lad ’s- love
,or Old Man,
The hoar- green feathery herb,almost a tree,
Growing wi th rosemary and lavender .Even to one that knows i t well
,the names
Half decorate,half perplex
,the thing i t i s
At least,what that i s cl ings not to the names
In spite of time . And yet I like the names .
The herb i tself I like not,but for certain
I love i t,as some day the child will love i t
Who plucks a feather from the door- side bushWhenever she goes in o r out of the house .Often she waits there
,snipping the tips and shrivell ing
The shreds at last on to th e path,perhaps
Thinking,perhaps Of nothing
,till she snifl
'
s
Her fin ers and runs o ff . The bush i s stillBut hal as tall as she
,though i t i s as Old !
So well she clips i t . Not a word she says !And I can only wonder how much hereafterShe will remember
,wi th that bi tter scent
,
Of garden rows,and ancient damson—trees
Topping a hedge,a bent path to a door
,
A low thick bush beside the door,and me
Fo rbidd ing her to pick .
As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent i s lost .37
é’
a’w a r d Sa staw ay
I,too
,often shrivel the grey shreds
,
Sniff them and think and snifl'
again and tryOnce more to think what i t i s I am remembering,Always i n vain . I cannot like the scent
,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning,than thi s bi tter one .
I have mislaid the key . I sni ff the sprayAnd think of nothing ! I see and I hear nothing !Yet seem
,too
,to be li stening
,lying in wait
For what I should,yet never can
,remember
No garden appears,no path
,no hoar- green bush
Of Lad’s- love,or Old Man
,no child beside
,
Neither father nor mother,nor any playmate !
Only an avenue,dark
,nameless
,without end .
é’
a'w am
’ Sa staway
SNOW
the gloom of whiteness,In the great silence of snow,
A child was s ighingAnd bi tterly saying : Oh,They have killed a Whi te bird up there on herThe down i s fluttering from her breast . !
And still i t fell throu h that dusky brightnessOn the child crying f%r the bird Of the snow .
39
Edward Ea staw aj
THE CUCKOO
HAT ’
S the cuckoo,you say. I cannot hear i t.
When last I heard i t I cannot recall ! but I knowToo well the year when first I failed to hear itI t was drowned by my man groaning out to his sheep
! HO ! Ho !!
Ten times wi th an angry voice he shoutedHo ! HO ! but not in anger, for that was h i s way.
He died that Summer,and that i s h ow I remember
The cuckoo call ing, the children li stening, and me saying
,Nay
And now,as you said
,
! There i t i s I was hearingNot the cuckoo at all
,but my man ’s Ho l Ho instead .
And I th ink that even if I could lose my deafnessThe cuckoo’s note would be drowned by the voice ofmy
dead .
d ard Sa stawaj
THE NEW HOU SE
OW first,as I shut the door
,
I was aloneIn the new house ! and the windBegan to moan .
Old at once was the house,
And I was Old !My ears were teased with the dreadOf what was foretold
,
Nights of storm,days of mist
,without end !
Sad days when the sunShone in vain : Old griefs
,and griefs
Not yet begun .
All was foretold me ! naughtCould I foresee !
But I learnt how the wind would soundAfter these things should be .
8dwara’ Sa sta way
W IND AND M IST
HEY met inside the gateway that gives the View,A hollow land as vast as heaven .
! I t i sA pleasant day
,s i r. ! A very pleasant day .
And what a Vi ew here . If you like angled fieldsOf grass and grai n bounded by oak and thorn
,
Here i s a league . Had we with GermanyTo play upon thi s board i t could not beMore dear than April has made i t wi th a smile .The fields beyond that league close in togetherAnd merge
,even as our days i nto the past
,
Into one wood that has a sh ining paneOf water . Then the hills of the horizonThat i s how I should make h ill s had I to showOne who would never see them what hills were l ike .Yes . S ixty miles of South Downs at one glance .
Sometimes a man feels proud at them,as i f
He had j us t created them with one m ighty thought .! That house
,though modern
,could not be better
plannedFor its posi tion . I never l iked a newHouse better . Could you tell me who l ives i n i t?NO one . ! Ah—and I was peopling allThose windows on the south with happy eyes
,
The terrace under them with happy feet !Girls Sir
,I know. I know. I have seen that
houseThrough mist look lovely as a castle in Spain
,
42
Edward Sa sta wayThere were whole days and n ights when the W i nd and IBetween us shared the world
,and the wind ruled
And I obeyed i t and for o t the mist .My past and the past 0 the world were in the wind .
Now '
on will say that though you understandAnd eel for me
,and so on
,you yourself
Would find i t d ifl’
erent. You are all like thatIf once you sta nd here free from wind and mi stI might as well be talking to W i nd and mist .You would believe the house- agent’s young manWho gives no hee d to anything I say .
Good morning . But one word . I want to admi tThat I would try the house once more
,i f I could !
As I should like to try being young again .
44
d ard Castaway
THE UNKNOWN
HE i s most fair,And when they see her pass
The poets ’ ladiesLook no more i n the glassBut after her .
On a bleak moorRunning under the moonShe lures a poet,Once proud or happy
,soon
Far from hi s door .
Beside a train,
Because they saw her go,
Or failed to see her,
Travellers and watchers knowAnother pain .
The simple lackOf her i s more to meThan others ’ presence
,
Whether l i fe splendid beOr u tter black .
I have not seen,
I have no news of her !I can tell onlyShe i s no t here, but thereShe might have been .
45
She i s to be ki ssedOnly perhaps by me !She may be seekingMe and no other : sheMay not exi st.
d ard Sa sta w ay
THE WORD
HERE are so many th ings I have forgot,
That once were much to me, or that were not,All lost
,as i s a childless woman ’s child
And its child’s children,i n the undefiled
Abyss of what can never be again .
I have forgot,too
,names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or wo n i n the old wars ,Of kings and fiends and gods
,and most of the stars .
Som e things I have forgo t that I forget .But lesser things there are
,remembered yet
,
Than all the others . One name that I have notTho ugh ’ti s an empty thingless name—forgotNever can die because Spring after SpringSome thrushes learn to say i t as they S ing .
There I S always one at midday saying i t clearAnd tart—the name
,only the name I hear .
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scentThat i s l ike food
,or while I am content
With the wild rose scent that i s like memory,This name suddenly i s cried out to meFrom somewhere in the bushes by a birdOver and over again
,a pure thrush word .
d ard Sa staway
A F TER RAIN
THE rain of a night and a day and a nightStops at the light
Of thi s pale choked day. The peering sunSees what has been done .The road under the trees has a border newOf purple hueInside the border of bright th in grassFor all that hasBeen left by November Of leaves i s tornFrom hazel and thornAnd the greater trees . Throughout the copseNO dead leaf dropsOn grey grass
,green moss
,burnt- orange fern
,
At the W ind ’s returnThe leaflets out of the ash—tree shedAre th inly spreadIn the road
,l ike li ttle black fish
,inlaid
,
As if they played .
What hangs from the myriad branches down thereSO hard and bareI s twelve yellow apples lovely to seeOn one crab- tree
,
And on each twig of every tree in the dellUncountableCrystals both dark and bright of the rainThat begin s aga in .
4 8
Edward Ea stawaj
ASPENS
ALL day and night, save winter, every weather,Above the inn
,the smithy
,and the shop
,
The aspens at the cross—roads talk togetherOf rain
,until thei r last leaves fall from the top .
Out of the blacksmith’s cavern comes the ringingOf hammer
,shoe
,and anvil ! out of the inn
The clink,the hum
,the roar
,the random singing
The sounds that for these fifty years have’
been .
The whi sper of the aspens i s not drowned,
And over lightless pa ne and footless road,
Empty as sky, with every other soundNot ceasing
,calls thei r ghosts from their abode
,
A silent smi thy,a silent inn
,nor fails
In the bare moonlight or the thick—furred gloom,
In tempest or the night of nightingales,
To turn the cross- roads to a ghostly room
And i t would be the same were no house near .Over all sorts of weather
,men
,and times
,
Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hearBut need not l i s ten
,more than to my rhymes .
Whatever wind blows,while they and I have leaves
We cannot other than an aspen beThat ceaselessly
,unreasonably grieves
,
Or so men think who l ike a different tree .49
d ard Sa sta way
PRIVATE
I‘HIS ploughman dead in battle slept out of doorsMany a frosty night
,and merrily
Answered staid drinkers,good bedmen
,and all bores
At Mrs . Greenland’ s Hawthorn Bush,
! said he,
I slept . ! None knew which bush . Above the town,Beyond The Drover
,
! a hundred spot the downIn Wiltsh ire . And where now at last he sleepsMore sound in France—that
,too
,he secret keeps .
50
Edward Ea staway
F OR THESE
N acre of land between the shore and the h ills,
Upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three,
The lovely visible earth and sky and sea,
Where what the curlew needs not,the farmer tills
A house that shall love me as I love i t,
Well- hedged,and honoured by a few ash—trees
That l innets, greenfinches
’
,and go ldfinches
Shall Often Vi si t and make love i n and fl i t
A garden I need never go beyond,
Broken but neat,whose sunflowers every one
Are fi t to be the sign of the Ri s ing Sun :
A spring,a brook’s bend
,or at least a pond
For these I ask not,but
,nei ther too late
Nor yet too early, for what men call content,And al so that something may be sentTo be contented with
,I ask of fate.
52
Edward Ea staway
ROADS
LOVE roadsThe goddesses that dwell
Far along invi s ibleAre my favouri te gods .
Roads go onWhile we forget
,and are
Forgotten like a starThat shoots and i s gone .
On th i s earth ’ti s sureWe men have not madeAnything that doth fadeSo soon
,so long endure
The h ill road wet with rainIn the sun would not gleamL ike a winding streamIf we trod i t not agai n .
They are lonelyWhile we sleep
,lonelier
For lack o f the travellerWho i s now a dream only .
From dawn ’s twilightAnd all the clouds l ike sheepOn the mountains of sleepThey wind into the night .
53
Edward Ea sta wayThe next turn may revealHeaven : upon the crestThe close pine clump
,at rest
And black,may Hell conceal .
Often footsore,never
Yet of the road I weary,
Though long and steep and drearyAs i t winds on fo r ever .
Helen of the roads,
The mountain ways of WalesAnd the Mabinogion tales
,
I s one of the true gods,
Abiding in the trees,
The threes and fours so wi se,
The larger companies,
That by the roadside be,
And beneath the rafterEl se uninhab i tedExcepting by the dead !And i t i s her laughter
At morn and nigh t I hearWhen the thrush cock singsBright i rrelevant things
,
And when the Chanticleer
Call s back to thei r own nightTroops that make lonel inessWith thei r light footsteps
’ press,As Helen ’s own are light .
54
Edward Ea staw ayNOW all roads lead to FranceAnd heavy i s the treadOf the l iving ! but the deadReturn ing lightly dance :
Whatever the road bringTo me or take from me,They keep me companyWith thei r pattering
,
Crowding the sol i tudeOf the loops over the downs
,
Hushing the roar o f townsAnd thei r brief multi tude .
55
Edward Ea sta waj
THE SOURCE
ALL day the air triumphs wi th i ts two voicesOf wind and rain :
As loud as if i n anger i t rej oices,
Drowning the sound of earthThat gulps and gulps in choked endeavour vainTo swallow the rain .
Half the n ight,too
,only the Wild ai r speaks
With wind and rain,
Till forth the dumb source of the river breaksAnd drowns the rai n and W ind
,
Bellows l ike a giant bathing i n migh ty mirthThe triumph of earth .
Edward Ea staway
LOVERS
HE two men in the road were taken aback .
The lovers came out shading thei r eyes from thesun
,
And never was whi te so White! or black so black,As her cheeks and hai r . There are more things than
oneA man might turn into a wood for
,Jack
,
Said George ! Jack whispered : He has not got a gun .
I t ’s a bit too much of a good thing,I say .
They aregoing the other road
,look . And see her
run .
She ran What a thing it i s,th i s picking may .
57
Edward Ea staway
BEAUTY
HAT does i t mean?Tired,angry
,and ill at ease,
No man,woman
,or child alive could please
Me now. And yet I almost dare to laughBecause I si t and frame an epitaph -w
Here lies all that no one loved of himAnd that loved no one . ! Then in a trice that whimHas wearied . But
,though I am like a river
At fall Of evening while i t seems that neverHas the sun lighted i t or warmed i t
,while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart,some fra&io n of me
,happily
Floats through the window even now to a treeDown in the mi sting
,dim - li t
,quiet vale
,
Not l ike a pewit that returns to wailFor something i t has lost
,but l ike a dove
That slants unswerving to i ts home and love .There I find my rest
,and through the dusk air
Fl ies what yet l ives in me . Beauty i s there .
Edward Ea stawaj
SONG
T poet’s tears,
Sweeter than any smiles but hers,
She laughs ! I s igh !And yet I could not live if she should die .
And when in JuneOnce more the cuckoo spo ils hi s tune
,
She laughs at sighs !And yet she says she loves me till she dies.
60
ROBERT F ROST
Rodert Frost
CHRISTMAS TREES
(A CH RI STMAS C IRCULAR LETTER)
HE ci t had wi thdrawn into i tselfAnd lef
’t’
at last the country to the country !When between whirls of snow not come to l ieAnd whirls of foliage not yet laid
,there drove
A stranger to our yard,who looked the ci ty
,
Yet did in country fash ion in that thereHe sat and wai ted ti ll he drew us outA—buttoning coats to ask him who he was .
He proved to be the C i ty come aga inTo look for something i t had left beh indAnd could not do wi thout and keep i ts Chri stmas .He asked i f I would sell my Chri stmas trees .My woods—the young fir balsams l ike a placeWhere houses all are churches and have spires .I hadn ’t thought of them as Chri stmas trees .I doubt if I was tempted for a momentTo sell them Ofi
'
their feet to go in carsAnd leave the slope beh ind the house all bare
,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon .
I ’d hate to have : them know i t i f I was .
Yet more I ’d hate to hold my trees exceptAs others hold theirs or refuse for them
,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everyth ing must come to .
I dall ied so much with the thought of selling .
Then,whether from mis taken courtesy
63
Robert FrostAnd fear of seeming short of speech
,or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,I said
,There aren ’ t enough to be worth while .
I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over. !
You could look .
But don’t expect I ’m going to let you have them .
Pasture they spring in,some in clumps too close
That lop each other o f boughs,but not a few
Q ui te sol i tary and having equal boughsAll round and round . The latter he nodded Yes
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier oneWith buyer’s moderation
,That would do .
I thought so too,but wasn ’ t there to say so .
We climbed the pasture on the south,crossed over
,
And came down on the north .
He said,A thousand .
A thousand Chri stmas trees l—at what a - piece?
He felt some need Of softening that to meA thousand trees would come to th i rty dollars .
Then I was certain I had never meantTo let h im have them . Never show surpri se !But thirty dollars seemed so small besideThe extent of pasture I should strip
,three cents
(For that was all they figured out a- piece)Three cents so small beside the dollar friendsI should be wri ting to within the hourWould pay in ci ties for good trees like those
,
64
Glioéer t FrostRegular vestry- trees whole Sunday SchoolsCould hang enough on to pick o ff enough .
A thousand Chri stmas trees I didn ’t know I had !Worth three cents more to give away than sell
,
As may be shown by a simple calculation .
TOO bad I couldn ’t lay one in a letter.I can ’t help wishing I could send you one
,
In Wi shing you herewith a Merry Chri stmas .
‘
l'ioéér t Frost
A G IRL ’S GARDEN
ANEIGHBOR of mine in the Vi llageLikes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm,she did
A ch ildlike th ing .
One day she asked her fatherTo give her a garden plotTo plant and tend and reap herselfAnd he said
,Why not ?
In casting about for a cornerHe thought Of an idle bitO f walled- o f?ground where a shop had stoodAnd he said
,
! Just i t !
And he said,That ought to make you
An eyedeal one -girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strengthOn your slim-j im arm .
I t was not enough of a garden,
Her father said,to plow .
So she had to work i t all by hand,But who cares now?
She wheeled the dung i n a wheelbarrowAlong a stretch of road
,
(But she always ran away and leftHer not- nice load
66
Rodert Frost
THE LINE GANG
HERE come the l ine gang pioneering by.
They throw a forest down less cut than broken .
They plant dead trees for living,and the dead
They string together wi th a l iving th read.
They string an instrument against the skyWherein words
,whether beaten out or spoken
Will run as hushed as when they were a thought .But in no hush they string i t : they go pastWith shouts afar to pull the cable taut
,
To hold i t hard until they make i t fast,To ease away—they have i t. With a laughAn oath of towns that set the wild at naught
,
They bring the telephone and telegraph .
68
Rooer t Frost
PEA BRU SH
IWALKED down alone Sunday after churchTo the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the b irchHe said I could have to bush my peas .
The sun in the new cut narrow gapWas hot enough for the first of May
,
And stifl ing hot wi th the odor of sapFrom stumps still bleed ing the life away.
The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrillWherever the ground was low and wet
,
The minute they heard my step went st illTo watch me and see what I came to get .
B i rch boughs enough piled everywhere !All fresh and sound from the recent ax .
Tim e someone came wi th a cart and pai rAnd got them o f?the Wild flowers ’ backs .
They might be good for garden thingsTo curl a l i ttle finger round
,
The same as you seize cats- cradle strings,
And li ft themselves up o ff the ground .
Small good to anything growing wild,They were crooking many a trill iumThat had budded before the boughs were p iled,And since i t was coming up, had to come .
69
Yioéer t Frost
THE OVEN BIRD
HERE i s a singer everyone has heard,
Loud,a mid - summer and a mid - wood bird
,
Who makes the solid tree—trunks sound again .
He says that leaves are old and that for flowersMid- summer i s to sprin as one to ten .
He says the early petal-gall i s pastWhen pear and cherry bloom went down in showersOn sunny days a moment over- cast !And comes that other fall we name the falHe says the highway dust i s over all.The bird would cease and be as other birdsBut that he knows In singi ng not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but wordsI s what to make of a dimin i shed thing .
Rodert Frost
HYLA BROOK
BY June our brook ’
s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that i t will be foundE i ther to have gone groping under ground(And taken with i t all the Hyla breedThat shouted in the mist a
\
mo nth agoLike ghost of sleigh bells i n the ghost of snow)Or flouri shed and come up in j ewel- weed
,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bentEven against the way i ts waters went .I ts bed i s left a faded paper sheetOf dead leaves stuck together by the heatA brook to none but who remember long.
This as i t will be seen i s other farThan wi th brooks taken otherwhere in song .
We love the things we love for what they are .
7 1
WIL F RID WILSON GIBSON
Wz
'
_
lfr id Wi/son GiésonBut then he’d not hi s daily bread to earnBy mending crocks .
And now at every turnThe daffodils were laughing quietly
,
Nodding and laughing to themselves,as he
Chuckled : Now there ’
s a patriot,real true- blue !
I t seemed the daff odils enjoyed i t tooThe fun of i t . He wished that he could seeOld solemn- mug— them laughing quietlyAt h im . But then, he
’ld never have a dimIdea they laughed
,and
,least of all
,at h im .
He ’ld never dream they could be laughing atA butler .
’Twould be good to see the fatOld peach - cheek in hi s solemn black and starchParading i n h i s pompous parlour-marchAcross that field o f laughing daff odils .’Twould be a sight to make you skip up hills,Ay, crutch and all, and never feel your pack,To see a butler in h is starch and blackAmong the daffodils, ridiculousAs that old bubbly- j ock with strut and fussThough that was rather rough upon the bird !For all hi s pride
,he didn ’t look absurd
Among the flowers—nor even that black sowGrunting and grubbing in among them now.
And he was glad he hadn’t got a tradeThat starched the mother-wit i n you, and madeA man look silly in a field of flowers .’Twas better mending crocks
,although for hours
You hobbled o n - ay l and,maybe for days
Hungry and cold along the muddy ways76
Wilfi c id Wz
'
lson QiésonWithout a job . And even when the sunWas shining
,
’ twas not altogether funTo lose the chance of earn ing a few penceIn these days : though ’twas well he’d got the senseTo see the funny side of things . I t costYou nothing, laughing to yourself . You lostFar more by going fiddle- faced through lifeLooking for trouble .
He would tell hi s wifeWhen he got home . But lord
,she’ld never see
What tickled him so mightily,not she !
She’ld only look up puzzled- l ike,and say
Sh e didn’ t wonder at h i s lordship . Nay,
With tripe and trotters at the price they wereYou’d got to count your copp’ers and take careO f every farthing .
Jack would see the funAy, Jack would see the j oke . Jack was h i s sonThe youngest of the lot. And, man - alive
,’Twas queer that only one of all the fiveHad got a twinkle in him—all the restDull as di tchwater to the merriest j est .Good lads enough they were
,thei r mother’s sons !
And they’d all pluck enough to face the gunsOut at the fron t. They’d got their mother’s pluckAnd he was proud of th em,
and wished them luck .
That was no laughing matter—though ’twas well,
Maybe,if you could crack a joke in hell,
And shame the devil . Jack, at least, would fightAs well as any though h i s heart was light .Jack was the boy for fighting and for fun !And he was glad to think he’d got a son
7 7
Wilf rid Wilson QiésonWho
,even facing bloody death
,would see
That li ttle j oke about the crockery,And chuckle
,as he charged .
His thoughts dropped backThrough eighteen years ! and he again saw JackAt the old home beneath the Malvern hills
,
A li ttle fellow plucking daffodils,
A li ttle fellow who could scarcely walk,Yet chuckling as he snapped each j uicy stalkAnd held up every yellow bloom to smell
,
Poking hi s tiny nose into the bellAnd sniffi ng i ts fresh scent
,and chuckling still
As though he’d secrets with each daffodil .Ay, he could see again the l i ttle fellowIn hi s blue frock among that laughing yellow
,
And plovers in thei r sheeny black and whi teFlirting and tumbling in the morning lightAbout hi s curly head . He still could see
,
Shutting hi s eyes,as plain as plain could be
,
Drift upon dri ft,those long- d ead daffodils
Against the far green of the Malvern hills,
Nodding and laughing round hi s l i ttle lad,
As if to see him happy made them gladNodding and laughing
They were nodding now,
The daff odils,and laughing—yet
,somehow
,
They didn ’ t seem so merry nowAnd he
Was fighting in a bloody trench maybeFor very life thi s minute
They missed Jack,
And he would give them all to have him back .
7 8
Wilfrid Wilson Qiéson
THE PLOUGH
HE sniff ed the clean and eager smellOf crushed wild garl ic
,as he thrus t
Beneath the sallows : and a spellHe stood there munching a thick crust
gThe fresh tang giving keener zestTo bread and cheese—and watched a pai rOf wagtails preening wing and breast
,
Then running—flirting tails in ai r,And pied plumes sleeked to silky sheenChasing each other in and outThe wet wild garlic ’s Whi te and green .
And then remembering, with a shout,And rattle whirring
,he ran back
Again into the Fair Maid’s Mead,
To scare the rascal thieves and blackThat flocked from far and near to feedUpon the sprouting grain . As oneThey rose wi th clapping rustling W ingsRooks
,starlings
,pigeons
,in the sun
Circl ing about him in wide rings,
And plovers hovering over himIn mazy
,interweaving fl ight
Until i t made h i s young wits swimTO see them up against the light,A dazzling maze of black and whiteAgainst the clear blue April skyWings on wings in flashing fl ightSwooping low and soaring high
79
Wilf rid Wilson QiésonSwooping
,soaring
,fluttering, flapping,
Tossing,tumbling, swerving, dipping,
Chattering,caw ing
,creaking
,clapping
,
Till he felt h i s senses slippingAnd gripped hi s corncrake rattle tigh t
,
And flouri shed i t above h i s headTill every bi rd was out of sight :And laughed
,when all had flown and fled
,
To think that he,and all alone
,
Could put so many thieves to rout .
Then si tting down upon a stoneHe wondered if the school were outThe school where
,only yesterday
,
He’d sat at work among hi s matesAt work that now seemed children ’s play
,
With pens and pencils,books and slates
Although he’d liked i t well enough,
The hum and scuflling o f the school,
And hadn ’ t cared when Grim- and- GruffWould call h im dunderhead and fool .
And he could see them sitting thereHis class- mates
,i n the l ime-washed room
,
With fingers inked and towz led hairBill Baxter with red cheeks abloom
,
And bright black eyes ! and Ginger JimWith freckled face and solemn look
,
Who ’ld wink a pale blue eye at him,
Then si t intent upon h i s book,
While,caught a-giggle
,he was caned .
He’d liked that room,he ’d liked i t all
The window steaming when i t rained !8 o
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonThe sunlight dancing on the wallAmong the glossy charts and maps !The blotchy stain beside the clockThat only he of all the chapsKnew for a chart of Dead Man ’s RockThat lies i n Tiger I sland BayThe reef on which the schooners spl i tAnd founder
,that would bear away
The treasure- chest of Cut- throat-Kit,
That ’s buried under Black Bill ’s bonesBeneath the purple pepper- treeA trail of clean - sucked cherry- stones
,
Which you must follow carefully,
Across the dunes of yellow sandLeads winding upward‘ from the beachTill, with a pi stol in each hand,And cutlass ’ twixt your teeth
,you reach
Plumping their fat crops peacefullyWere plovers
,pigeons
,starlings
,rooks
,
Feeding on every side while heWas in the land of story- books .He raised hi s rattle wi th a shoutAnd scattered them with yell and crakeA man must mind what he ’
s aboutAnd keep h i s silly wits awake
,
Not go wool—gathering,if he’ld earn
His wage . And soon,no schoolboy now,
He’ld take on a man ’s job,and learn
To build a rick,and drive the plough
,
Like fatherUp against the sky
Beyond the spinney and the stream,
With easy stride and steady eye8 1
lVilf r id Wilson QiésonHe saw h i s father drive his team
,
Turning the red marl gleaming wetI nto long furrows clean and true .And dreaming there
,he longed to set
His young hand to the ploughshare too .
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonOf yapping dogs : and they stung mad with fear,Welted with switches by those senseless boysHe ’ld like to dust thei r j ackets ! But ’
twas queer,A beast’s l ife
,when you came to think of i t
From start to finish—queerer,ay, a lot
Then any man ’s,and chancier a good bi t.
With his ash- sapling at their heels they’d gotTo travel before night those fifteen milesOf hard fell- road
,against the driving snow
,
Half- blinded,on and on . He thought at whiles
’Twas j ust as well for them they couldn ’t know
Though,as for that
,
’ twas li ttle that he knewHimself what was in store for him . He tookThings as they came . ’Twas all a man could do !And he’d kept going
,somehow
,by hook or crook.
And here was he,with fifteen mile of fell
,
And snow,and God
,but i t was blowing stiff
And no tobacco . Blest if he could tellWhere he had lost it—but, for half a whiffHe’ld swop the very jacket o ff h i s backNot that he’ld miss the cobweb of old shredsThat held the holes together .
Thon Cheap- JackWho ’d sold i t h im
,had said i t was Lord Ted ’s
,
And London cut. But Teddy had grown fatS i nce he’d been made an alderman His bid?And did the gentleman not want a hatTo go wi th i t, a topper? I f he did,Here was the very
Hell,but i t was cold
And driving dark i t was—nigh dark as n ight.He’ld almost think he must be getting old
,
To feel the wind so . And long out of sight84
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonThe beasts had trotted. Well, what odds ! The wayRan straight for ten miles on, and they
’
ld go straight.They
’
ld never heed a by- road . Many a dayHe ’d had to trudge on
,trusting them to fate
,
And always found them safe . They scamper fast,
But in the end a man could walk them down .
They’re showy trotters ! but they cannot last .He’ld race the fastest beast for half- a- crownOn a day’s j ourney. Beasts were never madeF01: steady travell ing : drive them twenty mile,And they were done ! while he was not afraidTo tackle twice that di stance with a smile .
But not a day like th i s ! He’d never feltA wind wi th such an edge. ’
Twas like the bladeOf the rasper in the pocket of hi s beltHe kept for ea sy shaving . In h i s tradeYou’d oft to make your toilet under a dykeAnd he was always one for a clean chin
,
And carried soap .
He ’d never felt the likeThat wind
,i t cut clean through him to the skin .
He might be mother- naked,walking bare
,
For all the use hi s clothes were,with the snow
Half- blinding him,and clagging to hi s hai r
,
And trickl ing down hi s spine . He’ld like to knowWhat was the sense o f pegging steadily
,
Chilled to the marrow, after a daft herdO f draggled beasts he couldn ’t even see !
But that was him all over ! Just a word,
A nod, a wink, the price of half- and—halfAnd he’ld be setting out for God- knows- where
,
8 5
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonWith no more notion than a yearling cal fWhere he would find himself when he got there.And he’d been travelling hard on s ixty yearThe same old road
,the same old giddy gai t !
And he’ld be walking,for a pint of beer
,
In to hi s co fli n,one day, soon or late
But not with such a tempest i n h i s teeth,
Half- blinded and half- do thered,that he hoped !
He’d met a sight of weather on the heath,
But th i s beat all.’Twas worse than when he’d groped
His way that evening down the MallerstangThon was a blizzard
,thon—and he was done
,
And almost dropping when he came a bangAgainst a house—slap - bang
,and like to stun
Though that j ust saved hi s senses—and right thereHe saw a lighted window he’d not seen
,
Although he ’d nearly staggered through i ts glareInto a goodwife ’s ki tchen
,where she’d been
Baking hot girdle- cakes upon the peat .And he could taste them now
,and feel the glow
Of steady,ach ing
,tingly
,drowsy heat
,
As he sat there and let the caking snowMelt Off hi s boots, staining the sanded floor.And that brown jug she took down from the shelfAnd every time he ’d fini shed
,fetching more
,
And piping : NOW reach up,and help yourself !
She was a wonder, thon, the gay old wifeBut no such luck thi s j ourney . Things l ike thatCould hardly happen every day of life
,
Or no one would be dying,but the fat
And oily undertakers,starved to death
For want of custom Hell ! but he would soonBe giving them a job I t caught your breath
,
8 6
Wilf rid Wilson (jiésonThat throttling wind . And i t was not yet noon !And he ’ld be travell ing through i t until dark.
Dark ? ’Twas already dark,and might be night
For all that he could seeAnd not a spark
O f comfort for h im ! Just to strike a l ight,
And press the kindling shag down in the bowl,
Keeping the flame well- sh ielded by hi s hand,
And puff,and puff ! He’ld give hi s very soul
For half- a - pipe. He couldn ’t understandHow he had come to lose i t . He’d the rumAy, that was safe enough : but i t would keepAwhile
,you never knew what chance might come
In such a stormIf he could only sleep
I f he could only sleep That rustling soundO f drifting snow
,i t made h im sleepy- like
Drowsy and dizzy,di th ering round and round
If he could only curl up under a dyke,
And sleep and sleep I t dazzled h im,that Wh i te
,
Drifting and drifting,round and round and round
Just half- a - moment’s snooze He ’ld be all right .I t made hi s head quite dizzy
,that d ry sound
Of rustl ing snow. I t made h i s head 0 roundThat rustl ing in h i s ears and dri ting
,drifting
If he could only sleep he would sleep soundGod
,he was nearly gone !
The storm was lifting !And he’d run into something soft and warmSlap into hi s own beasts
,and never knew .
Huddled they were,bamboozled by the storm
And li ttle wonder ei ther,when i t blew
A blasted blizzard . Still,they’d got to go .
They couldn ’ t stand there snoozing until night .87
Wilfrid Wilson GiosonBut they were sni ffi ng something in the snow .
’Twas that had stopped them,something big and white
A bundle—nay, a woman and she slept .But i t wa s death to sleep .
He’d nearly droptAsleep himself. ’Twas well that he had keptThat rum ! and lucky that the beasts had stop t.
Ay, i t was well that he had kept the rum .
He liked h is drink : but he had never caredFor soaking by himself
,and si tting mum .
Even the best rum tasted better,shared .
8 8
Wilf rid Wilson Qiéson
IN THE MEADOW
THE smell of wet hay in the heatAll morning steaming round him rose
,
As,in a kind of nodding doze
,
Perched on the hard and jolting seat,
He drove the rattling,j angling rake
Round and around the Five Oaks Mead .
With that Old mare he scarcely needTo drive at all or keep awake .Gazing wi th half- shut
,sleepy eyes
At her white flanks and grizzled tailThat fl icked and fl icked wi thout availTo drive away the cloud of fl i esThat hovered
,closing and unclosing
,
A shimmering hum and humming shimmer,
Dwindling dim and ever dimmerIn hi s dazzled sight
,till
,dozing
,
He seemed to hear a murmuring streamAnd gaze into a rippl ing poolBeneath thi ck branches dark and coolAnd gazing
,gazing till a gleam
Within the darkness caught hi s eyes,
He saw there smiling up at h imA young girl ’s face
,now rippling dim
,
NOW flashing clearWithout surpri se
He marked the e yes translucent blue,
The full red l ips that seemed to speak,
The curves of rounded chin and cheek,
Wiyr id Wilson GiésonThe low
,broad brow
,sun- tanned
He knewThat face
,yet could not call to mind
Where he had seen i t ! and in vainStrove to recall .when sudden rainCrashed down and made the clear pool bli nd
,
And it was lostAnd
,with a j erk
That well- nigh shook him from hi s seat,
He wakened to the steamy heatAnd clank and rattle .
Sti ll at workThe stolid mare kept on ! and stillOver her hot, white flanks the fl iesHung humming . And his dazzledClosed gradually again
,until
He dozedAnd stood wi thin the door
OfDinch ill dairy,d rinking there
Thirst- quench ing draughts of stone- cold airThe scoured white shelves and sanded floorAnd shallow milk - pans creamy whiteGleamed coldly in the dusky l ightAnd then he saw her , stooping downOver a milk- pan
,while her eyes
Looked up at him without surpri seOver the shoulder of her gownHer fresh print gown of Speedwell blueThe eyes that looked out of the coolUntroubled crystal of the poolL ooked into hi s again .
He knewThose eyes now
From hi s dreamy doze90
Wifi’ id Wilson Qiéson
THE PLATELAYER
I‘APPING the rails as he went byAnd driving the slack wedges tight
,
He walked towards the morning skyBetween two golden lines of l ightThat dwindled slowly into oneSheer golden rail that ran right onOver the fells into the sun .
And dazzling in h i s eyes i t shone,
That golden track, as left and rightHe swung his clinking hammer—ay,’Twas dazzling after that long nightIn Hindfell tunnel
,working by
A smoky flare,and making good
The track the rains had tornClink
,Cli nk,
On the sound metal—o u the woodA duller thwack !
I t made h im blink,
That running gold’Twas sixteen hours
S i nce he’d left home—his garden smeltSo fragrant with the heavy showersWhen he left home—and now he feltThat i t would smell more fresh and sweetAfter the tunnel ’s reek and fumeOf damp warm C inders . ’Twas a treatTO come upon the scent and bloom
92
Wilfrid Wilson GiésonThat topped the cutting by the woodAfter the C inders of the track,The C inders and tarred sleepers—goodTo lift your eyes from gri tty blackUpon that blaze of green and redAnd she ’ld be waiting by the fence
,
And with the babyStraight for bed
He ’ld make,i f he had any sense
,
And sleep the day ! but, l ike as not,When he ’d had breakfast
,he’ld turn to
And hoe the back potato- plot’Twould be one mass of weeds he knew .
Yo u’
ld think each single drop of rainTurned
,as i t fell
,i nto a weed.
You seemed to hoe and hoe i n vain .
Chickweed and groundsel didn ’t heedThe likes of him—and b indweed
,well
,
You hoed and hoed— still i ts Wh i te rootsRan deeper
’Twould be good to smellThe fresh- turned earth
,and feel hi s boots
Sink deep in to the brown wet mould,
After hard C indersAnd
,maybe
,
The baby,sleep ing good as gold
In i ts new carriage under a tree,
Would keep h im company,while h i s
Washed up the breakfast- things .’Twas strange
,
The di ff erence that she made to life,
That tiny baby-girl .The change
Of work would make him sleep more sound .
93
Wilfrid Wilson Qioson’Twas sleep he needed . That long nightShovelling wet C inders underground,With breaking back—the smoky lightStinging h i s eyes till they were sore
He ’d worked the n ight that she was born,
Sta nding from noon the day beforeAll through that winter’s night till mornL aying fog- signals on the l ineWhere i t ran over Devil ’s Ghyll
And she was born at half—past n ine,Just as he stood aside untilThe Scots’ Express ran safely byHe’d but to shut hi s eyes to seeThose windows flashing blindinglyA moment through the blizzard—heCould feel again that slashing snowThat seemed to cut hi s face.
But they,
The passengers,they couldn’ t know
What i t cost h im to keep the wayOpen for them . SO snug and warmThey slept or chattered
,while he stood
And faced all night that raking stormThe li ttle house beside the woodFor ever in hi s thoughts : and he,Not knowing what was happening
But all went well as well could beWith Sally and the l i ttle thing .
And i t had been worth while to waitThrough that long night with work toTo meet hi s mother at the gate
94
Wilf rid Wilson Qiéson
MAKESHI F TS
AND after all
,
’twas snug and weather- tight,His garret . That was much on such a night
TO be secure against the wind and sleetAt hi s age
,and not wandering the street
,
A shuffl ing,sh ivering bag- Of- bones .
And yetThings would be snugger if he could forgetThe bundle of old dripping rags that slouchedBefore him down the Canongate, that crouchedClose to the swing-doors of the Spotted Cow.
Why,he could see that poor old sinner now
,
Ay ! and could draw him,i f he’d had the knack
Of drawing anything—a steamy,black
Dilapidation,basking in the glare
,
And snifling with h i s swollen nose i n ai rTo catch the hot reek when the door swings WideAnd shows the gli ttering paradise inside
,
Where men drink golden fire on seats o f plushLolling like gods : he stands there i n the slushShivering
,from squelching boots to sopping hat
One sodden clout,and blinking like a bat
Be- dazzled by the blaze of light : his beardWaggles and drips from lank cheeks pocked and seared !And the whole dismal night about him d rips,As he stands gaping there with watering l ip sAnd burning eyes i n the cold sleety drench
,
Afire with th irst that only death may quench .
96
Wilf rid Wilson QiésonYet he had clutched the sixpence greedilyAs if sixpennyworth of rum maybeWould sati sfy that thi rst . Who knows ! I t mightJust do the trick perhaps on such a night
,
And death would be a golden,fiery drink
To that old scarecrow .
’Twould be good to th inkHis mo ney
’
d sati sfied that thirst,and brought
Rest to those restless fevered bones that oughtLong since to have dropped for ever out o f Sight .I t wasn’t decent
,wandering the night
L i ke that—not decent . While i t l ived i t madeA man turn hot to see it
,and afraid
To look i t in the face lest he should findThat bundle was h imself
,grown old and blind
With thi rst unsati sfied .
He’d thirsted,too
,
His whole life long,though not for any brew
That trickled out o f taps in gaudy barsFor those wi th greasy pence to spend !
The starsWere not for purchase
,nei ther bought nor sold
By any man for silver or fo r gold .
Still,he was snug and sheltered from the storm .
He sat by his own hearth secure and warm,
And that was much indeed on such a night .The li ttle room was pleasant with the lightGlowing on lime- washed walls
,kindling to red
His copper pots,and
,over the whi te bed
,
The old torn Rembrandt print to golden gloom .
’Twas much on such a night to have a roomFour walls and ceil ing storm- tight overhead .
Denied the stars—well,you must spend instead97 H
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonYour sixpences on makeshifts . L i fe was naughtBut toiling for the sixpences that boughtMakeshifts for stars .
’Twas snug to hear the sleetLashing the panes and sweeping down the streetTowards Holyrood and out into the nightOf hill s beyond . Maybe i t would be whi teOn Arthur’s seat to- morrow
,whi te wi th snow
A white hill shining in the morning glowBeyond the ch imney- pots
,that was a sight
For any man to see—a snowy heightSoaring into the sunshine . He was glad ,Though he must live in slums
,hi s garret had
A window to the hill s .And he was warm
,
Ay, warm and snug, shut in here from the stOrm .
The sixpences bought comfort for Old bonesThat else must crouch all night on paving- stonesUnsheltered from the cold .
’Twas hard to learnIn h is young days that thi s was li fe—to earnBy life- long labour j ust your board and bedAlthough the stars were singing overhead
,
The sons of morning singing together for j oyAs they had sung for every bright- eyed boyWith ears to hear since l ife i tself was youngAnd leave so much unseen
,so much unsung
.
He’d had to learn that lesson .
’Twas no goodTo go star- gazing for a l ivel ihoodWith empty belly . Though he had a turnFor seeing things
,when you have got to earn
Your daily bread first,there i s l i ttle time
To paint your dream or set the stars to rhyme98
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonNot minding overmuch if things went wrongAt home
,and always humming a new song
And then she came into hi s l ife,and shook
All heaven about him . He had but to lookOn her to find the stars wi thin hi s reach .
But,ere h i s love had trembled into speech ,
He ’d waked one day to know that not for himWere those bright l iving eyes that turned dreams dimTO know that While he’d worshipped, John and sheHad taken to each other easily
But that was years ago and now he satBeside a lonely hearth . And they were fatAy, fat and old they were, John and hi s wife ,And with a grown - up family. Their lifeHad not been over- easy : they’d thei r shareOf trouble
,ay, more than enough to spare
But they had made the best of things,and taken
Life as i t came with courage sti ll unshaken .
They’d faced their luck,but never gone half-way
To meet fresh trouble . Life was always gayFor them between the showers : the roughest wea therMight do its worst—they always stood togetherTo bear the brunt, together stood their groundAnd came through smil ing cheerfully . They’d foundMarriage a hard- up, happy businessOf hand- to-mouth exi stence more or less !But taking all i n all
,well worth their while
To look on the bright side of things—to smileWhen all went well
,not fearing overmuch
When life was suddenly brought to the touchAnd you ’d to sink or swim . And they’d kept hold
,
100
Wilf rid Wilson QiosonAnd even now
,though they were fat and old
They’d still a hearty grip on lifeThey
’
ld beS i tting there i n their ki tchen after teaOn either side the fire- place even nowJane with her spectacles upon her brow,And nodding as she kni tted
,li stening
While John,i n shirt- sleeves
,scraped his fiddle- string
,
With one ear hearkening lest a foot should stopAnd some rare customer invade the shopTo ask the price of that old Flanders’ chestOr oaken ale- house settle
They’d the bestOf life
,maybe
,together
And yet heThough he ’d not taken life so easily,Had always hated makeshifts more or less
,
Grudging to swop the stars for sixpences,
And was an old man now,with that old thi rst
Unsatisfied—ay, even at the worstHe’d had his compensations
,now and then
A starry glimpse . You couldn ’t work with menAnd quite forget the stars . Though life was spentI n drudgery
,i t hadn ’t only meant
Upholstering chairs In crimson plush for barsMaybe i t gave new meaning to the stars
,
The drudgery,who knows !
At least the rareWild glimpses he had caught at whiles were thereYet living in his mind . When much was dimAnd drudgery forgotten , bright fo r himBurned even now in memory old d elightsThat had been hi s in other days and nights .He ’d always seen
,though never could express
10 1
Wilfrid Wilson QiésonHis eyes’ delight
,or only more or less
But th ings once clearly seen, once and for allThe soul ’s possessions—naught that may befallMay ever dim
,and nei ther moth nor rust
Corrupt the dream, that, shedding mortal dust,Has soared to life and spread i ts wings of goldWithin the soul
And yet when they were told,
These deathless vi sions,l i ttle things they seemed
Though something of the beauty he had dreamedBurned in them
,something of h is youth ’ s desire
And as he sat there,gazing at the fire
Once more he l ingered,li sten ing in the gloom
O f that great si lent warehouse, i n the roomWhere stores were kept
,one hand upon a shelf
,
And heard a lassie s inging to herselfSomewhere unseen wi thout a thought who heard
,
Just s inging to herself like any bi rdBecause th e heart was happy in her breast
,
As happy as the day was long . At restHe lingered
,l i sten ing
,and a ray of light
Streamed from the dormer-window up a heightDown on the bales of crimson cloth
,and li t
To sudden gold the dust that danced i n i t,
Till he was dazzled by the golden motesThat kept on dancing to those merry notesBefore hi s dreaming eyes
,and danced as long
As he stood listening to the lassie ’s song
Then once again,his work- bag on hi s back
,
He climbed that April morning up th e trackThat took h im by a short cut through the woodUp to the hill- top where the great house stood
,
102
Wil/Eid Wilson QiésonIn thei r eternal strength, those shapes of greenSublimely moulded .
Whatsoever his skill,
No man hath ever rightly drawn a hillTo hi s mind—never caught the subtle curvesOf sweeping moorland with i ts dips and swervesNor ever painted heather
Heather cameAlways into h i s mind l ike sudden flame,Blazing and streaming over stony braesAs he had seen i t on that day of daysWhen he had plunged into a sea of bloom,
Blinded with colour,stifled with the fume
Of sun—soaked blossom,the hot heady scent
Of honey- breathing bell s,and sunk content
Into a soft and scented bed to sleep !And he had lain in slumber sweet and deep
,
And only wakened when the full moon ’s l ightHad turned that wavy sea of heather white :And still he ’d lain wi thin the full moon blazeHour after hour bewildered and adaz e
As though enchanted— in a waking swoonHe’d lain wi th in the full glare of the moonUntil she seemed to shine on him aloneI n all the world—as though hi s bo dy
’
d grownUntil i t covered all the earth
,and he
Was swaying l ike the moon - enchanted seaBeneath that cold white wi tchery of lightAnd now
,the earth i tself
,he hung in night
Turning and turn ing in that cold white glareFor ever and fo r ever
She was thereThere at hi s window now
,the moon . The sleet
And wind no longer swept the quiet street .1 04
Wilfrid Wilson GiésonAnd he was cold : the fire had burnt quite lowAnd
,while he’d dreamt
,there ’d been a fall of snow.
He wondered where that poor old man would h ideHis head to- night wi th thirst unsati sfied
His thirst—who knows ! but night may quench the thirstDay leaves unsati sfied
Well,he must first
Get to h i s bed and sleep away the night,
If he would ri se to see the hill s still whiteIn the first glory of the morning light .
1 05
T. Sta rge M oore
M ICAH
IN Ephraim where skies are ch iefly blue,Towards massive dome- like peaks the h ills W indnorth .
The house of Micah on thi s ridge j uts forth,Some other roofs peep near, and rocks thrust throughLarge leafy trees which shade an uphill road .
And all who pass wish hi s thei r own abode !For hard thereby tufts of maidenhair fernK i ss i n a trough their green inverted showers,And men
,whose business presses
,will waste hours
Watching each ri pple flood the brim in turn .
The morning still felt fresh as i t beganWhen thither came six hundred men of Dan !From Eshtaol hailed some
,from Z orah others !
And most were fully armed ! for, near thei r brothers,No longer was there place or land to till !SO they had sent forth five o f might and skillTo search them out a vale for heri tage .These spies chose Lai sh ! warless a long ageI ts folk dwelt careless
,as the manner holds
With the Z idonians,safe as sheep in folds
,
Apart from all men else ! i n genial stateThey pleased themselves without a magistrateWho might put men to shame fo r doing wrong .
Those five now lead forth Dan,s ix hundred strong .
And having noted ’gainst the present dayWhat by the road most promised profit
,they
109
T. S tnrge MooreCalled a halt here
,—not for that water’s sake
,
Nor to buy milk thei r children ’s fast to breakThey had no honest cause to stop at all .Though Micah ’s house stood back across a courtHi s Levi te’s lattice pierced the outer wallAnd was the sooth and charm- buyer’s resort .Talking they stopped ! the priest was bound to hear,His ears waked up by Shibbolet/zs
,full dear
S ince Bethlehem hi s home bordered on thei rs,
(Though he had not been near i t now for years,But
,having found a place
,he served thi s man
Who owned an house of gods). Those five of Dan ,Though they before had been his master’ s guests
,
Now,while he questioned of those parts loved most
,
Of all that,where he first was happy
,rests
,
Crossed the paved court,but d id not hail thei r host !
Like boys who climb to where the wild hawk nests,
Neared hushed,and mute unto hi s God’s house went.
His Ephod and the Teraphim which leantBy ei ther post to guard the door they took !Glanced round like boys who for due vengeance look
,
Dogged by dreamed whirr of wings —bold then didse ize
,
Molten and graven,both hi s images .
This quickly done,they hastened to thei r friends .
And meanwhile Micah through hi s vineyard wends,
His mind unflecked by thought of guile or hateTo where h i s servants dig a goodly vat .He means to see the floor well-grooved and flat .
What do ye said the Levi te at the gate .The five made ready answer Be thou dumb !Lay thou thy hand
qpo n thy mouth and come !aShall we not need a ther and a priest ?
1 10
T. Sturge MooreTold what was known, yet only told i t half.Though Micah hurry
,endless seems the path,
And countless are the inc idents beheldHis brain to trivial notice seems compelled .
Bronzed heads enqui ring thrust out through greenleaves
The cloak wh ich,to be going
,some one heaves
About hi s shoulders,while he scowls to hear !
A spade struck deep i n earth stands upright near !Scared women ’s mantles flapping down the lanes !The bri sk commotion
,as when summer rains
Set the farms bustling lest things hung to dryAgain be wetted
,—so upon that cry
He saw men cross the open here and there,Not to take shelter . Matrons grave with careHaste out of doors
,not for white sheets di straught !
Lads keep pace with thei r elders,deep in thought !
A first time summoned at the public needThey pay example very anxious heed .
Grave for a sparkling cruelty returning,
Rapt students,they lack ears for questions wrung
From girls on whose words they had often hungWhose hearts now first are for an answer yearning
,
Left thus among the children dazed with tears,
While baleful ’mid the leaves flash gathering spears .At last was Micah thronged about with friends :There in hi s own paved court all counsel bendsUnanimous in concert wi th h i s own
,
As though four hundred limbs,not h i s alone
Answered hi s instincots,prompt
,imperative
,
For hot pursui t . One whom a host moves wi th,
The road glides past beneath him like a dream !At length before hi s eyes i n harness gleamSix hundred men
,and
,bidden
,10
,they wai t
I I 2
T. Sta rge MooreHis voice
,a hundredfold its volume now
,
So wields control . Majestic to d icf ate,
Moved forth before h i s friends,rebukes to bow
The minds of robbers throng into hi s thoughts :He stands to choose before thei r ranked cohorts .A mocking voice intrudes
,What aileth thee ?
Why comest thou with such a company?Then Micah gasps My gods ye have taken away
,
Both which I made ! the priest he too i s gone !What have I more ? Am I then wondered onComing amongst you ? How is i t ? Ye sayWhat aileth thee ?’ We
,i f you must know why
,
Are six to one . In feigned concern some cry,
Let not thy voice be heard amongst us,lest
Some angry fellows run upon thee,then
Thou mightest lose thy life !’
yea,thou wert best
,
For sake of these thy household,with young men
To hold thy peace,s ince such have froward wills
,
And crying oft provoketh further ills . !
Micah must turn ! they are too strong for him,
And,round him turning
,hills
,trees
,neighbours swim .
They led him home : he heard each kind friend’s word,
Yet seemed to them as though he hardly heard .
The hill was steep to climb again,and high
The sun rode ! earth was baked ! his mouth was dry .
The dust i n the deep ruts felt soft as mud !A hush lay on 'the country ! chewing cud,The cattle kept the shade ! and dotted treesOn distant hills did still as rocks remain !For
,void of breath and desti tute o f ease
,
No hint that Go d was moving gave the plain .
His mother came to meet h im ! she was kindHis woe more than their loss d i stressed her mind .
She led him in,spoke something
,touched h i s sleeve !
1 1 3 1
T. Sta rgeMooreAnd every act brought a minute reprieveFrom that too present blank crushed on his sense.Micah must from the poor receive an alms,Ere l ife ’s j ammed movements regain due suspense !What servants do helps more than costly balms .To watch the swallows if the eye be caughtSuflicient proves to slack the bonds
'
Of thought .The rich indeed few turns of fate can bless
,
Yet many leave those who own much with less .When put to native poverty againMen hardy- to- feel - rich must pay dire toll !Their thriftless thrift results i n abjeéf pain .
Than such a man i t takes a wealthier soulTo count with loss . Above the Promi sed Land
,
Though it l i e di stant,let but Moses stand
And see—forbidden entrance,
- he i s blest,
And angels lay him qui te conten t to rest.S i nce I have seen thy face let me now die
Said I srael to Joseph ! l isten why .
Because thou art alive still whom I weptAnd mourned for dead.
!
Such ai ry food has keptThe strong soul fine ! possession were too muchS i nce mind conceives
,why should the coarse hand touch ?
His gods had still less power in Micah’s breastThan in the world
,so on h i s mind scorn pressed
With Lords , though eyed with jasper, who are kindAnd cruel fickly, might as well be bli nd .
What,do these chaunting women gain reli ef
,
While I who wealth have lavi shed ache in grief !Dumb i s my woe
,but thei rs with words i s fed
Copiously gushing as for strong man dead
Wail,O nest of eagles young !
S ince those are now taken away1 14
T. Sturge MooreFor if they turn not back ye are forlorn !Midnight i s silent and the Noon !Who shall whi sper with the Morn ?With the Evening who commune ?These counsel wi th themselves aloneTo no man i s thei r favour shown .
Then cry aloud,be urgent in your wail !
When all else fails,persi stence may avail .
All round him rose a coolness of stone walls !Translucent vine- leaves softly laced the glareWhich else h ad trespassed throu h the portal deep .
Along the walls stood vintage 0 old yearsIn massive j ars high as a woman ’s ch in
,
A thick dust mantl ing each round- shouldered well .Bundles of herbs
,baskets and pruning hooks
,
Hung from the cedarn rafters,vague in gloom !
And on the sm i oth - planed table there was fru i tDamsons and pears
,—while
,from its trencher
,sliced
A crusted melon,luscious womb of seeds
,
Glowed and shed fragrance . Audible,s ince they
Have ceased to sing , the gurgling spring tunes time,And keeps i n mind the cavernous cool rocks
,
Umbrageous trees,and many a hazy glimpse
Across the basking plains,whereto hi s vines
Slope with thei r mellow ranks of rustling leaves .But ’mid the li ttle chapel ’s hollow wallsNow dwells an aching absence Where hi s godsHad stood in glimmering splendour to protect
,
For ever smiling on a pile of giftsCri sp flowery loaves and golden maize and doves
,
Grey doves with yellow plumage round thei r necks,
With ribbed feet tied,drooped wings and blue veiled
eyes .1 1 6
T. S ta rge MooreNo more will some two hundred kneel forNo shout of prai se start every rock to tell
,
And loudly tell,Jehovah ’s gloriou s name !
Nor will he joy in prestige erewhile hi s,
A rich and envied god - possessing man .
Beyond hi s fathers wise,he had had suck
Of all the abundance which in seas i s found,
And of the treasures h idden in the sand .
Close speech with swarthy captains had he held,
And placed much confidence in ships ! yet keptWell - watered Vineyards, sounding fields of corn .
His beard was black ! still hale and firm his l imbs !The fuller’s finest white with scarlet fringeHe wore
,and i t became him~
! chains of goldAt feast and wedding j angled on his breast !Damsels still met him blush ing—younger menPassed for less handsome. What harsh climax nowCrowned his content? the grati tude of Gods
,
Whose images,made from hi s mother’s gold
,
He honoured,—and was honoured in return
,
Till now,he thought . Yet still the thunder failed
To bring thei r state home ! wrathful agenciesMuttered not
,mustering round the massive forms
Of Ebal and of Gerizim . His wifeAnd mother only dream of succour now .
Yes,they are cooking : from the further room
Come and return ! they sigh,but taste the broth
,
And know how much salt lacks . Trivial concernDivides thei r hearts wi th woe : l ife’s menials they
,
Incapable of concentrated aim .
They grudge to I'
ISk their weal th on Tyrian tradeAnd when they see i t doubled
,
! Prai se the Lord !Appropriate seems to them . But men face ri sk
,
1 1 7
T. S ta rge MooreCan calculate and gain ! therefore to themL oss i s calami ty ! girl s buoyed on chanceHave not the strength to feel . And yet heWhen told the supper wai ted him above .
The roof of that tall house lightly was rai sedOn slender colonnettes set nigh as closeAs palings : Micah through thei r intervalsHad oft at lei sure from hi s couch surveyedThe plain stretched round h im ! slingers i n the corn !The wine- press whi ther they bring in hi s grapesUnmuzzled and well- fed
,slow oxen trod
The terrace thresh ing- flo o r . His children nearPlayed on all fours ! his wife would bend her downTo kiss him
,having crooned some song he loved .
And still to- day hi s eyes are fond enoughTo
,rest upon the h ills
,to weigh the worth
Of thi s year’s vintage,watch the labourers ’ heads
Appear and di sappear beyond the brinkOf h i s new vat : languidly stray h is eyes !Anon he finds them choosing from the meats .His palate next approves : his lips returnHis mother ’ s smile . Yet i s h i s good soul hurtAt every acquiescence : yet less hurtEach time ! and so he Sl ips into fond ease,Half conscious o f some failure
,di scontent
To be content. The long day closes in,
And on the cooing dove- cot comes a lull !The n ight wind whi spers o ’er the corn ! the pipeOf some boy goat- herd reedl ike from the cl i ff sTrembles and dies away . He seeks hi s bed .
And as a girl who qui ts her home to serveI n some rich house
,and wear far gayer clothes
,
(Dance, song, and work wi th beads, henceforth her tasks)1 1 8
T. S turge MooreSlipped i t along hi s thumb and smiled—but soonRecurs the regular l i sp ’twixt steel and stone .Loud Micah ’s heart beat as men ’s then will beatGuessed at a wrath no more to be forestalledThan such a fear- besotted tyrant’s rageStopped dead as thei r hearts stop when all at onceThe trumpets snarl ear- spl itting o ’er the boothsI t was as though a thunder pealed h im wordsShall gods depart
,yet be so briefly mourned ?
Then,compassed round with cloud
,the cherubim
Bowed with the heavens and came down,while he
Cowered and kept hi s face pressed on the dust,
Expecti ng death : but ah ! they turned thei r wheelsWhich d id not crunch across hi s abject corse
,
Yet rumbled near,con tinuing less loud
Until they passed from ear- shot . Long he achedIn pulseless silence and black void .
A childAbandoned in the dark begins to wail,Then
,panic—goaded
,daring never stop
,
I n one continuous scream throws back i ts head,
And seeks to drive l ife’s self forth with the sound,
Till suffocated,stunned
,fain t
,i t must li e
And cough . So Micah dreamed he did,and heard
After interminable flagging throbsHis mother move from near him with a lampAnd say : He sleeps again
,
! pause and then addHe breatheth quietly ! come, leave him now !
Hot wi th strange shame,grown man wi th child confused
,
Some time elapsed ere h e became awareThat, round the chamber where hi s bed was set,Rain made such sound as when i t long hath rained .
1 20
R . G. TREVELYAN
R, C. Tre‘vely anDidn ’t I say that Krishna and youWere not to go out to the j ungle to -day ?Boys . Mother Yasho da
,we want our Kri shna .
The time i s come for our sport and play.
The cows are lowing,the sky is blue !
The Vrinda meadows are fresh with dew .
We must be going,and Kri shna too .
Make him ready to come wi th us .Ya shoda .
Kri shna must b ide at home to- day .
Va la rama . But why,mother
,why
?
Ya shoda . He ’
s ill in bed with a sh ivering fever .Va la rama . Oh , what a l ie !Ya shoda . SO make no noise
,
For he ’
s j ust gone to sleep .
Va la r ama . Don ’t you believe her .Ya shoda . Begone
,or you’ll wake h im
,you ragamuflin
boys . [xi /lute is hea rd f r om w ithin the house .
Boys. Listen ! Oh,that i s h i s flute . Clear and gay
He pipes,to the meadows away
,away !
S i lly l i ttle mother,will you tell us still
That our darl ing Kri shna’ s asleep or ill ?Ya shoda . S ick or sound
,h e shall bide at home .
Never again wi th you shall he roam,
Tearing h i s clothes at wrestling and racing,
Ri sking his neck up monkey- chasing,
(Yes, I know all your madcap pranks,)Diving down from Jumna
’
s banksInto crocodile pools . N0, no, l i ttle fools,Henceforth he bides with me at home .Boys. How cross and stupid these grown - up folks are !Come
,we must sing our very best to coax her.
L i sten awhile, we pray,
Mother Yasho da dear .1 24
R. C. Trevely anGive us our Kri shna for thi s one day,Thi s one day in the whole long year .Nothing i s there fo r you to fearFor of h im we will take great care .I n the midst of us all shall he go like a king .
We will carry hi s flute and his staff .SO merry i s Kri shna, as a bi rd on the wing,That he dances along as he goes .I f thorny or rough be the path
,
On our shoulders high will we carry him .
When the sun ’s rays grow too strong,
To a tree ’s cool shadow will we lead him .
There shall he res t,while we how best
To please him strive . But i f perchance,
Tired wi th frolic,faint from the
,dance
,
We see him pale,wi th wild-wood fruits
And berries will we feed h im .
Ya shoda . And poison h im too : yes,that would
Go,you scamps
,go .
Boys . Poi son our darling Kri shna ! No !We can tell good from evil frui tAs well as any root- fed Ri sh i can do .
Give us our Kri shna,Ya sho da dear .
If he come not wi th us to- day,
I f we hear not the sound of his flute,
How shall we dance and be gay?The peacock
,the cuckoo
,the bee
,
And the squirrel h igh up in the banyan treeAre wai ting and li stening wi th eager earTo catch the sound o f h i s pipings .If we haven ’ t our Kri shna
,Whose dark hair
Shall we crown with peacock plumes,and deck
With bright wild floWers?We will make him si t i n the midst of us
1 2 5
R, C. TrevelyanUnder the cool Kadamva bowers,And pipe to us
,while we
Wreathe him a garland for hi s neckOf champak blossoms and all gay flowersThat i n Vrinda ’s groves and meadows be
,
On stalk or tree,
Malaka,Kunda and M adhavi .
Then suff er him,mother
,to go .
I f they see not h is sweet face,
The cows will not drink or graze .I f they hear not Kri shna’ s flute
,
They will not so much as low,
But will stand like carved th ings mute .Your son
,l i ttle mother
,has magic arts .
All things that have ears and hearts,
S illy cattle and beasts and men,
When they hear hi s pipe,must Obey h i s will
In h i s music I S such sweet force .Sai ntl iest Yogi s ofjungle and h illSee thei r holiest vi sions then !And the Jumna stays in her course .Ya shoda . Spare your song. Though all day longYou stand here begging
,you won’ t coax me
,
For all your noi se,to let him go free
,
You good- for- nothing boys .Boys . [M a hing a rush f or the door
,a nd trying to force
their w ay past YASHODA into the house .]Then we must take him ! and away we
’ll go,
Whether his mother may wish i t or no .
I n at the door like a swarmOf angry bees we’ll storm .
Let her scold and stamp and tear her hair,
We won ’t care .Ya shoda . Wicked boys
,do you dare !
I 26
R,C. Tre‘vely an
That you should Swaddle him up at home,and keep him
from his playmates?Ya shoda . DO you not know how all h i s l ife demons
and evil yakshasHave sought to lure him Wi th i n their power
,to kidnap
or destro him ?
N eighbour . So fhr i t seems your Kri shna ’ s proved amatch for all these demons .
Take my advice and pray to Vishnu . He’ll be the lad’ sbest keeper . [Exit NE IGHBOUR .
Ya shoda . Vishnu ! To him how oft have I not prayed?But who knows when the Gods have heard? ’Ti s said
,
Ofttimes l ike men they sleep,or si t and watch
Apsaras dancing. How then should they catchThe sighs of us poor mortals ? And they tellHow from thei r heavens the Gods descend and dwellWithin the bodies of wild beasts and men .
Can they have ears to li sten to us then?Those boys spoke true : my son has magic arts !Or why should he have such power over all hearts ?I sometimes th ink
,so di ff erent he seems
From all else,that a God ’s soul
,i n i ts dreams
,
Oft enters h im,and lodges there awhile .
Did no t sage Ri shi s journey mile on mileTo behold him in hi s crad le
,and bow low
Worshipping him with gifts and prayers,as though
He were indeed a great God vi si ting us?But I am not so vain and credulousAs to believe all the fine tales and liesThese Yogi s cheat us with to win more rice .Well
,when my household tasks are done
,I ’ll go
TO fetch him home,be he a God or no .
[She goes into the house.
1 2 8
R,C. Tr e fvelya n
SCENE I IThe Vr inda forest
,nea r the banhs of the 7umna . Under
the broa d sha de of a peepul tree sits an aged R ISH I,in an a ttitude of tranced med ita tion.
Krishna .
HEN she smiles,how beautiful i s my Radha !
When l ike clear skies after rainHer eyes are filled with laughter again
,
And shyly gazing into mineSeem to pleadAsk not why so early from my comradesI stole away ! ask not why so brightYon moon i s ri sing
,nor fo r whom to - night
My lovel iness i s more lovelyOnly come
,come now to the j ungle wi th me
,
Kri shna,my playmate .
Ah but then most beautiful i s my Radha,
When her scornfully flashing eyesMock me as lightning from dark skies .Then deeply beyond their anger and disdainGazing
,there I read
All that wi thin her heart i s lurking,
In secret working unconfessed,
Hope and wistful fear and yearning pain,
I nnocent tenderness,reluc’tant
Proud hesi tation and wayward guile .Then my heart leaps joyfully
,like a mother’s
,
When her child turns gravely from her breast,
1 29
R, C. TrevelyanAnd gazing upward into her eyes
,the first time
K indles answering smile for smile .[He now notices the R I SH I .
What i s this ? Who i s here ?Some saintly Ri shi lapsed in trance . More stillHe seems than a deserted ant- hill
,and
As void perchance o f any thought or joy .
Vi shnu preserve me from such torpid saintliness !Yet have I heard men say that when the mindAnd bodily senses sleep
,the wakeful soul
Delightedly goes forth and wandering seesVi sions divine and glorious
,unbeheld
By mortal s else . If that be so,maybe
Were I to waken now within my fluteA solemn yet a rapturous melody
,
Who knows but i t may open wide the gateO f Indra’s Paradi se to th i s poor Yogi
,
And bathe hi s parch ing spiri t a brief whileI n rivers of living joy ?
[He plays a meloay on his flute . The music
gra dua lly rouses the R I S H Ifrom his tra nce.
KR I SH NA stops playing! a nd the R I SH I,
w ho,though nowfully aw ake
,does not see
KR I SH NA,spea ks w ith his ha ndsjoined in
adora tion.
R ish i . Vishnu ! Almighty Vishnu !To thee be prai se !Among the Gods in Swarga have I been .
Yet at first I saw thereGloom only and despai r !And a voice I heard that c ri edWhere i s our Vishnu
,where ?
And at that wordI saw Gods shudder and turn pale
,
1 30
R. C. Tr efuely a nR ishi . Kri shna
,my child
,was i t thy flute I heard ?
Kr ishna . My flute i t was . Good Ri sh i , I did illI f by my foolish pipings your deep thoughtsAnd sain tly medi tations were d i sturbed .
Rish i . Nay, child , but there was magic in thy fluteHow else should I have seen what I have seen?Twenty years in thi s forest have I dwelt !But never yet
,fast and a ffl icot my body
Austerelyas I might, could I attai nTrue vi sion Of the Gods until thi s hour .Blest be thy flute
,and the lips that played thereon .
Boys. [Without.] Kri shna ! Where are you hiding ?Kri shna !
Kr ishna . Hark ! they are coming . They’ve followedthe flute .
Old man,now mind : not a word to them of me!
Not a nod ! Keep still and mum as a root .Goodbye ! NOW for th i s peepul tree !
[KR I SH NA climbs up quickly into thepeepul tree.
The R I SH I r esumes h is a ttitude of meditatzon.
Enter VALARAMA,SUDAMA
,SUBALA
,and the other herd
boys, running.
Boys. Kri shna Kri shna !Sudama . This way ! I t was here I heard i t last .Va la rama . Hi ! not so fast ! I t ’s j ust such a placeHe’ld choose to hide i n .
Suba lo . Oh what a shameTo lead us such a chase !Where in the world has he got to ?He ’
s always up to some trick or other .Valarama
,you ’re h i s brother
I t ’s for you to tell him not to .
1 3 2
R, C. Tre‘vely anVa la rama . I ’m not to blame . Haven ’t I doneA thousand times? But i t ’s all the sameI t ’s never any use.
Come,why should we run so ?
If he wants to tease,why play his game?
Look, there’
s the old Yogi .Another Boy . Yogi
,please
,
Has Kri shna been your way?Another . Have you seen h im atall to- day?Another . I s he hiding among those trees ?Wont you give us a word or a nod?Another . Give him a prod . He cant have heard .
Another . I t ’s no use leave him . He hasn ’t a wordFor anyone less than a God .
Sudama . Come,let ’s si t downand cool ourselves under
this shady peepul .See here the grass i s fresh and soft
,the very place for
dozing .
I t ’s full noon now,and all the birds are silent save the
kokilas .
Let Kri shna play at h ide and seek alone,if he ’s a mind to .
Suba la . Maybe i t ’s Radha and the Gopi s he ’
s playinghide and seek with .
Another Boy . Well, be hi s game whate’er i t may
,why
should we fash to find him ?
Sudama . Still, I do wish we had him here . One feels sodull w i thout him .
What shall we do to pass the time ?Va la r ama . Why
,sleep .
Sudama . But I ’m not sleepy.
Come,someone
,tell us a story
,do
,of Rama or of Shiva .
[A silence.
H ow i s i t that we miss him so? I t ’s no use our pretending :
I 3 3
R, C. Tr efvelya n
When he ’s away one feels as cross and stupid as abuff alo . [A silence.
Suba la . Where are the cows ? They must be lost . Wellnow there’ll be some trouble .
I t ’s Kri shna’s fault. When we missed him,of course
we qui te forgot them.
Another Boy. Look,there they come. Count them,
Sudama . My counting stops at twenty .
Sudama . They ’re a ll there, the whole thirty- s ix ! evenDraupad i, the lame one .
Look at them . Aren ’ t they a lovely sight . No girlsare half so pretty .
Yet girls wear bangles,ear- ri ngs
,chains of pearls or
gold and silver !While cows wear nothing
,or at best some miserable
necklaceOf blue and yellow beads . Just th ink ! if we could only
make themA necklace each of pearls
,how fine and beautiful they
’
ld
look then !Va la rama . Yes
,they
’
ld look fine no doubt . But howdo you propose
,Sudama
,
To find your pearls ? If you expeét to pick them froma pearl bush
,
I ’m thinking you may have to plant one first .Sudama . Well
,s ince they aren ’ t stones
,
They must grow somewhere,I suppose . else how
should the girls come by them?Va la rama . They’re bought at fai rs for cowries .Sudama . Yes
,but how do the shopmen get them ?
I f only Krishna now were here, I’m certain he would
teach usHow to make pearls as fast as clouds pelt hai l- stones
when i t thunders
R, C. TrevelyanKr ishna . [F rom above.] Valarama !
The res t shall have twelve pearls apiece ! you only six,and small ones .
SCENE I I Ivillage of Gokula . L a lita
,Chandrava li and severa l
other of the Gop i ma idens a r e sitting in the sha de ofa ba nyan tree, w a tching Ra dha , who is sea ted some
w ha t apa rtfr om her companions, a bsorbed in her ownthoughts .
Chandrava li . [Singing ]OW may I go ?!
! Ah,no
,no ! Not yet ! I sighed .
The hour i s come .May I now go ?!
Grief held me dumb .
May I go now ?!
He whispered thrice,Ere I replied
,
GO,my love
,si nce i t must be so .
One step he made,
Then turned to lookDeep in my eyesWithin hi s hands my hands he took
,
And bade me vow :Though now we part
,
Yet from my heart,
0 my love,thou
Canst never go .
!
L a lita . She does not hear you,Chandra .
Still she sits staring on the trees,
1 36
R, C. TrevelyanDreaming with open eyes .Radha !Will noth ing wake her ?Chandrava li . She must be bewitched .
L a lita . Well,if she be
, we know by whom . His namePerchance may rouse her. I will tryChandrava li .
I t will but anger her .L a lita . What if i t do ?That would be better th an thi s love- sick moping .
[She sings .] Oh ye who sayForget h im . Hath he not forgotten thee?How am I to forget?Did I not Off er him my soul in play?Did i t not fly to h im like a birdBy a fowler ’s piping lured
,
And perch upon a tree,
And sing to him ? till heLike a fowler caught i t in hi s net
,
And keeps i t captive yet .
NOW i n h i s cage he bears me all day long .
To my sweet song he pays no heed .
Not though I starve for i t,one small seed
Of pi ty has he granted me as yet.Soon shall I peri sh . Then alone
,
When thought and memory are flown,
Dying forgotten shall I forget thee,Kri shna .
R a dha . Lali ta ! what do you mean ?You know that name i s hateful to me .L o lita . HatefulI t was not always so .
Radha . Oh,you are pert and sly . Leave me in peace .
I 3 7
R C. TrevelyanL a lita . I had hoped to please your mood : but I mistook .
I ought to have rememberedThat name was hateful to you : yes .But li sten now : I
’
ll make amends .
[She sings .] O ye maidens ofVrindavan, heed my warning ! do not wander
Down yon pathway to the j ungle,lest you meet wi th
such mi schanceAs of late befell me there .Pleasant are the groves of Vrinda ! yet i n their cool
shades there lurksA monster
,a dread king of Nagas. Deadly i s the very
glanceOf those bright eyes . Oh beware !Yes beware
,for he is gentle : W insome i s hi s shape and
lovelyHis poi sed head ! hi s every motion lures and charms
yea,hi s the art
To entice and to betray .
Ere thou art aware hi s swiftly gliding coils are roundthee twin ing
,
And the poi son from hi s deadly kiss i s burn ing up theheart
Of the serpent Kri shna’s prey .
[RADHA r ises in anger and w a lks away.
Cha ndr ava li . Oh,you are cruel
,Lali ta .
See, she i s hurt . You have driven her away .
Enter SUDAMA . He stands hesita ting, and looks shylyr ound h im a t the Gopi s .
La lita . Why, there’s Sudama . Look at him how he
gapes1 3 8
R C. TrevelyanI s worthy only of an ignorant
,
S tupid,unreasoning cowherd
,l ike himself.
What ! adorn cows with necklaces of pearl !Could even the most lavi sh rajah on earthConceive so crazed a fancy . Tell h im thi sMoreover
,that once every year by night
From Svati’s constellation there descendsInto each destined shell a mystic rayOf fertilizing light : and thus i t i sAre formed those pearls that divers ri sk thei r livesTo fetch from the sea’ s depth . Let him not deemThat pearls are things easy and cheap to winLike a kadamva or a champak flower .The Gir ls. Well done
,Radha !—Look how he stands
Gaping and blushing and blinking !His crook slips out Of hi s hands .Kri shna will hardly be pleased
,I ’m thinking,
With such an answer as that .But h i s message was nothing but impudent fooling !So i t ’s all fai r ti t for tat .I f the laugh ’
s gone against h im,he deserves h i s
schooling.
Mind,Sudama
,you don ’t forget
One word o f what Radha said .
Pearls grow on sea- shells,no t on trees .
Pearl s are not champak buds,nor yet
Any kind of flower,whether whi te or red
,
Pink, yellow or blue. Remember too,
Svati’
s the name of the constellationWhose love- beams quicken the oyster nation .
Fix that in your memory,please .[SUDAMA r etires in confusion.
Ra dha . Lali ta !L a lita . Yes
,Radha !
140
R, C. Trevely anRa dha . Hasten, L ali ta . Follow behind Sudama :Keep hidden among the trees : note all he saysTo Kri shna
,and how Kri shna answers him
I s he angry,or seems vexed, or does but laugh .
Bring me back word of all he says and does .Chuck now ! but be not seen .
L a lita . Trust me for that.R adha . But haste .L a lita . [Aside] Ah
,Radha
,never could you hide
Your love- s ick thoughts from me,for all your pride .
[Exit LALITA .
SCENE IVsame a s Scene I I . The R I SH I is still sitting under
the peepul tree. KR I SH NA a nd the herd- boys a re
ly ing or sitting idly on the gr a ss here and there.
SUDAMA stands before KR I SH NA . LALITA crouches inh iding beh ind a bush
,wa tching a nd listeni ng.
Kr ishna .
ADHA spoke so,Sudama?
Sudama . Yes,j ust so .
Kr ishna . Unreasoning? Ignorant ? She spoke thosewords
Sudama . Those were her very words : I am quite sure .L a lita . [Aside] Ignorant, stupid, and unreasoning !Yes
,and a cowherd too .
Kr ishna . She will be sorry for them soon perhaps .Sudama . What will you do now
,Kri shna ? Our fine plan
I s spoilt, i t seems, without a pearl to plant.Va la rama . He does look vexed . Best let h im be awhile .I ’ve never seen him so put out before .
1 4 1
R, C. TrevelyanSuba la . Small wonder too, after her shrewd reply.
Oh,you can see i t ’s not the pearl so much
,
As Radha’s scorn . That ’s touched him to the quick .
Va la r ama . If I ’d been Radha, I’ld have sent the pearl .
He ’ld look more fooli sh then than he does now .
Sudama . Dont be so sure . I t ’s my belief that RadhaWill yet feel sorry she tried to mock our Kri shna .L a lita . [Aside] Then Radha will be changed .
Radha was never sorry.
Enter YASHODA.
Ya shoda . Kri shna,where are you? Kri shna ! Kri shna !
A Boy . What ’s that ? Why,i t ’s Yasho da .
Ya shoda . Ah,now I ’ve found you, wicked boys .
A Boy . Yes,now there’ll be some trouble .
Ya shoda . Come home at once . How dare you play thetruant from your mother
,
And make her run through hi ssing snakes and tigersh ither to fetch you ?
And you,you scamps
,how dare you steal my Kri shna
,
when I told youThat he was ill?Kr ishna . Yes
,mother dear !
I t ’s true I ’m ill : but never fear !There ’
s one thing that will cure me .Ya shoda . Oh say
,what i s that ?
Kr ishna . But will you swearTo let me have i t then ?Ya shoda . Why
,yes !
Of course I wi ll .Boys . If Kri shna ’s i ll
,
The reason why is easy to guess .What i s h i s sickness we all know
,
And whom he caught i t from ! and so1 42
R C'
. TrevelyanUp through the ground to hi s piping’ s sound ?Let him pipe for a year and a d ay,A pearl i s a pearl
,I say .
L a lita . [Aside] If Radha had lent h im a pearl fromher ear
,
She’ld never have seen i t again,that ’s clear .
On a fool she ’ld have thrown i t away .
Sudama . Subala,look
,oh look ! The soi l ’s l ifting !
there !Suba la . Nonsense ! I see nothing . N o t a grain
’
s sti rred,
not one.Sudama . Yes, but i t heaves, see ! ever so l i ttle, j ust
there !Va la rama . Wonderful ! Yes
,i t breaks . Pushing i ts
way i t comes,A tiny spikelet ofgrey ! The pearl- tree i s born
,i t i s born !
Sudama . Oh that Radha were here to see !Wouldn ’ t she just look fool i sh now ?L o lita . [Aside] Yes indeed, poor fooli sh girl !Suba la . What ’s so wonderful in this tree ?Wait until he can show us a pearlHanging upo n a pearl- tree bough .
Sudama . Already i t ’s grown seven inches tall .Va la rama . NO
,ten .
Another Boy. Why,surely i t ’s over a foot.
Suba la . What if i t ’s no real tree atall,But a false delusion
,a cheating charm
Cast over our minds by Kr i shna’s flute ?Sudama . No, for I
’
ve touched it . You too try.
I t ’s j ust as real as you or I .Another Boy . I ’ve measured i t : see
,i t ’s as long as my
arm .
Another . L ook at those buds : they’re beginning tosprout .
144
R. C. Trevelyan
On every side i t ’s branching out,Leaf
,tendril and shoot .
Suba lo . But where ’
s the frui t ?Sudama . Wider and thicker and h igher and quickerI t ’s spreading and curling, expanding, unfurling .
Suba la . But I dont see i t pearling .
Another Boy . What i s that ? DO you see ? Oh,what
can i t be ?That tiniest grain
,as small and bright as the eye
Of a moth or a wren or a blue dragonfly,Or a droplet o f rain !Oh look
,look again ! I t i s growing, i t i s swelling .
And look,there are others
,two
,three
,four and five !
The whole tree ’
s aliveWith dozens and fifties and hundreds past tell ingOf pearls
,bright pearls .
Every moment they’re gleaming both brighter andplumper .
See there,what a bumper !
Kri shna,our K ri shna ! There ’
s none li ke our Kri shna .
Oh,what would not Radha and the Gopi girl s
Give now to be here ?Kr ishna . There, mother dear ! There
’
s your pearl backagain .
Ya shoda . O Kri shna,my joy !
Kr ishna . There are some fo r your ear !And there ’
s a good handful to make a new chain .
Boys. Come, let us pick them and prick.them and threadthem on twine
,
And make of them chains to engarland the necks o f ourkine !
Yes,and our own necks too . Oh
,shant we look fine !
Then home to the byres and the milking i n triumphwe’ll lead them
,
145
R C. Trevely anDancing and frol icking
,j oking and laughing and singing .
Though the Gopis come weeping and begging andcl inging
,
Not a glance will we give,not a pearl great or small
,
Till Radha grow humble,and Kri shna forgive .
L o lita . [Aside] Poor Radha, humbled wilt thou beindeed !
And for forgiveness sore will be thy need.
Now must I hasten back with my strange news .Nought truly in the telling shall i t lose . [Exit LAL ITA .
SCENE VThe village of Goha la ! the some a s Scene I I ] .
L o lita .
AH
, had you but been there to see !Radha . Yes
,then
I might have known the truth .
Why should you doubt me ?Ra dha . Give me some proof
,i n stead of all these words .
You talk of pearls i n myriads ! yet not oneHave you brought back to show me.
How could I , Radha ?Did you not bid me keep myself close hidden ?Radha . Well, then ?L o lita . Why
,then I rose and stole away :
But as I looked back through the leaves I sawThat now from a bush i t had become a treeTall as the tallest there
,i ts every bough
Glanci ng and glimmering wi th a robe of pearls,
One flame of silver fire : and there,high up
146
R,C. Trevely an
Ah Pride,Pride
,thou infidel,
Thou j ealous tyrant, whyArt thou so strong
,and I ,
Thy slave,so weak that I dare not rebel ?
Dare not obey my own heart when i t calls ?Why is to yield impossible,Though alone by yielding firstMay longed- for happiness be mine ?Thus perishing with love’s thirstBy the well ’s brink I pine .Already twilight falls .One thing there i s ere i t be nightThat I must do i n pride ’s despi te .To thejungle must I hasten, and there with my own
eyesLearn whether Lali ta spoke truth
,or was i t lies.
(mick, then, while there i s l ight to see !I t was under the sacred peepul tree
,
Where si ts the old Ri sh i n ight and dayNear Jumna
’
s banks . —I cannot miss the way . [Exit.
SCENE VIUnder the peepul tree, w here the R I SH I still sits, a s in
Scenes [ 1 and Enter RADHA .
Radha .
HE sun sets : nigh t draws roundAnd I am here alone .
How long i t seems since last I heard the soundOf laughter and singing
,and so left the path
,
Following them in vain ! By now they must1 48
R, C. TrevelyanHave reached the village . Ah !Yonder i s the peepul tree . I s thi s the place ?But where are they? And he ?And where i s Oh my follyIf i t was here
,
’ ti s vani shed . And yet hereThey must have been : for the grass i s trodden downBy hooves and feet. And there the R i shi si ts .I will approach and speak with him .
—Sanyassin,Tell me
,I pray
,was Kri shna here but now ?
Rish i . Who art thou ?Ra dha . I am Radha . I seek Kri shna,The son o f Nanda . Hast thou not seen him here?R ishi . Him whom men call Kri shna I have seen
,
And I have heard his flute .R a dha . But why has vanishedHis pearl- sown tree?Was i t not here i t grew ?R ish i . Canst thou not see i t?Ra dha . No ! I see nothing here .R ishi . The proud in heart see nought . Pride blinds
their eyes .R adha . Oh
,I am proud no more : yet am I blind.
R ish i . Then thou shalt see perchance,when ’ti s hi s will .
R a dha . Alas,weak i s my faith : but I repent
My pride and folly now. Thou art wise : tell me,How may I find my Krishna ?R ishi . When so he wills .Ra dha . Ay me ! I have scorned, fai thlessly
' scornedhim . Now
He scorns and rejeéts me .R ishi . Kri shna scorns noneWho seek h im with desire .R a dha . I desire ! I seek !And finding not
,must perish . Oh tell me how
Am I to find him ?
1 49
R C. TrevelyanR ishi . That thou alone canst know .
[RADHA turns away .
Radha . Night fall s round meWithin me i s night.Yonder stars mock me .In my heart shinesNO star
,no moon
,
No hope of l i ght .Then death come soon
,
S i nce heHath willed i t so .
Yet not he,no
,’Twas I who scorned him
,I who killed
That l ight wherebyMy life he filled .
Would that againI might behold my Kri shna’s face
,
But one last glance,
Before I die !Did not the R i sh i say
,Perchance
Thou yet shalt see him,i f so he will .
Hope then,hope still
For that las t grace,
Though hope be vain .
Oh,what i s i t there that gleams ?
What i s i t shimmering yonder between the trees ?The pearl- tree ! Kri shna’s pearl- tree ! Can i t be ?I s i t only the moon that ri ses
,silvering Jumna
’
s streams ?There upon ei ther bankI s i t a c i ty I seeIn the moonshine gli tteri ng bright and whi te ?Domes and pinnacles height upon height
,
Palaces mounting rank beyond rank,
1 50
R C. TrevelyanFollowing Govinda ’s flute- notes through the wo odways,To where beside Jumna
’
s banks he stands !And there on those moon - silvered sandsThe dance i s kni t
,and hands meet hands !
And circling round with glancing feetThat fl i t and fleet
,they chant hi s praises !
And every maiden fondly deems’Tis none but heWho i s dancing beside her knee to knee !For to each and all alike i t seemsAs though such bli ss were hers alone
,
And no hand by his were held,
No neck embraced,no lips thrilled
By Kri shna’ s,but her own .
Ah brief delusion,as a dream ’
3 j oy swift- winged !Vain beguilement ! Fleeting un ion of mortal nature
with li fe divine !The song ceases
,the dance fails
As a moon- glance on the Jumna in splendour revealed,
And anon quenched in cloud- veils,i s the God for whom
they pine .
Then desolate and with grief di straught,
Seeking and calling hi s name they wanderHither and thi ther among the trees .But o f all most bitter i s Radha’s woe
,
Who loving most was most beloved,
And in her heart’s proud folly thoughtThat she alone to the God was dear .But alas
,at pride ’3 l ightest breath
Bli ss l ike a bubble vani sheth,
Leaving anger’s stubborn painAnd grief that counterfei ts di sdain .
1 52
R C. TrevelyanBut wi sdom now in suff ering’s schoolHath Radha learnt, poor love—s ick fool .Be i t Kri shna’s will that hereMay end her penance and despai r !
Enter RADHA .Radha . Oh
,i t i s strange—yet ’ti s no dream .
The place I know,these banks
,those trees,
All still the same without a changeAnd there below flows Jumna
’
s stream .
But yonder marvellous palaces,
Where yesterday was nought atall,This ci ty glistening wall above wall,Towering through the moon ’s clear l ightInto the vastnesses of n ight—4Can these be real ? Or has heWho from a pearl could raise a tree
,
Has he bidden i t further by magic powerTo expand and unfurl and be changed in an hourInto a wonderful city of pearl?
I s yonder the gateway ? Yes,i t i s there .
Then will I enter straightway and seek within .
With eyes no longer blind,purged o f pride’s sin
,
Perchance there shall I find by Kri shna’s graceHis pearl - sown tree
,and might that be
,behold
face to face .
But stay ! Who are theseSo s ilent and so stern ? Beware !Hide still ’mid the trees !I dare not question them .
The splendour o f their beauty makes me afraid .
I dare not . They would scorn one such as me .I S3
R, C. Trevely anYet I must peri sh if I find not Kri shna .I will approach them .
Gracious deities,Tell me
,I pray you
,tell me where i s Kri shna,
Kri shna,the son of Nanda and Yasho da ?
Suff er me to enter,i f he be wi th in .
F irst Apsa ra . Who may thi s be ?Second Apsa ra . I t i s some mad woman .
Ra dha . I am Radha . I seek Kri shna, my beloved .
F irst Apsa ra . So , tho u art Radha, the foolish cow- girl,she
Who deemed in vani ty of heart that Kri shnaLoved none but her ! yet when he begged one pearl,One small pearl from her neck
,refused and mocked
him .
What,a vile thing such as thou intrude wi thin
These mansions of the Gods ! Home to thy milk- pails !R adha . Drive me not away . Though Krishna scorn me
still,
And hide hi s countenance from me,yet perchance
,
Could I but find hi s pearl- tree . Oh,forbid me not
To enter and seek wi thin,i f i t be there .
Second Apsa ra . Ah,now we know what brings her here !
no t love
Of Kri shna,no
,but greed for pearls
,gay pearls
To deck her robe and bosom,and so attraél:
Some cowherd ’s wanton eyes to her poor charms .Th ird Apsa ra .
’Tis not for such as thou art to beholdThe heaven- born pearl- tree . Go then, drown thyselfI n thy despai r . Yonder i s the Jumna . LeapWithin i ts waves ! and they shall carry theeDown to the sea . There shall thy craving soulFind pearls In plenty to content i ts greed .
Radha . Ah,mock me ! but have pity, and let me pass .
1 54
R C. Trevely anKri shna’s divine abode . There with dimmed eyesThou mayst behold a pearl- tree ! or perchanceThou mayst not . Wilt thou venture, thus forewarned ?Radha . Yes
,I must venture : I must follow still
Where the l ight leads . See,palace beyond palace,
Another and another wi thout end,
Brighter and vaster still they tower and dazzle !Still would they lead me onward
,l ike a moth
Wi thin a feasting chamber,to my doom .
F irst Apsa ra . Then pass with in . Fo o lhardy soul, farewell 
R,C. Trevelyan
How could I prove so miserly of my store,When ’ twas my love that begged —Ah cruel Kri shna !I s thi s thy vengeance ? Hast thou lured me hi therTO mock me with the emblem of my shame ?Not for thy pearl—tree’s splendour
,but for the light
O f thine eyes was I pining . Spurned by thee,Denied thy pardon
,here must death find me .
Below me i s the ripple of the Jumna .Were i t not best ? Why
,when the light i s quenched,
Not cast the lamp from me ?
O Krishna Kri shna !L ord of my soul ! Lord of the universe !I am but a poor fooli sh woman
,frail
,
Ignorant,vile as dust . Have pi ty on me .
Oh pardon me,my L ord : fo
’
rsake me not,
Weak, sinful, shameful, worthless though I be.I cannot live without thee. I die here .
[She kneels, h iding her fa ce in her hands. The
pea r l- tree fa des
,and KR I SH NA is seen
standing in its pla ce. He steps to RADHA’S
side a nd touches her a rm.
Kr ishna . Radh ika,my soul ’s j oy
,my life’s delight !
Where hast thou been all th is long weary while?[RADHA prostra tes herself a nd cla sps his feet.
KR I S H NA r a ises her up and embra ces her .
Kr ishna . Come,Radh ika
,think not upon things past.
Are they not vanished now like evil dreams?Young i s the night yet ! and i n these lone woodsWe two are here alone.
Nay,keep thy pearls .
I need none ! for Love’ s pearl once more i s mine .
[He restores to her neck the neckla ce of pea rls,which she ha s put into his hands .
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