Such was the tale he told of Avallon, E'en such an one as in days past had won His youthful heart to think upon the quest; But to those old hearts nigh in reach of rest, Not much to be desired now it seemed— Perchance the heart that of such things had dreamed Had found no words in this death-laden tongue We speak on earth, wherewith they might be sung; Perchance the changing years that changed his heart E'en in the words of that old tale had part, Changing its sweet to bitter, to despair The foolish hope that once had glittered there— Or think, that in some bay of that far home They then had sat, and watched the green waves come Up to their feet with many promises; Or the light wind midst blossom-laden trees, In the sweet Spring had weighted many a word Of no worth now, and many a hope had stirred Long dead for ever. Howsoe'er that be Among strange folk they now sat quietly, As though that tale with them had nought to do, As though its hopes and fears were something new. But though, indeed, the outworn, dwindled band Had no tears left for that once longed-for land, The very wind must moan for their decay, And from the sky, grown dull, and low, and grey, Cold tears must fall upon the lonely field, That such fair golden hopes erewhile did yield; And on the blackening woods, wherein the doves Sat silent now, forgetful of their loves. Yet, since a little life at least was left, They were not yet of every joy bereft, For long ago was past the agony, Midst which they found that they indeed must die; And now well-nigh as much their pain was past As though death's veil already had been cast Over their heads—so, midst some little mirth, They watched the dark night hide the gloomy earth.
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
This tale tells of the voyage of a ship of Tyre, that, against the will of the shipmen, bore Hercules to an unknown land of the West, that he might accomplish a task laid on him by the Fates.
As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty In fair Mycenæ; midmost of whose day It once befell that in a quiet bay A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar. Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound Of shepherd-folk and sheep and questing hound, For in the first dip of the hillside there Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair. Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune Of pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beat That mixed with dewy flowers its odour sweet, The shipmen laboured, till the sail unfurled Swung round the prow to meet another world. But ere the anchor had come home, a shout Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed. Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt That they without some needful thing had sailed; When, lo! from where the cliff's steep grey sides failed Into a ragged stony slip, came twain Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain. Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down Unto the surf was a man huge of limb, Grey-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown, Who had a lion's skin cast over him, So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er. Panting there followed him a grey old man, Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue, Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked and wan, Who when unto his fellow's side he drew, Said faintly: "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; This is the ship." Then in the other's eye A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily: "Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, And after that still nearer to the sun; And since Fate bids me look to die by fire, Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done, To know what from earth's hottest can be won; And this old man, my kinsman, would with me. How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea?" "What is thy name?" the master said: "And know That we are merchants, and for nought give nought; What wilt thou pay?—thou seem'st full rich, I trow." The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught At something in the sand: "E'en so I thought," The younger said, "when I set out from home— As to my name, perchance in days to come "Thou shalt know that—but have heed, take this toy, And call me the Strong Man." And as he spake The master's deep-brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy, For from his arm a huge ring did he take, And cast it on the deck, where it did break A water-jar, and in the wet shards lay Golden, and gleaming like the end of day. But the old man held out a withered hand, Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair, And said, "If any nigher I might stand, Then might'st thou see the things I give thee here— And for a name—a many names I bear, But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide, And for more knowledge with a good will bide." From one to the other turned the master's eyes; The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise; But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best To bid them come aboard, and take such rest As they might have of the untrusty sea, 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be. Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straight Caught up the elder in his arms, and so, Making no whit of all that added weight, Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low, And catching at the rope that they did throw Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship; Then did the master let the hawser slip. The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green, And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen; And many deemed it no light thing to face The splendour of his eyen, though they did blaze With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped. Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew Unto the south-east; but as failed the land, Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew, And silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand, As though his heart found rest; but 'mid the band Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat, Telling them tales that no man there forgat. As one who had beheld, he told them there Of the sweet singer, whom, for his song's sake, The dolphins back from choking death did bear; How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake; How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose The cold sea grew as any June-loved close; While on the flowery shore all things alive Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give Glad welcome to the glory of that sight: He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst, A world once good, now come unto its worst. And then he smiled, and said, "And yet ye won, Ye men, and tremble not on days like these, Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees From high Parnassus: slipping through the seas Ye never think, ye men-folk, how ye seem From down below through the green waters' gleam." Dusk was it now when these last words he said, And little of his visage might they see, But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, They knew not why; yet ever quietly They sailed that night; nor might a morning be Fairer than was the next morn; and they went Along their due course after their intent. The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land; Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast A look askance, and he straight took his stand Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore, Till cloud-flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er. The morn grown cold; then small rain 'gan to fall, And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small; Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again; Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about; and then Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan. Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they drave Through sea and sky grown one; the Strong Man wrought With mighty hands, and seemed a god to save; But on the prow, heeding all weather nought, The elder stood, nor any prop he sought, But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings He there were set above the wrack of things. And westward still they drave; and if they saw Land upon either side, as on they sped, 'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw Anigh, and fade, and leave nought in their stead; And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread To sick despair; they deemed they should drive on Till the world's edge and empty space were won. But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might They toiled on still; and he sang to the wind, And spread his arms to meet the waters white, As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind The brine-drenched shipmen; nor with eye unkind He gazed up at the lightning; nor would frown When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down. And they, who at the last had come to think Their guests were very gods, with all their fear Feared nought belike that their good ship would sink Amid the storm; but rather looked to hear The last moan of the wind that them should bear Into the windless stream of ocean grey, Where they should float till dead was every day. Yet their fear mocked them; for the storm 'gan die About the tenth day, though unto the west They drave on still; soon fair and quietly The morn would break: and though amid their rest Nought but long evil wandering seemed the best That they might hope for; still, despite their dread, Sweet was the quiet sea and goodlihead Of the bright sun at last come back again; And as the days passed, less and less fear grew, If without cause, till faded all their pain; And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew, Yet durst ask nought of what that evil drew Upon their heads; or of returning speak. Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak. And now as at the first the elder was, And sat and told them tales of yore agone; But ever the Strong Man up and down would pass About the deck, or on the prow alone Would stand and stare out westward; and still on Through a fair summer sea they went, nor thought Of what would come when these days turned to nought. And now when twenty days were well passed o'er They made a new land; cloudy mountains high Rose from the sea at first; then a green shore Spread fair below them: as they drew anigh No sloping, stony strand could they espy, And no surf breaking; the green sea and wide Wherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide. Dark fell ere they might set their eager feet Upon the shore; but night-long their ship lay As in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweet That flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed away. But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day, And turned the western mountain-tops to gold, Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold. For as a dream seemed all; too fair for those Who needs must die; moreover they could see, A furlong off, 'twixt apple-tree and rose, A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrously In the young sun, and seemed right long to be; And memory of all marvels lay upon Their shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won. But when unto the nameless guests they turned, Who stood together nigh the plank shot out Shoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burned A wild light, as the other one in doubt He eyed a moment; then with a great shout Leaped into the blossomed grass; the echoes rolled Back from the hills, harsh still and over-bold. Slowly the old man followed him, and still The crew held back: they knew now they were brought Over the sea the purpose to fulfil Of these strange men; and in their hearts they thought, "Perchance we yet shall live, if, meddling nought With dreams, we bide here till these twain come back; But prying eyes the fire-blast seldom lack." Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young, Who, looking each upon the other's face, Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung, And went ashore, and at a gentle pace Followed the strangers, who unto the place Where the wall gleamed had turned; peace and desire Mingled together in their hearts, as nigher They drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear: Fair wrought it was, as though with bricks of brass; And images upon its face there were, Stories of things a long while come to pass: Nor that alone—as looking in a glass Its maker knew the tales of what should be, And wrought them there for bird and beast to see. So on they went; the many birds sang sweet Through all that blossomed thicket from above, And unknown flowers bent down before their feet; The very air, cleft by the grey-winged dove, Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with love. Slowly they went till those twain stayed before A strangely-wrought and iron-covered door. They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird, And falling flower, there rang a mighty shout As the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared, And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout, Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out, Till shattered on the ground the great door lay, And into the guarded place bright poured the day. The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed, Leaning against a tree-trunk as they deemed. They faltered now, and yet all things being weighed Went on again; and thought they must have dreamed Of the old man, for now the sunlight streamed Full on the tree he had been leaning on, And him they saw not go, yet was he gone: Only a slim green lizard flitted there Amidst the dry leaves; him they noted nought, But trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer, And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught, Only a garden fair beyond all thought. And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man went On some long-sought-for end belike intent. They 'gan to follow down a narrow way Of green-sward that the lilies trembled o'er, And whereon thick the scattered rose-leaves lay; But a great wonder weighed upon them sore, And well they thought they should return no more, Yet scarce a pain that seemed; they looked to meet Before they died things strange and fair and sweet. So still to right and left the Strong Man thrust The blossomed boughs, and passed on steadily, As though his hardy heart he well did trust, Till in a while he gave a joyous cry, And hastened on, as though the end drew nigh; And women's voices then they deemed they heard, Mixed with a noise that made desire afeard. Yet through sweet scents and sounds on did they bear Their panting hearts, till the path ended now In a wide space of green, a streamlet clear From out a marble basin there did flow, And close by that a slim-trunked tree did grow, And on a bough low o'er the water cold There hung three apples of red-gleaming gold. About the tree, new risen e'en now to meet The shining presence of that mighty one, Three damsels stood, naked from head to feet Save for the glory of their hair, where sun And shadow flickered, while the wind did run Through the grey leaves o'erhead, and shook the grass Where nigh their feet the wandering bee did pass. But 'midst their delicate limbs and all around The tree-roots, gleaming blue black could they see The spires of a great serpent, that, enwound About the smooth bole, looked forth threateningly, With glittering eyes and raised crest, o'er the three Fair heads fresh crowned, and hissed above the speech Wherewith they murmured softly each to each. Now the Strong Man amid the green space stayed, And leaning on his club, with eager eyes But brow yet smooth, in voice yet friendly said: "O daughters of old Hesperus the Wise, Well have ye held your guard here; but time tries The very will of gods, and to my hand Must give this day the gold fruit of your land." Then spake the first maid—sweet as the west wind Amidst of summer noon her sweet voice was: "Ah, me! what knows this place of changing mind Of men or gods; here shall long ages pass, And clean forget thy feet upon the grass, Thy hapless bones amid the fruitful mould; Look at thy death envenomed swift and cold!" Hiding new flowers, the dull coils, as she spake, Moved near her limbs: but then the second one, In such a voice as when the morn doth wake To song of birds, said, "When the world foredone Has moaned its last, still shall we dwell alone Beneath this bough, and have no tales to tell Of things deemed great that on the earth befell." Then spake the third, in voice as of the flute That wakes the maiden to her wedding morn: "If any god should gain our golden fruit, Its curse would make his deathless life forlorn. Lament thou, then, that ever thou wert born; Yet all things, changed by joy or loss or pain, To what they were shall change and change again." "So be it," he said, "the Fates that drive me on Shall slay me or shall save; blessing or curse That followeth after when the thing is won Shall make my work no better now nor worse; And if it be that the world's heart must nurse Hatred against me, how then shall I choose To leave or take?—let your dread servant loose!" E'en therewith, like a pillar of black smoke, Swift, shifting ever, drave the worm at him; In deadly silence now that nothing broke, Its folds were writhing round him trunk and limb, Until his glittering gear was nought but dim E'en in that sunshine, while his head and side And breast the fork-tongued, pointed muzzle tried. Closer the coils drew, quicker all about The forked tongue darted, and yet stiff he stood, E'en as an oak that sees the straw flare out And lick its ancient bole for little good: Until the godlike fury of his mood Burst from his heart in one great shattering cry, And rattling down the loosened coils did lie; And from the torn throat and crushed dreadful head Forth flowed a stream of blood along the grass; Bright in the sun he stood above the dead, Panting with fury; yet as ever was The wont of him, soon did his anger pass, And with a happy smile at last he turned To where the apples o'er the water burned. Silent and moveless ever stood the three; No change came o'er their faces, as his hand Was stretched aloft unto the sacred tree; Nor shrank they aught aback, though he did stand So close that tresses of their bright hair, fanned By the sweet garden breeze, lay light on him, And his gold fell brushed by them breast and limb. He drew adown the wind-stirred bough, and took The apples thence; then let it spring away, And from his brow the dark hair backward shook, And said: "O sweet, O fair, and shall this day A curse upon my life henceforward lay— This day alone? Methinks of coming life Somewhat I know, with all its loss and strife. "But this I know, at least: the world shall wend Upon its way, and, gathering joy and grief And deeds done, bear them with it to the end; So shall it, though I lie as last year's leaf Lies 'neath a summer tree, at least receive My life gone by, and store it, with the gain That men alive call striving, wrong, and pain. "So for my part I rather bless than curse, And bless this fateful land; good be with it; Nor for this deadly thing's death is it worse, Nor for the lack of gold; still shall ye sit Watching the swallow o'er the daisies flit; Still shall your wandering limbs ere day is done Make dawn desired by the sinking sun. "And now, behold! in memory of all this Take ye this girdle that shall waste and fade As fadeth not your fairness and your bliss, That when hereafter 'mid the blossoms laid Ye talk of days and men now nothing made, Ye may remember how the Theban man, The son of Jove, came o'er the waters wan." Their faces changed not aught for all they heard; As though all things now fully told out were, They gazed upon him without any word: Ah! craving kindness, hope, or loving care, Their fairness scarcely could have made more fair, As with the apples folded in his fell He went, to do more deeds for folk to tell. Now as the girdle on the ground was cast Those fellows turned and hurried toward the door, And as across its broken leaves they passed The old man saw they not, e'en as before; But an unearthed blind mole bewildered sore Was wandering there in fruitless, aimless wise, That got small heed from their full-sated eyes. Swift gat they to their anxious folk; nor had More time than just to say, "Be of good cheer, For in our own land may we yet be glad," When they beheld the guests a-drawing near; And much bewildered the two fellows were To see the old man, and must even deem That they should see things stranger than a dream. But when they were aboard the elder cried, "Up sails, my masters, fair now is the wind; Nor good it is too long here to abide, Lest what ye may not loose your souls should bind." And as he spake, the tall trees left behind Stirred with the rising land-wind, and the crew, Joyous thereat, the hawsers shipward drew. Swift sped the ship, and glad at heart were all, And the Strong Man was merry with the rest, And from the elder's lips no word did fall That did not seem to promise all the best; Yet with a certain awe were men oppressed, And felt as if their inmost hearts were bare, And each man's secret babbled through the air. Still oft the old man sat with them and told Tales of past time, as on the outward way; And now would they the face of him behold And deem it changed; the years that on him lay Seemed to grow nought, and no more wan and grey He looked, but ever glorious, wise and strong, As though no lapse of time for him were long. At last, when six days through the kindly sea Their keel had slipped, he said: "Come hearken now, For so it is that things fare wondrously E'en in these days; and I a tale can show That, told by you unto your sons shall grow A marvel of the days that are to come: Take heed and tell it when ye reach your home. "Yet living in the world a man there is Men call the Theban King Amphitryon's son, Although perchance a greater sire was his; But certainly his lips have hung upon Alcmena's breasts: great deeds this man hath won Already, for his name is Hercules, And e'en ye Asian folk have heard of these. "Now ere the moon, this eve in his last wane, Was born, this Hercules, the fated thrall Of King Eurystheus, was straight bid to gain Gifts from a land whereon no foot doth fall Of mortal man, beyond the misty wall Of unknown waters; pensively he went Along the sea on his hard life intent. "And at the dawn he came into a bay Where the sea, ebbed far down, left wastes of sand, Walled from the green earth by great cliffs and grey; Then he looked up, and wondering there did stand, For strange things lay in slumber on the strand; Strange counterparts of what the firm earth hath Lay scattered all about his weary path: "Sea-lions and sea-horses and sea-kine, Sea-boars, sea-men strange-skinned, of wondrous hair; And in their midst a man who seemed divine For changeless eld, and round him women fair, Clad in the sea-webs glassy green and clear With gems on head and girdle, limb and breast, Such as earth knoweth not among her best. "A moment at the fair and wondrous sight He stared, then, since the heart in him was good, He went about with careful steps and light Till o'er the sleeping sea-god now he stood; And if the white-foot maids had stirred his blood As he passed by, now other thoughts had place Within his heart when he beheld that face. "For Nereus now he knew, who knows all things; And to himself he said, 'If I prevail, Better than by some god-wrought eagle-wings Shall I be holpen;' then he cried out: 'Hail, O Nereus! lord of shifting hill and dale! Arise and wrestle; I am Hercules! Not soon now shalt thou meet the ridgy seas.' "And mightily he cast himself on him; And Nereus cried out shrilly; and straightway That sleeping crowd, fair maid with half-hid limb, Strange man and green-haired beast, made no delay, But glided down into the billows grey, And, by the lovely sea embraced, were gone, While they two wrestled on the sea strand lone. "Soon found the sea-god that his bodily might Was nought in dealing with Jove's dear one there; And soon he 'gan to use his magic sleight: Into a lithe leopard, and a hugging bear He turned him; then the smallest fowl of air The straining arms of Hercules must hold, And then a mud-born wriggling eel and cold. "Then as the firm hands mastered this, forth brake A sudden rush of waters all around, Blinding and choking: then a thin green snake With golden eyes; then o'er the shell-strewn ground Forth stole a fly the least that may be found; Then earth and heaven seemed wrapped in one huge flame, But from the midst thereof a voice there came: "'Kinsman and stout-heart, thou hast won the day, Nor to my grief: what wouldst thou have of me?' And therewith to an old man small and grey Faded the roaring flame, who wearily Sat down upon the sand and said, 'Let be! I know thy tale; worthy of help thou art; Come now, a short way hence will there depart "'A ship of Tyre for the warm southern seas, Come we a-board; according to my will Her way shall be.' Then up rose Hercules, Merry of face, though hot and panting still; But the fair summer day his heart did fill With all delight; and so forth went the twain, And found those men desirous of all gain. "Ah, for these gainful men—somewhat indeed Their sails are rent, their bark beat; kin and friend Are wearying for them; yet a friend in need They yet shall gain, if at their journey's end, Upon the last ness where the wild goats wend To lick the salt-washed stones, a house they raise Bedight with gold in kindly Nereus' praise." Breathless they waited for these latest words, That like the soft wind of the gathering night Were grown to be: about the mast flew birds Making their moan, hovering long-winged and white; And now before their straining anxious sight The old man faded out into the air, And from his place flew forth a sea-mew fair. Then to the Mighty Man, Alcmena's son, With yearning hearts they turned till he should speak, And he spake softly: "Nought ill have ye done In helping me to find what I did seek: The world made better by me knows if weak My hand and heart are: but now, light the fire Upon the prow and worship the grey sire." So did they; and such gifts as there they had Gave unto Nereus; yea, and sooth to say, Amid the tumult of their hearts made glad, Had honoured Hercules in e'en such way; But he laughed out amid them, and said, "Nay, Not yet the end is come; nor have I yet Bowed down before vain longing and regret. "It may be—who shall tell, when I go back There whence I came, and looking down behold The place that my once eager heart shall lack, And all my dead desires a-lying cold, But I may have the might then to enfold The hopes of brave men in my heart?—but long Life lies before first with its change and wrong." So fair along the watery ways they sped In happy wise, nor failed of their return; Nor failed in ancient Tyre the ways to tread, Teaching their tale to whomsoever would learn, Nor failed at last the flesh of beasts to burn In Nereus' house, turned toward the bright day's end On the last ness, round which the wild goats wend.
L'ENVOI.
Here are we for the last time face to face, Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed Upon thy perilous journey to that place For which I have done on thee pilgrim's weed, Striving to get thee all things for thy need— —I love thee, whatso time or men may say Of the poor singer of an empty day. Good reason why I love thee, e'en if thou Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears on; For ever as thy fashioning did grow, Kind word and praise because of thee I won From those without whom were my world all gone, My hope fallen dead, my singing cast away, And I set soothly in an empty day. I love thee; yet this last time must it be, That thou must hold thy peace and I must speak, Lest if thou babble I begin to see Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart too weak, To find the land thou goest forth to seek— —Though what harm if thou die upon the way, Thou idle singer of an empty day? But though this land desired thou never reach, Yet folk who know it mayst thou meet or death; Therefore a word unto thee would I teach To answer these, who, noting thy weak breath, Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little faith, May make thy fond desire a sport and play, Mocking the singer of an empty day. That land's name, say'st thou? and the road thereto? Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou know'st it not; Surely no book of verse I ever knew But ever was the heart within him hot To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot— —There, now we both laugh—as the whole world may, At us poor singers of an empty day. Nay, let it pass, and hearken! Hast thou heard That therein I believe I have a friend, Of whom for love I may not be afeard? It is to him indeed I bid thee wend; Yea, he perchance may meet thee ere thou end, Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, Thou idle singer of an empty day! Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the road, And if it hap that midst of thy defeat, Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou do meet, Then shalt thou win a space of rest full sweet; Then be thou bold, and speak the words I say, The idle singer of an empty day! "O Master, O thou great of heart and tongue, Thou well mayst ask me why I wander here, In raiment rent of stories oft besung! But of thy gentleness draw thou anear, And then the heart of one who held thee dear Mayst thou behold! So near as that I lay Unto the singer of an empty day. "For this he ever said, who sent me forth To seek a place amid thy company; That howsoever little was my worth, Yet was he worth e'en just so much as I; He said that rhyme hath little skill to lie: Nor feigned to cast his worser part away In idle singing for an empty day. "I have beheld him tremble oft enough At things he could not choose but trust to me, Although he knew the world was wise and rough: And never did he fail to let me see His love,—his folly and faithlessness, may be; And still in turn I gave him voice to pray Such prayers as cling about an empty day. "Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst read him through, For surely little is there left behind; No power great deeds unnameable to do; No knowledge for which words he may not find, No love of things as vague as autumn wind— —Earth of the earth lies hidden by my clay, The idle singer of an empty day! "Children we twain are, saith he, late made wise In love, but in all else most childish still, And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes, And what our ears with sweetest sounds may fill; Not fearing Love, lest these things he should kill; Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay, Making a strange tale of an empty day. "Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life have we loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent: The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year, Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair, Hung round about a little room, where play Weeping and laughter of man's empty day. "O Master, if thine heart could love us yet, Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, Some place in loving hearts then should we get, For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone, But knew'st the joy and woe of many an one— —By lovers dead, who live through thee we pray, Help thou us singers of an empty day!" Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gain Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die? Nay, it shall not be.—Thou mayst toil in vain, And never draw the House of Fame anigh; Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry, Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day. Then let the others go! and if indeed In some old garden thou and I have wrought, And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed, And fragrance of old days and deeds have brought Back to folk weary; all was not for nought. —No little part it was for me to play— The idle singer of an empty day.