Matins

by Francis Sherman

October's peace hath fallen on everything.

In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,

With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—

The passing of the sun remembering.

A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,

(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)

Below, the little city lieth still;

And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.

Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,

The cattle wander homeward slowly now;

In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.

Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;

The maples will be desolate by morn.

The last word of the summer hath been said.

SUMMER DYING

Last night the heavy moaning wind

Bore unto me

Warning from Him who hath designed

That change shall be.

Beneath these mighty hills I lay,

At rest at last,

And thinking on the golden day

But now gone past;

When softly came a faint, far cry

That night made clear,

"Thy reign is over, thou must die;

Winter is near!"

"Winter is near!" Yea, all night long

Reëchoed far

The burden of that weary song

Of hopeless war.

I prayed unto the fixéd King

Of changing Time

For longer life, till sun-rising

And morning's prime,

And while to-day I watched the sun

Rise, slant, and die;

And now is night the stronger one.

Again the cry

Comes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"

Yes, Lord, I know;

And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor

Once, ere I go,

And thank Thee for the long, long days

Thou gavest me,

And all the pleasant, laughing ways

I walked with Thee.

I have been happy since the first

Glad day I rose

And found the river here had burst

Through ice and snows

While I had slept. Blue places were

Amidst the gray,

Where water showed; and the water

Most quiet lay.

Upon the ice great flocks of crows

Were clamoring—

Lest my blue eyes again should close—

The eyes of Spring.

I stepped down to the frozen shore—

The snow was gone;

And lo, where ice had been before,

The river shone!

With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds

To the tall pines;

These were the first of Spring's faint words

And Summer's signs.

And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"

Ah, might I stay,

That I might hear one robin's cry

Bringing the day;

That I might see the new grass come

Where cattle range;

The maples bud, wild roses bloom,

Old willows change;

That I might know one night in June

Two found most fair,

And see again the great half-moon

Shine through her hair;

Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,

Where orchards are,

And hear some glad child's laughing cry

Ring loud and far;

Or even, Lord, though near my end

It surely be,

Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send

One day to me,

One day—October's brown and red

Cover the hills,

And all the brakes and ferns are dead,

And quiet fills

One place where many birds once sang?

Then should I go

Where heavy fir-trees overhang

Their branches so,

And slim white birches, quivering,

Loose yellow leaves,

And aspens grow, and everything

For Summer grieves.

Ah, there once more, ere day be done,

To face the west,

And see the sure and scarlet sun

Sink to its rest

Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer

Up to the sky;

To feel the last light disappear

And silent die;

To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;

I hear Thy call;

Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,

Lest I should fall....

Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,

Now come to Thee;

I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said

"Let Winter be!"

A NOVEMBER VIGIL

I wonder why my love for him

Should grow so much these last three days,

While he but stares as if some whim

Had been discovered to his gaze;

Some foolish whim that brings but shame

Whatever time he thinks thereof,—

To him my name is now the name

Of some old half-forgotten love.

And yet I starve for his least kiss

And faint because my love is great;

I, who am now no more than this,—

An unseen beggar at his gate....

She watched the moon and spake aloud.

The moon seemed not to rise, but hung

Just underneath the long straight cloud

That low across the heavens swung,

As if to press the old moon back

Into its place behind the trees.

The trees stood where the hill was black;

They were not vexed by any breeze.

The moon was not as it had been

Before, when she had watched it rise;

It was misshapen now, and thin,

As if some trouble in the skies

Had happened more than it could bear,

Its color, too, was no more red;

Nor was it like her yellow hair;—

It looked as if its soul were dead.

I, who was once well-loved of him,

Am as a beggar by his gate

Whereon black carvéd things look grim

At one who thinks to penetrate.

I do not ask if I may stray

Once more in those desired lands;

Another night, yet one more day,

For these I do not make demands;

For when the ripened hour is past

Things such as these are asked in vain:

His first day's love,—were that the last

I were repaid for this new pain.

Out of his love great joy I had

For many days; and even now

I do not dare to be but glad

When I remember, often, how

He said he had great joy of me.

The while he loved, no man, I think,

Exceeded him in constancy;

My passion, even, seemed to shrink

Almost to nothing, when he came

And told me all of love's strange things:

The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,

Its silent hours, its rapid wings....

The moon still waited, watching her

(The cloud still stretched there, close above;

The trees beneath); it could not stir,

And yet it seemed the shape thereof,

Since she looked first, some change had known.

In places it had burned away,

And one side had much thinner grown;

—What light that came from it was gray.

It was not curved from east to west.

But lay upon its back; like one

Wounded, or weary of some quest,

Or by strong enemies undone.

Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;

She knew they were burned out and dead

Because no clouds went, drifting by,

Across the light the strange moon shed.

Now, I can hope for naught but death.

I would not stay to give him pain,

Or say the words a woman saith

When love hath called aloud in vain

And got no answer anywhere.

It were far better I should die,

And have rough strangers come to bear

My body far away, where I

Shall know the quiet of the tomb;

That they should leave me, with no tears,

To think and think within the gloom

For many years, for many years.

The thought of that strange, narrow place

Is hard for me to bear, indeed;

I do not fear cold Death's embrace,

And where black worms draw nigh to feed

On my white body, then, I know

That I shall make no mournful cry:

But that I should be hidden so

Where I no more may see the sky,—

The wide sky filled with many a star,

Or all around the yellow sun,

Or even the sky where great clouds are

That wait until the rain be done,

—That is an evil thing for me....

Across the sky the cloud swung still

And pressed the moon down heavily

Where leafless trees grew on the hill.

The pale moon now was very thin.

There was no water near the place,

Else would the moon that slept therein

Have frightened her with its gray face.

How shall I wish to see the sky!

For that alone mine eyes shall weep;

I care not where they make me lie,

Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,

So they leave loose my coffin's lid

And throw on me no mouldy clay,

That the white stars may not be hid:

This little thing is all I pray.

Then I shall move me wearily,

And clasp each bone that was my wrist,

Around each slender bony knee;

And wind my hair, that once he kissed,

Around my body wasted thin,

To keep me from the grave's cold breath;

And on my knees rest my poor chin,

And think of what I lose by death.

I shall be happy, being dead....

The moon, by now, had nearly gone,

As if it knew its time was sped

And feared the coming of the dawn.

It had not risen; one could see

The cloud was strong to keep it back;

It merely faded utterly,

And where it was the sky grew black.

Till suddenly the east turned gray,

Although no stars were overhead;

And though the moon had died away,

There came faint glimmerings of red;

Then larger waves of golden light

Heralded that the day was born,

And on the furthest eastern height

With swift feet came the waited morn.

With swift feet came the morn, but lo!

Just as its triumph was begun,

The first wild onset of the snow

Strangled the glad imperial sun!

NUNC DIMITTIS

Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:

Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,

Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;

Because the memories of the things that were—

That little blessed while with Thee and her—

Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.

And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,

I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—

Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,

And only waitest—Thou and she alone—

Until I know again as I have known

The glory that abideth near our throne.

BETWEEN THE BATTLES

Let us bury him here,

Where the maples are red!

He is dead,

And he died thanking God that he fell with the

fall of the leaf and the year.

Where the hillside is sheer,

Let it echo our tread

Whom he led;

Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who

never knew fear.

Ere he died, they had fled;

Yet they heard his last cheer

Ringing clear,—

When we lifted him up, he would fain have

pursued, but grew dizzy instead.

Break his sword and his spear!

Let this last prayer be said

By the bed

We have made underneath the wet wind in the

maple trees moaning so drear:

"O Lord God, by the red

Sullen end of the year

That is here,

We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our

swords till his slayers be dead!"

THE QUIET VALLEY