The Singing Man Part 7

Then to my Gladness still I cried: 'And how canst thou abide?--'

Here, where my listening heart must hark These sorrows rising from the Dark Where still they starve, and strive and die, Who bear each heaviest penalty Of humanhood;--nor grasp, nor guess, The garment's hem of happiness!-- The spear-wound throbbing in my song, It throbs more bitterly than wrong,-- It burns more wildly than despair,-- The will to share, The will to share!

Little I knew,--the blind-fold I,-- Joy would become like agony,-- Like arrows of the Sun in me!

I hold thee here. I have thee, now,-- And I am human. But what art thou!'

My Gladness answered me: 'Wayfarer, wilt thou understand?-- Follow me on. And keep my hand.'

THE NIGHTINGALE UNHEARD

Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.

All the white way beside the girdling blue, Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, We listened;--from the old year to the new.

Brown bird, and where were you?

You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats!

Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; Nor yet--of all bird-song should glorify-- a.s.sisi, Little Portion of the blest, a.s.sisi, in the bosom of the sky, Where G.o.d's own singer thatched his sunward nest; That little, heavenliest!

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, That beckon with white looks an endless way; Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, A lamb s.h.i.+nes out as sudden as a star, Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale, The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far, And the red may-trees wear a s.h.i.+ning veil.

--And still, no nightingale!

The one vain longing,--through all journeyings, The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot,-- All the soft-swarming dark where you were not, Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings, And wonders, that your own must ever make To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache;-- Even for Music's sake.

But most, his music whose beloved name Forever writ in water of bright tears, Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years, That kindle there the hallowed April flame Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, Violets still!--When falls, to leave no sign, The arch of Constantine.

Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he, From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe, Your song once shook to surging overflow.

How was it, sovran dweller of the tree, His cry, still throbbing in the flooded sh.e.l.l Of silence with remembered melody, Could draw from you no answer to the spell?

--O Voice, O Philomel?

Long time we wondered (and we knew not why):-- Nor dream, nor prayer, of wayside gladness born, Nor vineyards waiting, nor reproachful thorn, Nor yet the nested hill-towns set so high All the white way beside the girdling blue,-- Nor olives, gray against a golden sky, Could serve to wake that rapturous voice of you!

But the wise silence knew.

O Nightingale unheard!--Unheard alone, Throughout that woven music of the days From the faint sea-rim to the market-place, And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!-- So be it, better so: that there should fail For sun-filled ones, one blessed thing unknown.

To them, be hid forever,--and all hail!

Sing never, Nightingale.

Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheek Against the window, like a starving flower.

Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hour Of journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek.

Loose, with your singing, captives such as these In misery and iron, hearts too meek, For voyage--voyage over dreamful seas To lost Hesperides.

Sing not for free-men. Ah, but sing for whom The walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade, The windows take no heed of light nor shade,-- The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom.

Sing near! So in that golden overflowing They may forget their wasted human bloom; Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing.-- Reck not of life's bright going!

Sing not for lovers, side by side that hark; Nor unto parted lovers, save they be Parted indeed by more than makes the Sea.

Where never hope shall meet--like mounting lark-- Far Joy's uprising; and no memories Abide to star the music-haunted dark: To them that sit in darkness, such as these, Pour down, pour down heart's-ease.

Not in kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt The world's forgotten, both of men and birds; The alleys of no hope and of no words, The hidings where men reap not, though they plant; But toil and thirst--so dying and so born;-- And toil and thirst to gather to their want, From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn, --To gather grapes of thorn!

And for those two, your pilgrims without tears, Who prayed a largess where there was no dearth, Forgive it to their human-happy ears: Forgive it them, brown music of the Earth, Unknowing,--though the wiser silence knew!

Forgive it to the music of the spheres That while they walked together so, the Two Together,--heard not you.

_ENVOI_

_Beloved, till the day break, Leave wide the little door; And bless, to lack and longing, Our br.i.m.m.i.n.g more-and-more._

_Is love a scanted portion, That we should h.o.a.rd thereof?-- Oh, call unto the deserts, Beloved and my Love!_