BY THE SAME AUTHOR
POEMS OF THE UNKNOWN WAY
HORIZONS AND LANDMARKS
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
HORIZONS
AND LANDMARKS
POEMS
BY
SIDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1911
CONTENTS
THREE AGES OF MAN
The child is part of all that he beholds;
Youth with his dreams of love the world enfolds;
Man takes life in his hands, and mars or moulds.
Freed of its load, washed of its gathered stain,
In the child’s spirit life is born again.
Of all he sees and loves he is a part:
Faith lights his footsteps; filtered through his heart
The everlasting fountain-springs o’er-run
In rills of joy, and life and he are one.
Youth is life’s lover, eager to embrace
And reach the soul that lights so fair a face;
But, as the lover on the maid confers
From his own dreams a beauty more than hers,
So youth illumines with the radiant hues
Of heart’s desire the vision he pursues.
Man is life’s guardian;—unknown issues wait
On his intent: his sight directs blind fate.
’Tis his before the Belly-god to kneel,
Or sow the harvests of life’s commonweal,—
To quit his post, or guard through pain and death
The hope with which creation travaileth.
The child gives love, and makes the world his own;
Youth looks for harvests which he has not sown;
Man shares God’s burden on the road unknown.
FIRST HORIZONS
An open window filled with blue,
The scent of meadows wet with dew,
The talk of rooks beyond the park,
A cart wheel’s creak, a sheep-dog’s bark,
Greeted our waking: then we sped
Along the rushy path that led
Down to the peat-brown river pool,
And, glowing, dived through ripples cool,
While startled coots in skimming flight
Slipped among sedges out of sight,
Or from his lonely watch the crane
Rose on slow wings; then out again
And home to breakfast. Oh, the smell
Of furze bloom and bog-asphodel
Along the track! but still more sweet
The fragrance of the cakes of wheat,
The tea, the toast, the home-baked bread,
The roasted apples, all outspread
On damask white. Anon, our chairs
Pushed back, we knelt for morning prayers,
And, planning new adventures, heard
The voice devout but not the word.
No lingering then;—a hundred things,
New schemes, imagined happenings,
Called us away to wood and field—
For any hour of life might yield
Some wonder, some unthought of bliss,
Some miracle we dared not miss.
And gladness, hidden in the springs
Of purpose at the heart of things,
Showed us a world where work was play,
And common labours of the day
Sweet service; but we knew not then
The burdens men have laid on men,—
Nay, only those perennial tasks
Which earth of all her children asks
For fruitfulness; and glad were we
Of that good fellowship to be;
Nor sought more honour than to share
The sower’s toil, the shepherd’s care.
But most we loved the merry ring
Of whetted scythes, the rhythmic swing
Of mowers, and with fork and rake
All day to follow in their wake;
And homeward in the eventide
On the piled waggon load to ride,
While, half asleep amid the hay,
Dim fields we saw and uplands grey,
And heard beneath our swaying load
The rumbling wheel along the road.
No need had we the world to roam
To find new shores, for round our home
Our undiscovered lands arose
In autumn mists, in winter snows.
On summer nights in whispering trees
We heard the wash of Indian seas,
And ripening waves of harvest rolled
Over our hills the realms of gold;
And flood-time mapped familiar lands
With island shores and foreign strands;
And tidings of unventured ways
We gathered in the darkening days
When leafless woods began to moan
And twilight opened gates unknown.
A narrower, homelier world we knew
In winter time, and kinder grew
The sheltering bounds of landmarks old;
And, gathered within farm and fold,
The sound of voices and the stir
Of labour seemed the merrier
Because so lonely and so wide
And homeless was the world outside.
Then we discovered golden shores,
Our El Dorado’s treasure stores,
Amid the piled up sheaves of grain
Within the barn; and while the rain
Beat on the roofs we burrowed deep
In rustling caves, or from the heap
Threw down our golden citadel,
While girls unbound the sheaves that fell
For threshing, and as each new load
Between the spinning rollers flowed,
The hum of wheels, the engine’s drone
A sudden octave fell in tone;
And grain was stored, and billows soft
Of straw went rolling to the loft,
And out on skies of cheerless grey
The winnowed chaff was blown away.
But after days of winter rains
Came mornings when our window-panes
Were bright with sunshine and embossed
With silver trellises of frost;
And out we rushed across the yard,
Down rutty cart tracks, frozen hard,
And round the farm sheds and the fold
To match our blood against the cold;
And every one we met was gay,
And had the pleasant word to say.
What, then, were dreams of summer worth,
While magic regions of the north
Lay round us, and o’er fields of snow,
Along the river’s overflow,
Were Arctic seas, with many a shore
And frozen inlet to explore?—
Or while we tracked through forests bare
Wild creatures to their hidden lair?
Or, when the snow had drifted deep,
We helped to find the scattered sheep,
Or, with the shepherds and their dogs,
Sat round a fire of brush and logs
At nightfall, when old tales were told
Of other days, and clear and cold
The starlight shone above the fold?
Not then, but when the wild South-west
Filled the dim land with its unrest
At twilight, and the woods began
To talk of things unknown to man,
And on the garden paths we heard
Strange footsteps, but no answering word
Came to our call;—
’twas then the spell
Of mystery about us fell,
The awe that held us half-afraid
To pass beyond our gates, but made
The shelter of our homely bounds
So welcome, and familiar sounds
So sweet; ’twas then before us rose
The vision of ancestral foes,
And in our ears old battle calls
At night around beleaguered walls
Rang; and, though all was safe and still,
Old dangers set our hearts a-thrill,
And in the silent courtyard made
Each door and arch an ambuscade;
And passing through our sleeping camp
We heard the stabled horses champ,
And started as a halter whirred
Along the chain rings when they stirred.
Then, with our day’s adventures o’er,
Safe housed, we heard the muffled roar
Of winds without, and round the fire
Sought for the land of heart’s desire,
Or sailed across the Spanish main
In well-loved books; or lived again
In knightly days of long ago,
And heard the horn of Ivanhoe
At Ashby lists; or, on his steed
At Acre, saw King Richard lead
His pilgrim soldiers, worn and thin,
That broke the ranks of Saladin:—
Till, in the thickest of some fight,
Or when the captive maiden’s plight
Was sorest, suddenly the spell
Was broken, and a welcome bell
Our own forgotten days restored
And called us to the supper board;
Where, with our elders gathered round,
Good cheer and fellowship we found,
And oft a neighbour or a guest
To tell the news or speed the jest.
And all too quickly afterwards
Our bedtime came, and at their cards
And talk we left them. In the hall
The firelight flickered on the wall,
Deep shadows thronged the winding stair,
And overhead, we knew not where,
A footstep fell upon the floor
Of some deserted corridor.
But, once within our cheerful room,
No hidden phantom of the gloom
Came near us; and in bed we lay
And heard the wind that far away
Now seemed to blow,—as storms outside
Might seem to those whose vessels ride
Rocked on the gentle rise and fall
Of tides within the haven wall.
THE FOUNTAIN-SPRINGS
Were they not memories of things known before,—
Not the strange vision of an unknown shore,
That met us when in childhood we began
To look upon our dwelling-place, and ran
Fearless to meet our fortune; when our eyes
Saw life with wonder, but without surprise;
When, though newcomers, no strange note we heard
In voice of wind or wave or song of bird;
And looking on the hills and trees and flowers
We loved, and without question made them ours;
And trusted the dumb creature and the hand
That guided us, nor sought to understand?
Were they not greetings of things old and dear,—
Not the strange voices of an alien sphere,—
That greeted us and linked us, with a bond
Of speech familiar, to some home beyond?
We were a part of all that we beheld
In those young days: it was our joy that welled
Into the sunshine with the mountain rill,
Our heart that in the rose’s heart lay still,
Our wings that held the sea-bird o’er the foam,
Our feet that brought the wandering outcast home.
Earth had no secret that we could not share,
For everything we saw and loved we were.
Not when defenceless on the earth we stood
In childhood doubted we that life was good.
Not when love made us part of everything
Could we distrust the hidden fountain-spring.
But when the years began to separate
From Life our lives, when all that once seemed great
In heaven and earth, all wonder and delight
Were narrowed to the measure of our sight;
When knowledge of the suffering and wrong
That nature dealt the weak to serve the strong,
When records of man’s greed and lust and pride
Defaced life’s beauty, and its hope belied,—
How had we then that mockery withstood,
Or trusted that the source of life was good,
Had not the memory of its old caress
Reproached our hearts in their unfaithfulness;
Had we not once beheld a face so sweet
It could not but express a heart that beat
For us, and knew what waited us, the while
It armed us for the darkness with its smile;
Had we not known those vanished hours that wove
Of homely human bonds immortal love;
Of flowers, and stars, and woods, and mountain streams,
And things that die, imperishable dreams?
OUR HOMELAND[1]
Ours was a land of green and gold;
More gold than green, when every fold
Of down and upland was a blaze
Of furze in bloom on April days.
But when the summer-time was o’er,
And fields of corn against the moor
Waved gold on purple, and a haze
Of sunlight filled the woodland ways,
And far-off mountain boundaries
Made azure lines on azure skies,
[1] Here, and in the other poems of this volume, with few exceptions, the country described is the south-west of Ireland.
And earth and heaven together drew,
Ours was a land of gold and blue.
Yet sometimes, just at evenfall,
When every old grey limestone wall
And crumbling tower and rocky height
Caught the last gleam of level light,
And in the west a crimson glow
Flushed the high cloud-field’s broken floe,
And deepening shades encompassed us,
And domes of coral cumulus
Above the mountains far away
In opal waters mirrored lay,
Ours was a land of rose and grey.
SHELTER AND FELLOWSHIP
In the midst of life unknown,
Spaces boundless, pathways lone,
Earth of things that pass and fade
Homely shelter round us made,—
Dropped a veil of changing light
O’er the changeless infinite,
Over the unfathomed drew
Morning’s gold and noonday’s blue,
Lifted in the evening skies
Rose-illumined boundaries,
Wove the light of moon and stars
Into silver prison-bars.
We forget what deeps we winged
Ere we found our place on earth,
Ere the blue horizons ringed
Sheltered homelands of our birth.
Whispers of the unknown spoke
Through our dreams; but all we know
Waited for us when we woke
On the green earth long ago.
Love we found, and welcome kind,
Fellowship with everything
We were playmates of the wind,
Comrades of the bird on wing.
Creatures dumb we understood,
Knew them kin,—the shy or bold,—
Hid with these in cave and wood,
Watched with those o’er hearth and fold.
Happy on our way we went,
Meadow secrets, forest clues,
Learning from the firwoods’ scent,
Winning from the wild flowers’ hues.
Trusting life itself, we grew
One with all we loved and knew;
Every thought we sent a-wing
Linked us with some living thing;
Every kindness that we did
Treasure for us somewhere hid.
So, outside ourselves was sown
All that grew to be our own;
So we put our wealth in trust
Past the reach of moth and rust.
Wherefore, no defeat or lure
Now can leave us wholly poor;
Never can we fail to find
Somewhere a sweet face and kind,—
Somewhere shelter and a friend
Waiting at the journey’s end.
THE FOREST
Far away to hills of blue,
Sunlit pastures, uplands wide,
Ways familiar, homes we knew,
Round us lay on every side
Save on one; on one alone,
Where the ancient forest spread,
Paths began with ends unknown,
Twilight loomed in daylight’s stead.
Soft as waves of summer seas
Flowing on a lonely strand,
Rolled along that wall of trees
Shining waves of meadow-land;
Bright as founts of lighted spray
Tossed against a rocky ledge,
Banks of primrose, boughs of May
Fringed the forest’s sombre edge.
Here the wild domain began
Touched not by the hand of man,
Tangled, orderless, o’er-grown,
Tended not nor reaped nor sown,
Yet majestically decked
In the robes of its neglect,
With the forms that beauty shaped
Out of its confusion draped:—
Beauty that our youthful eyes
Sought not, but in other guise
Reached us, and before our feet
With a reassurance sweet,
When the path was dark and drear
Into wonder changed our fear.
Soon the spirit of the woods
Made us creatures of its own,
Charmed us to its ancient moods,
Tuned us to its sombre tone;
Whispered in the tangled deeps,
Showed us, in the twilight rays,
Secrets that the noonday keeps,
Wonders lost on homely ways.
Where the forest creatures led
Lay our path;—the fox that crept
Through the fern, or, overhead,
Squirrels that before us leapt,
These we followed, or perchance
Startled herds that past us flew,
Leaving but an antler’s glance
Through the tree trunks for a clue.
In their wildness something stirred
Eager passion of the chase,
Made us foes of beast and bird,
Spoilers of the nesting-place;
Yet their wildness we could share,
We were creatures of the wood,
With them reached the hidden lair
Not pursuing, but pursued.
These, the wild and timid things,
Kinship in our hearts awoke,—
These we knew; but whisperings
Came of strange unearthly folk,—
Dwarfs, and Leprechauns and elves,—
Seen by others, not ourselves;
Though at times a cry’s escape,
Or a gliding shadow-shape,
Proved them near us as they stole
Out of sight from hole to hole;
Or when from the unknown track
Half afraid we hastened back,
While the night began to close
Round us and the wind arose:
Then throughout the forest stirred
Old enchantments, and we heard
Rushing wings of phantom hosts
Overhead; and whispering ghosts,
Outcasts of forgotten tombs
Wandering through the forest glooms,
Crossed our path; and demons grim
Hung on every creaking limb.
Then how glad were we to near
Homely ways and human cheer,
When, beyond the forest bounds,
Once again familiar sounds
Reached us, and the end of day
Glimmered on horizons grey,
Over uplands far away.
Golden morrows showed no mark,
Glittering pathways gave no trace,
Where those legions of the dark
Made their noonday hiding-place.
Where the elfin hosts had rushed,
Where had fallen the wizard bane
Not a flower had been crushed,
Never dewdrop had a stain.
Then an idle way we took
Where the little wandering brook,
Overflowing mossy wells,
Flashing out of twilight shades,
Beckoned us to secret dells,
Led us into fairy glades.
Here the sunlight filtered through
Woven trellises of blue,
Dropping from a sky unseen
Into hollows golden-green.
Jays, in azure flashes, slid
Out of hollows where they hid;
Golden crested wrens among
Feathery boughs of larches hung;
Gentle winds in dreaming firs
Touched æolian dulcimers;
Dancing shadows fell across
Fairy rings on floors of moss;
Over rocks of weathered grey
Tapestries of wild rose lay;
Here the forest’s magic spells
Hung on dappled foxglove bells;
Here the dreams of twilight pale,
Stealing out to golden light,
Shaped themselves in petals frail
Clothed themselves in blossoms white.
Not within the golden dell
Could we rest:—the wild and lone
Laid on us a stronger spell,
Called us to a world unknown.
Down untrodden paths would break
Gleams remote, that still foretold
New discoveries to make,
Always greater than the old.
There, beyond us, never gained,
Lay the regions of our quest,
There our wonderlands remained
Unbeholden, unpossessed;—
Wonderlands no truth could mar,
Dreams no wakening could blot,
Lovelier because so far,
Real because we found them not.
FIRST LOVE
Our treasures hardly seemed our own,
And barren our adventures were
Till comrades shared them:—one alone
I could not share.
We had no aims nor joys apart,
No secret we could long withhold:
One only, hidden in my heart,
I kept untold.
I see the little village church,
The faces that we used to know,
The parson in his pulpit-perch,
The clerk below;
The bare grey walls, the windows dim,
The crystal stains that filtered through
The golden wings of seraphim,
The robes of blue.
A sudden ray of sunshine fell
Soft on a little maiden’s hair,
And, lo! a joy I dared not tell,
And could not share.
My treasure hardly seemed my own,
My secret joy a burden grew,
In fear lest others had been shown
Its wonder too.
Her heart my secret never guessed;
And she is gone,—I know not where,
And now with those who loved her best
The loss I share.
THE WORLD’S END
Where did they end,—those pathways wild and lone
Through the dark forest? Lay some shore unknown
Beyond them, where the wind first taught the trees
The sweet sad voices of the murmuring seas?
Oh, whither did they call? The long arcades
Led ever to remoter, dimmer shades;
And from the farthest crest a pathway dipped
Down to some lonelier aisle or darker crypt.
Dear were the open fields to us, and dear
The homely path, the sound of human cheer;
But ’twas the way no foot of man had worn,
The forest’s undiscoverable bourne,
That made our world so wide, its end so far:
And when, in the evening through the trees, a star
Shone o’er the darkening solitudes, it seemed
Nearer than those long quests of which we dreamed.
One day we wandered farther than before
Through leafy maze and dusky corridor
Into the forest’s heart, when far away
We saw a low horizon line of grey
Where all before was dark; and by degrees
Through wider openings among the trees
The daylight grew; and we who thought we stood
Deep in the hidden cloisters of the wood
Were at its end,—only at last to find
A world like that which we had left behind.
There, out beyond us in the evening gold,
Lay homely meadowlands, and farm and fold:
The path we followed to the unknown shore
Led in the end but to some cottage door.
There, with the forest’s end, those regions vast
That childhood showed us, into dreamland passed.
The great world was beyond us; far away,
Over the hills, the lands we knew not lay,—
But others knew them! Now the secret clue
We followed melted in the noonday’s blue,
Or hid among the stars. That broken road
Taught us the boundaries of our abode,—
The gulf ’twixt heaven and earth. A bridge unseen
The hope or faith of man might build between
Our home on earth and some celestial shore;
But ’twas for us no longer to explore
The paths of brave adventure which we trod
In childhood, to the unknown lands of God.
YOUTH
The child is not the dreamer; but the youth.
No dream can lend enchantment to the truth
In childhood, and no glamour from afar
Can make its paths more wondrous than they are.
Nor was there any need for us to dream
When every field and flower and hill and stream
Fulfilled the heart’s desire, and hope could feign
No love or joy our world did not contain.
The dreamer is the youth who finds the ends
Of paths that once were endless, who ascends
The peaks that once in heaven seemed to glow,
Only to see the glory spread below;
For whom the rose of eve, the morning’s gold,
The starlight shining over field and fold,
The voice of wind and wave, the wild flowers’ scent,
Waken a want where once they brought content.
He dreams: the vanished wonder that those days
Of childhood showed him on familiar ways
He cherishes,—he dreams that they exist
On pathways still afar or somewhere missed.
Where knowledge from his world the beauty stole,
The inborn light of beauty in his soul
Relumes it, and endows a world unseen
With all the splendour of the might-have-been.
Pleasures beguile him, and that light within
Lends its own beauty to the face of sin,
Or flares to fire of passion that consumes
The very loveliness its light illumes.
He dreams of love, and every pathway’s bend
Holds him expectant, every journey’s end
Gives promise of the tryst, the hour supreme
That shall reveal the maiden of his dream.
His faith is in himself: he would reform
The world with love, and take his Heaven by storm.
The great adventure calls him: he would build
On earth his visions, and his heart is thrilled
Those labours to complete which God left unfulfilled.
NEW HORIZONS
Never was there path our childhood used to roam
So long it led not in the evening home;
Nor could the magic of the unknown track
Prevail against the hearth that called us back.
Over the same hill-tops, wild-rose or grey,
Our evening and our twilight always lay;
And when the night fell all the unknown stars
Grew homely shining through our window bars.
Now we have fared to the country o’er the hill,
And unknown journeys lie beyond us still;—
Ways unadventured, countless paths to roam,
But none that leads us in the evening home.
Onward, not homeward, some adventure calls
With every dawn, and every evening falls
Over new horizons, wild-rose or grey,
And old stars shining on the unknown way
Strange look and far, not those we saw of old
Safe moored in haven skies above our fold.
THE QUEST OF YOUTH
Year by year the hills of blue
That bounded our homeland nearer drew,
One by one the old enchantments
Passed away from the paths we knew.
Many a boon the old days brought,
Many a joy that we held as nought,
Hopes, but never the great fulfilment,
Love, but never the love we sought.
Now we must part from home and friend.
We have treasures of youth to spend:
Braver ventures, fairer maidens
Wait for us where the old ways end.
Now for the quest unknown, untried,
Now for the path with none to guide.
Dawns that glimmer on new horizons,
Starlit camps on the mountain side.
For our dreams remain, and the wonders flown
From the world that we knew and called our own,
Are ours to follow by shores uncharted,
Ours to seek in a land unknown;
Dreams that give to the thing life shows,
What the sky gives earth, when the evening glows
On the lonely hills, and the distant places
Blossom in gold and purple and rose.
Spake to us voices of scorn and ruth:
“He who follows the dreams of youth,
He who seeks for an outworn wonder
Flies himself from the whips of truth.”
“For yours is nought but the hunter’s zest;—
Your love but love of the unpossessed.
Is the world God filled with the light not fairer
Than all the dreams of your soul’s unrest?”
Ah no! the world that God designed
He shows us in dreams, but leaves mankind
To shape to His plan. The goal He gave,
But the path to the goal ’tis ours to find.
No meaner plan than our dream unrolls
Can ever again content our souls;
The wonder fades from the paths around us,
Our faith remains in the unseen goals.
The wonder outlasts, the goals exist;
The beauty abides, but the way we missed;
And a mile may open the way we looked for
A turn may lead to the longed-for tryst.
THE ROAD INTO THE WORLD
We travelled by an old and beaten road,
But everything we saw was strange and new:
Each ripple of the mountain stream that flowed
Beside us, every drop of sunlit dew
That filled the flowers that on the wayside grew,
The laughter of the south-west wind at play
Along its own untrodden path of blue,
All made the earth forget its yesterday,
And with their own youth touched that old and beaten way.
They told us that our road would lead at last
Into the world,—not that which once was spread
Before our childhood’s dream, unknown and vast,
But one which man had fashioned in its stead.
This world lay now before us, and we sped
To drink its wonders, counting not the cost.
Our endless pathways to their ends had led;
The bounds of our unbounded we had crossed;
The unknown way was found, but our old world was lost.
We had exchanged our infinite domains,
The undiscovered regions of our quest,
For the round earth wherein no sea remains
Uncharted, and no land is unpossessed;
But still our hearts were filled with the old zest
To travel and adventure and explore:
The unknown called us, we could find no rest
Till, by those paths which men had trod before,
We found the world they found and bore the loads they bore.
With every soul that on the earth is born
The whole creation is made young again;
And all the paths that pilgrim feet have worn
Are new for those who follow,—every stain
That marred them is washed out by sun and rain,
And verdure fresh makes all their borders sweet.
So on that road of bygone joy and pain,
With the day’s new-born flowers about our feet,
We sought an ancient world grown young our youth to greet.
And pleasant of that world it was to think,
And all that we had heard in song and lore
Of old grey cities on the ocean’s brink,
Where to their anchorage the great ships bore
Bales from the Orient, and golden store
From the far south, and, dark and grim and tall,
Behind the dreaming masts rose floor on floor,
Warehouse and granary, and over all
Loomed some great tower or dome of Mary or of Paul.
The vanished regions of our old surmise
We mourned not now, for eager we had grown
To read the record of the centuries,
And enter the great kingdoms of the known.
Ay! better than the unexplored and lone
We deemed that world in which the human heart
Was written, where mankind had built and sown,
And fought for truth and love, and taken part
In the eighth day’s creation—God-inspired Art.
And now our island earth, our bounded home
Took new dimensions,—Time transfigured Space;
And we beheld vast realms through which to roam
Within the limits of our dwelling-place.
Dim pathways of the past we turned to pace,
And far receding vistas of the years
Opened old wonderlands; ’twas ours to trace
The labyrinths of love, the vales of tears,
And toward the unknown future march as pioneers.
Along the borders of that beaten way
Was many a landmark of man’s mortal fate;
But hope was ever written in decay,
And simple things interpreted the great.
A charm was in the wild flowers to translate
Death’s ruth, a benediction in the stone
Of ruined abbey walls to consecrate
The skies that roofed them, and to link the lone
Illimitable paths of heaven with our own.
But for far heavenly paths we had no care
While still that road before us was untried,
And the world called to us its joys to share,
Its lore to read, its destinies to guide.
Our hearts were filled with a terrestrial pride;
We loved our world and gloried in the fame
Of those who in its service lived and died,
Who fought and laboured to create its claim
Amid the countless spheres to hold an honoured name.
To other gods than ours the past has knelt,
And creed and cause may sever us or bind;
But here upon our common road we felt
The bond of bonds that links all humankind,—
Man’s pilgrim fellowship. Through rain and wind,
In sunshine and beneath the starry deep,
There is one goal for all the world to find,
A sacred hope to guard, a watch to keep,
And in a little while the comradeship of sleep.
THE COUNTRY OVER THE HILL
It was evening, and we came to the country over the hill,
A valley of ancient homes and fields with shadowy trees.
The south-west wind was soft with the breath of the south-west seas;
Our unknown pathway followed the wandering song of a rill.
Flowers we knew in the homeland bordered the unknown way;
Things we had known and loved in the paths we had left behind,
Only these we found,—the song of the south-west wind,
Gold of the evening, rose of the sunset, twilight grey.
But the way, the way was unknown, and each turn of the way unguessed,
And the spell of the unforeseen transfigured the things we knew,
And filled the whispering woods and the flowers that hung in the dew,
And dreamed on the darkening hills and the roselit cloud in the west.
Twilight fell on the land, and clear against vistas dim
Near things stood large,—the towers of ancient elms
Loomed on glimmering fields, dark keeps of shadowy realms;
And the first stars shone in the eastern sky on the upland’s rim.
One by one around us, golden lights in the dusk
Glowed in many a window of unseen cottage and farm:
And sweet through the cool of the dew came ripples of air still warm
From the shelter of old walled gardens that breathed of honey and musk.
We came to a little village and our rest at the long day’s close:
The stars shone over the street where the folk were lingering still;
The stars looked down on the stars in the dark pool under the mill;
The infinite deeps of the heaven were touched with the earth’s repose.
Bright heavenly tracts outshone; but never a way so sweet
As a homely path on the earth where the wild flowers hid in the dew,
And a girl went home through the fields, and the darkness thrilled with a clue
That linked the loneliest star with the flowers she touched with her feet.
And pleasant it was to rest awhile in that old-world nook,
And dream of the unknown way and the country over the hill,
While the stars shone down on our beds, and the village street was still,
And sleep came over the fields in the wandering song of the brook.
YOUTH AND LOVE
Over our pilgrim fellowship there came
A change, and though our road was still the same
Our dreams divided us, and visions fair
Filled us with longings that we could not share.
All that once called us to the unknown quest
Was hidden now within a maiden’s breast;
All that was far away and wild and sweet
Shone in her eyes and blossomed at her feet.
She was our wonderland, our golden shore,
The unknown world we travelled to explore,
Our goal, not one far distant and unseen,
But near, and with no barrier between
To check us or to hide it from our sight,
Save our own hesitation or her flight.
Across the beaten road she passed; she led
Through trackless regions, beckoned us or fled,
We knew not which; we knew not if her face
Appealed for help, or called us to the chase.
Strife and confusion to our lives she brought,
But life itself in lovelier hues she wrought.
She was our spirit’s guide, our passion’s lure:
She was the world’s undoing and its cure.
Of this enchantment, of the wild pursuit
That woke in us the errant knight or brute,
Of this confusion that upon us fell,
Some do not speak, and none the same thing tell;
And some were lost or made themselves a track
Through lands unknown, and some at last came back,—
One with a new light shining in his eyes,
One with the burden of his memories,
One with his blood for new pursuit on fire,
One weary seeking for his heart’s desire;
And one who brought back to the beaten road
A song of love that lightened half our load.
Comrades we met again; but though the way
Was still the same, and though the night and day,
The flowers at our feet, the stars above,
Shone as before,—the mystery of love
Filled heaven and earth with something new and sweet
And wild and sorrowful and incomplete,
And once more called us to the unknown quest
To seek the unfulfilled and unpossessed.