Behind the Arras Part 7

Dying summer and fall, Seasons and men And herds, he has them all In his shadowy ken.

He calls and they come, leaving strife, Leaving discord and death, Out of oblivion to life, Though its span be a breath.

There they are, all the beautiful things I loved and lost sight of Long since in the far-away springs, Come back for a night of

New being as good as their old, Aye, better in fact, For somehow he gilds their fine gold,-- Gives the one thing they lacked,

The breath, aspiration, desire, Core, kindle, control, Memory and rapture and fire,-- The touch of man's soul.

How know the true master? I know By my joys and my fears, For my heart crumbles down like the snow With spring rain into tears.

Now I am a precious one!

With nothing to do But idle here in the sun And gossip with you

Of a stranger you have not seen, As like never will.

I would every soul had a screen, When the wind sets ill

In the world's bleak house, like this Strange lodger of mine.

His presence is worse to miss Than sun's best s.h.i.+ne.

I put no thought at all Upon the end, If only I may call Such a man friend.

And a friend he is, heart light With love for heft, Proud as silence, whose right Hand ignores his left.

Yes, odd! he gives his name As Spiritus.

But that is vague as a flame In the wind to us.

And then (but not a breath Of this!) you see, All his effects, my faith!

Are marked D.V.

His cape-coat has a rip, But for all that, (Folk smile, suggest a dip In the dyer's vat,--

Those purple aldermen Who roll about In coaches, drive till ten, And die of gout),

I think he finely shows How learning's crumbs At least can rival those Of-- 'st, here he comes!

_Beyond the Gamut_

Softly, softly, Niccolo Amati!

What can put such fancies in your head?

There, go dream of your blue-skied Cremona, While I ponder something you have said.

Something in that last low lovely cadence Piercing the green dusk alone and far, Named a new room in the house of knowledge, Waiting unfrequented, door ajar.

While you dream then, let me unmolested Pa.s.s in childish wonder through that door,-- Breathless, touch and marvel at the beauties Soon my wiser elders must explore.

Ah, my Niccolo, it's no great science We shall ever conquer, you and I.

Yet, when you are nestled at my shoulder, Others guess not half that we descry.

As all sight is but a finer hearing, And all color but a finer sound, Beauty, but the reach of lyric freedom, Caught and quivering past all music's bound;

Life, that faint sigh whispered from oblivion, Harks and wonders if we may not be Five small wits to carry one great rhythmus, The vast theme of G.o.d's new symphony.

As fine sand spread on a disc of silver, At some chord which bids the motes combine, Heeding the hidden and reverberant impulse, s.h.i.+fts and dances into curve and line,

The round earth, too, haply, like a dust-mote, Was set whirling her a.s.signed sure way, Round this little orb of her ecliptic To some harmony she must obey.

Did the Master try the taut string merely, Give a touch, and she must throb to time?

Think you how his bow must rouse the echoes, Quailing triumphing on, secure, sublime!

Ah, thought cannot far without the symbol!

Help me, little brother, hold the trend.

Dear good flesh, that keeps the spirit steady, Lest it faint, grown dizzy at thought's end!

Waves of sound (Is this your thought, Amati?), Climbing into treble thin and clear, Past the silence, change to waves of color, We must say, when eye takes place of ear?

Not a bird-song, but it has for fellow Some-wood-flower, its speechless counterpart, Form and color moulded to one cadence, To voice something of the wild mute heart.

Thrushes, we'll suppose, have for their tune-mates The gold languorous lilies of the glade; And the whippoorwill, that plaintive dreamer, Some dark purple flower that loves the shade.

The song-sparrow tells me what the clover Nods about beneath the gorgeous blue; While the s...o...b..a.l.l.s tell me old love-stories Thistle-birds half hinted as they flew.

April's faith, in robin at his vespers, Breathes a prayer too in my lilac blooms.

What the cloudy asters told the hillside, My lone rainbird in the dusk resumes.

Bobolink is voice for apple blossom, Breezy, abundant, good for human joys; Oriole has touched the burning secret Poppies hide with their deliberate poise.

Tiny twin-flowers, what are they but fancies, Subtler than a field-lark can express?

Swallows make the low contented twitter Lying just beyond the pansies' guess.

Yellowbird, the hot noon's warbler, pierces Sense where tiger-lilies may not pa.s.s.

Are not crickets and all field-wise creatures Brahmins of the universal gra.s.s?

Saffron b.u.t.terflies and mute ephemera, Doubt not, have their songs too, could we hear.

Every raindrop is a sea sonorous As the great worlds thundering sphere to sphere.

There's no silence and no dark forever, Clangoring suns to us are placid stars; Swift-foot lightning with his henchman thunder Lags behind these gnomes in Leyden jars.

Peal and flash and thrill and scent and savour Pulse through rhythm to rapture, and control,-- Who shall say how far along or finely?-- The infinite tectonics of the soul.

Low-bred peoples, Hottentots, Basutos, Have a taste for scarlet and bra.s.s bands.

Our friend Monet, feeling red repulsive, Sees blue shadows in pale purple lands.

Sees not only, but instructs our seeing; Taught by him a twelvemonth, we confess Earth once robed in crude barbaric splendor, Has put on a softer lovelier dress.