Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses Part 18

THE RAMBLER

I do not see the hills around, Nor mark the tints the copses wear; I do not note the gra.s.sy ground And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note Of cuckoos hid on either hand, The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat When eve's brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead - All eloquent of love divine - Receives their constant careful heed: Such keen apprais.e.m.e.nt is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear, The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, Are those far back ones missed when near, And now perceived too late by me!

NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast, And Life's bare pathway looms like a desert track to me, And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest, My perished people who housed them here come back to me.

They come and seat them around in their mouldy places, Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness, A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces, And in the bearing of each a pa.s.sive tristfulness.

"Do you uphold me, lingering and languis.h.i.+ng here, A pale late plant of your once strong stock?" I say to them; "A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere, And on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to them?"

"--O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus: Take of Life what it grants, without question!" they answer me seemingly.

"Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us, And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!"

AFTER THE LAST BREATH (J. H. 1813-1904)

There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped; None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire; No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped Does she require.

Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim; Whether we leave to-night or wait till day Counts as the same.

The lettered vessels of medicaments Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; Each palliative its silly face presents As useless gear.

And yet we feel that something savours well; We note a numb relief withheld before; Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell Of Time no more.

We see by littles now the deft achievement Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, In view of which our momentary bereavement Outshapes but small.

1904.

IN CHILDBED

In the middle of the night Mother's spirit came and spoke to me, Looking weariful and white - As 'twere untimely news she broke to me.

"O my daughter, joyed are you To own the weetless child you mother there; 'Men may search the wide world through,'

You think, 'nor find so fair another there!'

"Dear, this midnight time unwombs Thousands just as rare and beautiful; Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms To be as bright, as good, as dutiful.

"Source of ecstatic hopes and fears And innocent maternal vanity, Your fond exploit but shapes for tears New thoroughfares in sad humanity.

"Yet as you dream, so dreamt I When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me; Other views for by and by!" . . .

Such strange things did mother say to me.

THE PINE PLANTERS (MARTY SOUTH'S REVERIE)

I

We work here together In blast and breeze; He fills the earth in, I hold the trees.

He does not notice That what I do Keeps me from moving And chills me through.

He has seen one fairer I feel by his eye, Which skims me as though I were not by.

And since she pa.s.sed here He scarce has known But that the woodland Holds him alone.

I have worked here with him Since morning s.h.i.+ne, He busy with his thoughts And I with mine.

I have helped him so many, So many days, But never win any Small word of praise!

Shall I not sigh to him That I work on Glad to be nigh to him Though hope is gone?

Nay, though he never Knew love like mine, I'll bear it ever And make no sign!

II

From the bundle at hand here I take each tree, And set it to stand, here Always to be; When, in a second, As if from fear Of Life unreckoned Beginning here, It starts a sighing Through day and night, Though while there lying 'Twas voiceless quite.

It will sigh in the morning, Will sigh at noon, At the winter's warning, In wafts of June; Grieving that never Kind Fate decreed It should for ever Remain a seed, And shun the welter Of things without, Unneeding shelter From storm and drought.

Thus, all unknowing For whom or what We set it growing In this bleak spot, It still will grieve here Throughout its time, Unable to leave here, Or change its clime; Or tell the story Of us to-day When, halt and h.o.a.ry, We pa.s.s away.

THE DEAR