STUDY IN SHADOWS

The Rock at Bon Echo

Once in the twilight aisles of Amiens
I thought I knew what shadows were,
Creeping in golden dust and greying dust,
And trooping down dim flights of measured air,
Liquid in spacing, that those arches span.

But just last night, before the moon was up,
Our little boat stole close against these crags
That out-rear arches and reject the dark.
Yet gradually the purple of the rock
Melted before it; and again they came
Creeping in golden dust, and greying dust,
And crowding down those giant flights of stair
That open slowly as eternity,
To hold the feet of shadows, lost in night.

III

Then I remembered Götterdammerüng—
How before doom falls on the gorgeous host,
Slowly there drifts across the empty stage
A smoke-cloud, lonely as a passing soul.
In very truth the gods return to you—
Great rock that blazes colour in the sun—
And, as in the Valhalla of old song,
Parade before our eyes the whole day long
And make a glorious end,
As with you they are folded in a sleep.
No cloud foretells their doom, but wings of birds
A moment sweep your side—then fall away.

NORTHERN GRAVEYARDS

Stony fields and lonely roads,
Meagre hamlets, very lean,
And most prosperous graveyards
Lying all between.

Each few miles a graveyard,
With its crouching column
And its urns and headstones,
Very dark and solemn.

But with what an accent!
Yellow, purple, red,
Lie the votive offerings
To this public dead.

Close beside the railway,
Where the smoke drifts high,
These are decked in garlands
For the passerby.

Even in the winter,
Breaking through the snow
Immortelles beguile us,
When the train runs slow.

They are strangely cheerful,
All these plots of ground
That have lost the loneliness
Of the living. Here abound

In a comradeship increasing
Those who in their hour
Reaped a dreary harvest,
Missed a magic flower.

Over them the smoke-wreaths,
Snow, and whispering grass,
And the voice of neighbours,
Sighing as they pass;

While the urns of iron
And the barbarous vases
Chant a willing ritual
To forgotten faces.

So they sleep together,
And their shades may say:
"Wave to us, O restless traveller!
We are glad to stay."

STONY LAKE

By southern seas I have seen purple stones
Throw back the shadows of the waves and hills.
On the Ægean, so the stories run,
Greek youths, with many a saffron-coloured sail,
Rode flame-like to the rhythm of the gale.

Again, on the bright shores of this small lake,
Purple of hills and pink of northern rocks.
To-day I met a sail-boat in the wind
And at its mast a brown Canadian boy—
He was as splendid as his mate of Troy.

TRADE

It might have been two hundred years ago,
For all the difference in her way or mine,
That her canoe, with paddle dipping slow,
Just as the sunset ran to embers low,
Stopped at my rocky door.

With fish and basketwork she plied her trade,
And I, to help a little money last,
Answered her barter with a coat I made
Of coloured wool—oh, many seasons past!
We were both satisfied!

SNAKE ISLAND

"Ages ago," my Indian says
(As we are fishing in a cove
Of this green island, with its trees and shacks),
"Here was wild grass and many snakes.
After a while they disappear,
For soon the white man comes, and makes
Houses like these to live in!"

So the old name is suddenly made new.
Snake Island! ...

Ages ago, perhaps, the trees were elfin
And tall grass towered to the skies,
Until, to all those narrow, screen-like eyes,
This was a dazzling fen,
Perplexed with tangled fern,
Peopled with glittering prey;
Dense borderland to where the black pools lay
Whose captives twist and turn.

Burrowing, boa-like, harlequin snakes,
Your day was brilliant and flashing enough!
Snakes casting skins in continuous slough,
Grass snakes and ring snakes, on dragon-flies bent.
Was there a charmer, with musical pipe,
Lured you a moment? Some Indian charm
Surely touched you with sorcery, gave you alarm,
Ere the people who meant to build houses like these
Came and killed you—
And killed the wild grass.

JUNIPER RING

Juniper ring on the granite rock,
Deep and green and perfectly planned;
Living with you I understand
Circle-magic of old.

You had a sister in mystery—
Was it only an April ago
That a crocus cup on a bed of snow
Promised eternal things?

It will be longer, Juniper,
Till earth declares you ready to break,
And you fade of the havoc her brown hands make
That are covered with mystic rings.

WHITE SLUMBER

Who has come to that farthest island
Beyond White Gull Bay?
There is a little tent among the birches
Since yesterday.
Those birches are the palest things
Even in the morning sun!
Among them the tent has suddenly blossomed,
As the white flower of a night-blooming cereus,
Silently, deep in some forest of sleep,
Might have done.
Who are they? What dreams must be theirs,
Who have found such a magical camp unawares?

CRIMSON POOL

Even you, dark pool—
Even you feel death.
On your soft brown surface
There are deep reflections
Of a fiery breath.
To the waiting forest
Death does not come creeping
As it comes to men;
It comes shouting, waving banners,
Burning out its way with torches,
Hanging garlands now and then.
All the green walls of your silence
Hung with crimson,
Even you, dark pool—
Even you feel death.
On your soft brown surface
There are deep reflections
Of a fiery breath.