The Ballad of the Quest Part 6

MARCH

Windy March weather, with a lone crow flying, A little ebony airs.h.i.+p careening down the blue, And high, high above him a wild goose crying, The leading cry, the clarion cry, that guides his grey lines through!

Windy March weather, with the pine trees singing, Silver-red the brambles show and silver-green the birch, And silver-grey a squirrel on a top branch swinging,-- A friendly elf who nods to me from his far perilous perch.

Windy March weather, with the tawny brook that hurries Eager for the outward rush of rivers to the sea; A tiny brook sun-dappled, that frets and sings and worries, A rough adventurous little brook that calls and calls to me!

Windy March weather, and the old spring madness Tempting us to take the trail that wanders free and far,-- Whispering of magic roads that wind to lands of gladness, Where vanished joys and lost delights and garnered treasures are!

ON SILVER NIGHTS

On silver nights I cannot sleep;-- The ancient moon from far above, Bids me arise, and run and keep A rendezvous with one I love.

And in my heart a little song Swings to and fro its clear refrain, While down the stairs I haste along As though the past were mine again.

Then is my spirit so beguiled By all the night's white witchery, That I am kin to all things wild, And part of all things that are free!--

Then he comes back,--who long ago Left these green paths his steps had trod; Yes--he comes back,--I know!--I know!-- Light-footed from the fields of G.o.d.

So through the garden and the lane, And where the lovely gra.s.s is deep, We two go walking once again,-- On silver nights, that banish sleep.

THE BIRTH-RIGHT

Whate'er betides, all beauty still is mine, I drink--as did the old G.o.ds--of its wine!

Though Times should dim my eyes, yet I have seen The hills and hollows gay with gold and green: Roses have charmed me with a dear delight, And Iris brought me joy in cups of white:-- For me the fairies hung on bush and tree The marvel of the frost's bright filagree And well I know where at the grey of morn They threaded dew on cob-web, weed and thorn!

Lights of the Northern skies--and dancing flames, And flowing seas--your colors have no names!

Day-s.h.i.+ne across the uplands how you pa.s.s Chased by the filmy shadows on the gra.s.s!

Oh, I have watched the little swallows fly Down silver reaches of the twilight sky-- While through the Western gates another day In sweeping golden garments pa.s.sed away,-- I know how morning hastening from afar Catches upon her rose-edged robes a star; And often I have seen at Midnight's hour The blooming of the Moon's gold wonder-flower.

O look, look, out upon the lovely earth And take the gift she gave thee at thy birth!

Whate'er betides--all beauty still is thine,-- Drink deep--as did the old G.o.ds--of its wine!

A LOVE SONG

Oh haste thee, Sweet! Impatient now I wait, The crescent moon swings low,--it groweth late,-- A night-bird sings of Life, and Love, and Fate!--

Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes; Joy hath one summer time--like to the rose Love only, lives through all the winter's snows.

So haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own: But see!--A rose-leaf on the night-wind blown,-- For thee I wait--for thee I wait alone!-- So haste, my Sweet!

A SONG

O heart of mine--if I were but a swallow-- A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free-- On wings unwearied I would find and follow Some path that led to thee!

Were I a rose out in the garden growing My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze-- For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing-- Yet bring thee memories.

THE NIGHT OF ALL SAINTS

It is an old belief that on the night of All Saints, "Hallowe'en," the spirits of the dead return, so each year there is made a beloved feast.

He will come back across the roads unmeasured-- Lit by old moons and flaming sun and star; There are so many things he loved and treasured To call him from afar.

Joy of the distant heaven, howe'er entrancing, Never could charm him from the earth he knew, Scent of the rose-leaves--music, mirth and dancing-- He will come back to you.

He will come back--no golden bars can hold him-- He will come back to fire and candle s.h.i.+ne; He will be near, though you may not behold him, And though he gives no sign.

IN THE LAST YEAR

1918

We are forgetting all the old grey saints,-- A bloom of dust lies on the martyrs' shrines; From storied windows that the sunlight paints, We rarely read the dear familiar lines; They seem a part of things so far away, These haloed ones--the saints of yesterday.

We are forgetting all the ancient lore Of time-dimmed battles, with their unnamed dead; All, all have vanished,--we will nevermore In dreams unfurl their banners stained with red; A tidal-wave has drifted them away Into the limbo of Life's yesterday.

We are forgetting all the mighty men,-- The knights in clanking armor of the past; We care not that by forest and by fen, Their fighting done, they soundly slept at last; They all belong to grief so far away; The long and bitter tears of yesterday.

We are forgetting all the hours of peace, The sweet sun-sprinkled hours of gold on green,-- The careless hours we thought could never cease,-- The merriest hours the world has ever seen.

They are so very, very far away,-- Those white untroubled hours of yesterday.

For Death goes to and fro upon the earth;-- It follows in the wake of marching men; And we who knew the olden peace and mirth, Will never, never know the same again.

The scented wind across the boughs of May, Brings but the memory of some yesterday.

s.h.i.+PS

The great grey s.h.i.+ps! We saw them in our dreaming, The strong grey s.h.i.+ps--the s.h.i.+ps of our desire, Watched by the stars, and by the dawn's white gleaming, And followed by the winds that never tire.

O, but we trusted them through days of weeping, Blessed them each one, and bid each one depart With all the brave we gave into its keeping, The priceless, garnered treasure of the heart!

Long, long they haunted us when gales were blowing,-- Dim wraiths of s.h.i.+ps, like shadows in the rain;-- Little we slept on winter nights of snowing, Thinking of those who might not sail again.