The Singing Man Part 3

_But we did walk in Eden, Eden, the garden of G.o.d;-- There, where no beckoning wonder Of all the paths we trod, No choiring sun-filled vineyard, No voice of stream or bird, But was some radiant oracle And flaming with the Word!_

_Mine ears are dim with voices; Mine eyes yet strive to see The black things here to wonder at, The mirth,--the misery.

Beloved, who wert with me there, How came these shames to be?-- On what lost star are we?_

_Men say: The paths of gladness By men were never trod!-- But we have walked in Eden, Eden, the garden of G.o.d._

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day; And I am wearied. And the day is done.

Now, while the wild brooks run Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray, Their laughters turned to musing--ah, let me Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee, Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers, Along the meadows and the paling foam, All wings of thine that roam Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs The silence of the earth; and from the warm Face of the field the upward savors swarm Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest, The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer; Mad-mane and gentle ear; And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,-- O s.h.a.ggy house-mate, watching me from far, With human-aching heart, as I a star-- Tempest of plumed joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.

So beautiful to see, Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above Scorch me with farness--lights that call and call To the far heart, and answer not at all; Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark The after-glow go dark?

This hour to sing--but never have--heart's-ease!

That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon Outside our happy windows their old rune, Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Who am I? Why for me this iron _Must_?

Burden the moon-white ox would never bear; Load that he cannot share, He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.

Else should I look to see the G.o.d's surprise Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes-- The ox thou gavest to partake my care.

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.

I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free, Take on more heavily The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers.

--Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand, This near one's breathless plea to understand.

Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who s.h.i.+nes within my house, my sight Of the heart's eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain, My singing's one refrain-- Are there for her no tidings from the height?

For her, my solace, likewise lost and far, Islanded with me here, on this lone star Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her A little wayside shelter from the stark Sky that we hear, and mark?

Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were!

And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest, Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest From light to light of day; from dark--till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast Our bright! To hold her fast,-- Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air.

To know I cannot hold her so my own, But under surge of joy, the surges moan That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.

I know from echoes far behind the sky.

I know; I know not why.

Even from thy golden, wide oblivion: Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting, Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing; Thy leave to suffer--yea, to sing and die, Beautiful Mother! ...

Ah, Whose child am I?

_Love sang to me. And I went down the stair, And out into the darkness and the dew; And bowed myself unto the little gra.s.s, And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust Of earth without a face. So let me be._

_For as I hear, the singing makes of me My own desire, and momently I grow.

Yea, all the while with hands of melody, The singing makes me, out of what I was, Even as a potter shaping Eden clay._

_Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing, 'Beloved, thus art thou; and even so Lovely art thou, Beloved!'--Even so, As the Sea weaves her path before the light, I hear, I hear, and I am glorified._

_Love sang to me, and I am glorified Because of some commandment in the stars.

And I shall grow in favour and in s.h.i.+ning, Till at the last I am all-beautiful; Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more._

THE FEASTER

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors, While we are glad within?

Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors; (And gather close, my kin.) Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,-- Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down Though we implore.

It is her silence binds me unreleased, It is her silence that no flute can drown, It is her moonlit silence at the door, Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high That frights my heart with an immortal Cry, Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;--louder, O my harp; Let me not hear her voice; And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp, With waves of golden noise!

For she is wise as Eden, even mute, To search my spirit through the deep and height Again, again.

Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute; And you, gloom over, viols of the night With colors lost in umber,--with sweet pain Of richest world's desire,--prevail, sing down All memory with pleading, so you drown Her merciless refrain!

Oh, can you not with music, nor with din, Save me the stress and stir In my lone spirit, throned among my kin, From that same voice of her?-- The never ending query she hath had Only to wake my Soul, and only then Wake it to weep?

With '_Why?_' and '_Art thou happy? Art thou glad?

And hast thou fellows.h.i.+p with fellow-men?_'

So, through my mirth and underneath my sleep; Her voice,--abysmal hunger unfulfilled;-- The calling, calling, never to be stilled,-- Calling of deep to deep.

But I have that shall fill this wound of mine, Since Loveliness must be;-- Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine And perish utterly.

All that the years have left us, undismayed Of age or death; and happier fair than truth, --When truth is fair!

Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade Iron and fire and marble to their youth; Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms' lair Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush; --Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush, For my sad soul to wear!

Let April fade! For me, unfading bloom!...

The little fruitless seed Deep sown of fire within the midmost gloom, A sterner fire to feed:-- The rainbow, frozen in a lasting dew; Green-gazing emerald, fresh as gra.s.s beneath The placid rose.

Fair pearl, and you, fair pearl, and you and you, Rained from the moon, and kissing in a wreath, As moment unto eager moment goes!

Look back at me, you sapphires blue and wise With farthest twilight, blue resplendent eyes That never weep, nor close.

O house me, glories! Give me house and home Here for my homelessness.

Set forth for me the wine, the honeycomb Whereto desire saith 'Yes!'

O Senses, weave me from all lovely dust Some home-array, some fair familiar garb For me, exiled.

Charm me some rare anointment I may trust Against her query, searching like a barb The dumbness of a heart unreconciled.

Clothe me with silver; fold me from dismay; Save me from pity. For I hear her say, 'Alas, Alas, poor child!'