"Since he made us humble pioneers Of himself in consciousness of Life's tears, It needs no mighty prophecy To tell that what he could mindlessly show His creatures, he himself will know.
"By some still close-cowled mystery We have reached feeling faster than he, But he will overtake us anon, If the world goes on."MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN
In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy, And the roof-lamp's oily flame Played down on his listless form and face, Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going, Or whence he came.
In the band of his hat the journeying boy Had a ticket stuck; and a string Around his neck bore the key of his box, That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams Like a living thing.
What past can be yours, O journeying boy Towards a world unknown, Who calmly, as if incurious quite On all at stake, can undertake This plunge alone?
Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy, Our rude realms far above, Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete This region of sin that you find you in, But are not of?
HONEYMOON TIME AT AN INN
At the shiver of morning, a little before the false dawn, The moon was at the window-square, Deedily brooding in deformed decay -The curve hewn off her cheek as by an adze;At the shiver of morning a little before the false dawn So the moon looked in there.
Her speechless eyeing reached across the chamber, Where lay two souls opprest, One a white lady sighing, "Why am I sad!"To him who sighed back, "Sad, my Love, am I!"And speechlessly the old moon conned the chamber, And these two reft of rest.
While their large-pupilled vision swept the scene there, Nought seeming imminent, Something fell sheer, and crashed, and from the floor Lay glittering at the pair with a shattered gaze, While their large-pupilled vision swept the scene there, And the many-eyed thing outleant.
With a start they saw that it was an old-time pier-glass Which had stood on the mantel near, Its silvering blemished,--yes, as if worn away By the eyes of the countless dead who had smirked at it Ere these two ever knew that old-time pier-glass And its vague and vacant leer.
As he looked, his bride like a moth skimmed forth, and kneeling Quick, with quivering sighs, Gathered the pieces under the moon's sly ray, Unwitting as an automaton what she did;Till he entreated, hasting to where she was kneeling, Let it stay where it lies!""Long years of sorrow this means!" breathed the lady As they retired. "Alas!"And she lifted one pale hand across her eyes.
"Don't trouble, Love; it's nothing," the bridegroom said.
"Long years of sorrow for us!" murmured the lady, "Or ever this evil pass!"And the Spirits Ironic laughed behind the wainscot, And the Spirits of Pity sighed.
It's good," said the Spirits Ironic, "to tickle their minds With a portent of their wedlock's after-grinds."And the Spirits of Pity sighed behind the wainscot, "It's a portent we cannot abide!
"More, what shall happen to prove the truth of the portent?"--"Oh; in brief, they will fade till old, And their loves grow numbed ere death, by the cark of care."- "But nought see we that asks for portents there? -'Tis the lot of all."--"Well, no less true is a portent That it fits all mortal mould."THE ROBIN
When up aloft I fly and fly, I see in pools The shining sky, And a happy bird Am I, am I!
When I descend Towards their brink I stand, and look, And stoop, and drink, And bathe my wings, And chink and prink.
When winter frost Makes earth as steel I search and search But find no meal, And most unhappy Then I feel.
But when it lasts, And snows still fall, I get to feel No grief at all, For I turn to a cold stiff Feathery ball!
"I ROSE AND WENT TO ROU'TOR TOWN"
(She, alone)
I rose and went to Rou'tor Town With gaiety and good heart, And ardour for the start, That morning ere the moon was down That lit me off to Rou'tor Town With gaiety and good heart.
When sojourn soon at Rou'tor Town Wrote sorrows on my face, I strove that none should trace The pale and gray, once pink and brown, When sojourn soon at Rou'tor Town Wrote sorrows on my face.
The evil wrought at Rou'tor Town On him I'd loved so true I cannot tell anew:
But nought can quench, but nought can drown The evil wrought at Rou'tor Town On him I'd loved so true!
THE NETTLES
This, then, is the grave of my son, Whose heart she won! And nettles grow Upon his mound; and she lives just below.
How he upbraided me, and left, And our lives were cleft, because I said She was hard, unfeeling, caring but to wed.
Well, to see this sight I have fared these miles, And her firelight smiles from her window there, Whom he left his mother to cherish with tender care!
It is enough. I'll turn and go;
Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he, Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.
IN A WAITING-ROOM
On a morning sick as the day of doom With the drizzling gray Of an English May, There were few in the railway waiting-room.
About its walls were framed and varnished Pictures of liners, fly-blown, tarnished.
The table bore a Testament For travellers' reading, if suchwise bent.
I read it on and on, And, thronging the Gospel of Saint John, Were figures--additions, multiplications -By some one scrawled, with sundry emendations;Not scoffingly designed, But with an absent mind, -Plainly a bagman's counts of cost, What he had profited, what lost;And whilst I wondered if there could have been Any particle of a soul In that poor man at all, To cypher rates of wage Upon that printed page, There joined in the charmless scene And stood over me and the scribbled book (To lend the hour's mean hue A smear of tragedy too)A soldier and wife, with haggard look Subdued to stone by strong endeavour;And then I heard From a casual word They were parting as they believed for ever.
But next there came Like the eastern flame Of some high altar, children--a pair -Who laughed at the fly-blown pictures there.
"Here are the lovely ships that we, Mother, are by and by going to see!
