Ye who have come o'er the sea_Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough

to behold this grey minster of lands,

Whose floor is the tomb of time past,

and whose walls by the toil of dead hands

Show pictures amidst of the ruin

of deeds that have overpast death,

Stay by this tomb in a tomb

to ask of who lieth beneath.

Ah! the world changeth too soon,

that ye stand there with unbated breath,

As I name him that Gunnar of old,

who erst in the haymaking tide

Felt all the land fragrant and fresh,

as amidst of the edges he died.

Too swiftly fame fadeth away,

if ye tremble not lest once again

The grey mound should open and show him

glad-eyed without grudging or pain.

Little labour methinks to behold him

but the tale-teller laboured in vain.

Little labour for ears that may hearken

to hear his death-conquering song,

Till the heart swells to think of the gladness

undying that overcame wrong.

O young is the world yet meseemeth

and the hope of it flourishing green,

When the words of a man unremembered

so bridge all the days that have been,

As we look round about on the land

that these nine hundred years he hath seen.

Dusk is abroad on the grass

of this valley amidst of the hill:

Dusk that shall never be dark

till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill

The trench under Eyiafell's snow,

and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey.

White, high aloft hangs the moon

that no dark night shall brighten ere day,

For here day and night toileth the summer

lest deedless his time pass away.

THE DAY IS COMING

Come hither, lads, and hearken,

for a tale there is to tell,

Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all

shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country,

a land in the midst of the sea,

And folk shall call it England

in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand

in the days that are yet to come,

Shall have some hope of the morrow,

some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen

to this strange tale of mine,

All folk that are in England

shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him,

and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,

Nor yet come home in the even

too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming

shall work and have no fear

For to-morrow's lack of earning

and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder,

that no man then shall be glad

Of his fellow's fall and mishap

to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth

shall then be his indeed,

Nor shall half be reaped for nothing

by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But for whom shall we gather the gain?

For ourselves and for each of our fellows,

and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,

and no more shall any man crave

For riches that serve for nothing

but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us

when none shall gather gold

To buy his friend in the market,

and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city,

and the little house on the hill,

And the wastes and the woodland beauty,

and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories,

the tombs of the mighty dead;

And the wise men seeking out marvels,

and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder;

and the marvellous fiddle-bow,

And the banded choirs of music:

all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's,

nor shall any lack a share

Of the toil and the gain of living

in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be!

But what are the deeds of to-day

In the days of the years we dwell in,

that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting?

There are three words to speak;

WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman

but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting?

while our brothers droop and die,

And on every wind of the heavens

a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us

where crowd on crowd they dwell,

Poor ghosts of the wicked city,

the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they laboured,

in sordid grief they died,

Those sons of a mighty mother,

those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it,

nor save our souls from the curse;

But many a million cometh,

and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten,

and open wide the door

For the rich man's hurrying terror,

and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched,

and their unlearned discontent,

We must give it voice and wisdom

till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us,

the living and the dead,

And o'er the weltering tangle

a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling,

and put by ease and rest,

For the Cause alone is worthy

till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle

wherein no man can fail,

Where whoso fadeth and dieth,

yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling,

for this, at least, we know:

That the Dawn and the Day is coming,

and forth the Banners go.

EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER

So swift the hours are moving

Unto the time un-proved:

Farewell my love unloving,

Farewell my love beloved!

What! are we not glad-hearted?

Is there no deed to do?

Is not all fear departed

And Spring-tide blossomed new?

The sails swell out above us,

The sea-ridge lifts the keel;

For They have called who love us,

Who bear the gifts that heal:

A crown for him that winneth,

A bed for him that fails,

A glory that beginneth

In never-dying tales.

Yet now the pain is ended

And the glad hand grips the sword,

Look on thy life amended

And deal out due award.

Think of the thankless morning,

The gifts of noon unused;

Think of the eve of scorning,

The night of prayer refused.

And yet. The life before it,

Dost thou remember aught,

What terrors shivered o'er it

Born from the hell of thought?

And this that cometh after:

How dost thou live, and dare

To meet its empty laughter,

To face its friendless care?

In fear didst thou desire,

At peace dost thou regret,

The wasting of the fire,

The tangling of the net.

Love came and gat fair greeting;

Love went; and left no shame.

Shall both the twilights meeting

The summer sunlight blame?

What! cometh love and goeth

Like the dark night's empty wind,

Because thy folly soweth

The harvest of the blind?

Hast thou slain love with sorrow?

Have thy tears quenched the sun?

Nay even yet to-morrow

Shall many a deed be done.

This twilight sea thou sailest,

Has it grown dim and black

For that wherein thou failest,

And the story of thy lack?

Peace then! for thine old grieving

Was born of Earth the kind,

And the sad tale thou art leaving

Earth shall not leave behind.

Peace! for that joy abiding

Whereon thou layest hold

Earth keepeth for a tiding

For the day when this is old.

Thy soul and life shall perish,

And thy name as last night's wind;

But Earth the deed shall cherish

That thou to-day shalt find.

And all thy joy and sorrow

So great but yesterday,

So light a thing to-morrow,

Shall never pass away.

Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder,

The sunrise draweth nigh,

And men forget to wonder

That they were born to die.

Then praise the deed that wendeth

Through the daylight and the mirth!

The tale that never endeth

Whoso may dwell on earth.

ALL FOR THE CAUSE

Hear a word, a word in season,

for the day is drawing nigh,

When the Cause shall call upon us,

some to live, and some to die!

He that dies shall not die lonely,

many an one hath gone before;

He that lives shall bear no burden

heavier than the life they bore.

Nothing ancient is their story,

e'en but yesterday they bled,

Youngest they of earth's beloved,

last of all the valiant dead.

E'en the tidings we are telling

was the tale they had to tell,

E'en the hope that our hearts cherish,

was the hope for which they fell.

In the grave where tyrants thrust them,

lies their labour and their pain,

But undying from their sorrow

springeth up the hope again.

Mourn not therefore, nor lament it,

that the world outlives their life;

Voice and vision yet they give us,

making strong our hands for strife.

Some had name, and fame, and honour,

learn'd they were, and wise and strong;

Some were nameless, poor, unlettered,

weak in all but grief and wrong.

Named and nameless all live in us;

one and all they lead us yet

Every pain to count for nothing,

every sorrow to forget.

Hearken how they cry, "O happy,

happy ye that ye were born

In the sad slow night's departing,

in the rising of the morn.

"Fair the crown the Cause hath for you,

well to die or well to live

Through the battle, through the tangle,

peace to gain or peace to give."

Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth,

in the days that yet shall be,

When no slave of gold abideth

'twixt the breadth of sea to sea,

Oft, when men and maids are merry,

ere the sunlight leaves the earth,

And they bless the day beloved,

all too short for all their mirth,

Some shall pause awhile and ponder

on the bitter days of old,

Ere the toil of strife and battle

overthrew the curse of gold;

Then 'twixt lips of loved and lover

solemn thoughts of us shall rise;

We who once were fools defeated,

then shall be the brave and wise.

There amidst the world new-builded

shall our earthly deeds abide,

Though our names be all forgotten,

and the tale of how we died.

Life or death then, who shall heed it,

what we gain or what we lose?

Fair flies life amid the struggle,

and the Cause for each shall choose.

Hear a word, a word in season,

for the day is drawing nigh,

When the Cause shall call upon us,

some to live, and some to die!

PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT

What part of the dread eternity

Are those strange minutes that I gain,

Mazed with the doubt of love and pain,

When I thy delicate face may see,

A little while before farewell?

What share of the world's yearning-tide

That flash, when new day bare and white

Blots out my half-dream's faint delight,

And there is nothing by my side,

And well remembered is farewell?

What drop in the grey flood of tears

That time, when the long day toiled through,

Worn out, shows nought for me to do,

And nothing worth my labour bears

The longing of that last farewell?

What pity from the heavens above,

What heed from out eternity,

What word from the swift world for me?

Speak, heed, and pity, O tender love,

Who knew'st the days before farewell!

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,

In haste and hurry to be there,

Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good,

For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see

The glimmer of the open light,

From o'er the place where we would be:

Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife,

With many a matter glad we play,

When once we see the light of life

Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

VERSES FOR PICTURES

DAY

I am Day; I bring again

Life and glory, Love and pain:

Awake, arise! from death to death

Through me the World's tale quickeneth.

SPRING

Spring am I, too soft of heart

Much to speak ere I depart:

Ask the Summer-tide to prove

The abundance of my love.

SUMMER

Summer looked for long am I;

Much shall change or e'er I die.

Prithee take it not amiss

Though I weary thee with bliss.

AUTUMN

Laden Autumn here I stand

Worn of heart, and weak of hand:

Nought but rest seems good to me,

Speak the word that sets me free.

WINTER

I am Winter, that do keep

Longing safe amidst of sleep:

Who shall say if I were dead

What should be remembered?

NIGHT

I am Night: I bring again

Hope of pleasure, rest from pain:

Thoughts unsaid 'twixt Life and Death

My fruitful silence quickeneth.

FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

THE BRIARWOOD

The fateful slumber floats and flows

About the tangle of the rose;

But lo! the fated hand and heart

To rend the slumberous curse apart!

THE COUNCIL ROOM

The threat of war, the hope of peace,

The Kingdom's peril and increase

Sleep on, and bide the latter day,

When Fate shall take her chain away.

THE GARDEN COURT

The maiden pleasance of the land

Knoweth no stir of voice or hand,

No cup the sleeping waters fill,

The restless shuttle lieth still.

THE ROSEBOWER

Here lies the hoarded love, the key

To all the treasure that shall be;

Come fated hand the gift to take,

And smite this sleeping world awake.

ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

O treacherous scent, O thorny sight,

O tangle of world's wrong and right,

What art thou 'gainst my armour's gleam

But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam

Of hope, they lie and dully dream;

Men once, but men no more, that Love

Their waste defeated hearts should move.

Here sleeps the world that would not love!

Let it sleep on, but if He move

Their hearts in humble wise to wait

On his new-wakened fair estate.

O won at last is never late!

Thy silence was the voice of fate;

Thy still hands conquered in the strife;

Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life.

THE WOODPECKER

I once a King and chief

Now am the tree-bark's thief,

Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf

Chasing the prey.

THE LION

The Beasts that be

In wood and waste,

Now sit and see,

Nor ride nor haste.

THE FOREST

PEAR-TREE

By woodman's edge I faint and fail;

By craftsman's edge I tell the tale.

CHESTNUT-TREE

High in the wood, high o'er the hall,

Aloft I rise when low I fall.

OAK-TREE

Unmoved I stand what wind may blow.

Swift, swift before the wind I go.

POMONA

I am the ancient Apple-Queen,

As once I was so am I now.

For evermore a hope unseen,

Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold!

And where the windy grave of Troy?

Yet come I as I came of old,

From out the heart of Summer's joy.

FLORA

I am the handmaid of the earth,

I broider fair her glorious gown,

And deck her on her days of mirth

With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain

And play about the Mother's hem,

I scatter every gift I gain

From sun and wind to gladden them.

THE ORCHARD

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,

The world without is waste and worn,

But here within our orchard-close,

The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year

That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree

The banners of the Spring to be.

TAPESTRY TREES

OAK

I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;

I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

FIR

High o'er the lordly oak I stand,

And drive him on from land to land.

ASH

I heft my brother's iron bane;

I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

YEW

Dark down the windy dale I grow,

The father of the fateful Bow.

POPLAR

The war-shaft and the milking-bowl

I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

OLIVE

The King I bless; the lamps I trim;

In my warm wave do fishes swim.

APPLE-TREE

I bowed my head to Adam's will;

The cups of toiling men I fill.

VINE

I draw the blood from out the earth;

I store the sun for winter mirth.

ORANGE-TREE

Amidst the greenness of my night,

My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

FIG-TREE

I who am little among trees

In honey-making mate the bees.

MULBERRY-TREE

Love's lack hath dyed my berries red:

For Love's attire my leaves are shed.

PEAR-TREE

High o'er the mead-flowers' hidden feet

I bear aloft my burden sweet.

BAY

Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown

Of living song and dead renown!

THE FLOWERING ORCHARD

SILK EMBROIDERY

Lo silken my garden,

and silken my sky,

And silken my apple-boughs

hanging on high;

All wrought by the Worm

in the peasant carle's cot

On the Mulberry leafage

when summer was hot!

THE END OF MAY

How the wind howls this morn

About the end of May,

And drives June on apace

To mock the world forlorn

And the world's joy passed away

And my unlonged-for face!

The world's joy passed away;

For no more may I deem

That any folk are glad

To see the dawn of day

Sunder the tangled dream

Wherein no grief they had.

Ah, through the tangled dream

Where others have no grief

Ever it fares with me

That fears and treasons stream

And dumb sleep slays belief

Whatso therein may be.

Sleep slayeth all belief

Until the hopeless light

Wakes at the birth of June

More lying tales to weave,

More love in woe's despite,

More hope to perish soon.

THE HALF OF LIFE GONE

The days have slain the days,

and the seasons have gone by

And brought me the summer again;

and here on the grass I lie

As erst I lay and was glad

ere I meddled with right and with wrong.

Wide lies the mead as of old,

and the river is creeping along

By the side of the elm-clad bank

that turns its weedy stream;

And grey o'er its hither lip

the quivering rashes gleam.

There is work in the mead as of old;

they are eager at winning the hay,

While every sun sets bright

and begets a fairer day.

The forks shine white in the sun

round the yellow red-wheeled wain,

Where the mountain of hay grows fast;

and now from out of the lane

Comes the ox-team drawing another,

comes the bailiff and the beer,

And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag

o'er the narrow bridge of the weir.

High up and light are the clouds,

and though the swallows flit

So high o'er the sunlit earth,

they are well a part of it,

And so, though high over them,

are the wings of the wandering herne;

In measureless depths above him

doth the fair sky quiver and burn;

The dear sun floods the land

as the morning falls toward noon,

And a little wind is awake

in the best of the latter June.

They are busy winning the hay,

and the life and the picture they make

If I were as once I was,

I should deem it made for my sake;

For here if one need not work

is a place for happy rest,

While one's thought wends over the world

north, south, and east and west.

There are the men and the maids,

and the wives and the gaffers grey

Of the fields I know so well,

and but little changed are they

Since I was a lad amongst them;

and yet how great is the change!

Strange are they grown unto me;

yea I to myself am strange.

Their talk and their laughter mingling

with the music of the meads

Has now no meaning to me

to help or to hinder my needs,

So far from them have I drifted.

And yet amidst of them goes

A part of myself, my boy,

and of pleasure and pain he knows,

And deems it something strange,

when he is other than glad.

Lo now! the woman that stoops

and kisses the face of the lad,

And puts a rake in his hand

and laughs in his laughing face.

Whose is the voice that laughs

in the old familiar place?

Whose should it be but my love's,

if my love were yet on the earth?

Could she refrain from the fields

where my joy and her joy had birth,

When I was there and her child,

on the grass that knew her feet

'Mid the flowers that led her on

when the summer eve was sweet?

No, no, it is she no longer;

never again can she come

And behold the hay-wains creeping

o'er the meadows of her home;

No more can she kiss her son

or put the rake in his hand

That she handled a while agone

in the midst of the haymaking band.

Her laughter is gone and her life;

there is no such thing on the earth,

No share for me then in the stir,

no share in the hurry and mirth.

Nay, let me look and believe

that all these will vanish away,

At least when the night has fallen,

and that she will be there 'mid the hay,

Happy and weary with work,

waiting and longing for love.

There will she be, as of old,

when the great moon hung above,

And lightless and dead was the village,

and nought but the weir was awake;

There will she rise to meet me,

and my hands will she hasten to take,

And thence shall we wander away,

and over the ancient bridge

By many a rose-hung hedgerow,

till we reach the sun-burnt ridge

And the great trench digged by the Romans:

there then awhile shall we stand,

To watch the dawn come creeping

o'er the fragrant lovely land,

Till all the world awaketh,

and draws us down, we twain,

To the deeds of the field and the fold

and the merry summer's gain.

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her,

in dreams of the day or the night,

When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow

to remember past delight.

She is gone. She was and she is not;

there is no such thing on the earth

But e'en as a picture painted;

and for me there is void and dearth

That I cannot name or measure.

Yet for me and all these she died,

E'en as she lived for awhile,

that the better day might betide.

Therefore I live, and I shall live

till the last day's work shall fail.

Have patience now but a little

and I will tell you the tale

Of how and why she died,

And why I am weak and worn,

And have wandered away to the meadows

and the place where I was born;

But here and to-day I cannot;

for ever my thought will stray

To that hope fulfilled for a little

and the bliss of the earlier day.

Of the great world's hope and anguish

to-day I scarce can think;

Like a ghost, from the lives of the living

and their earthly deeds I shrink.

I will go adown by the water

and over the ancient bridge,

And wend in our footsteps of old

till I come to the sun-burnt ridge,

And the great trench digged by the Romans;

and thence awhile will I gaze,

And see three teeming counties

stretch out till they fade in the haze;

And in all the dwellings of man

that thence mine eyes shall see,

What man as hapless as I am

beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these?

Thou hast a sorrow to nurse,

And thou hast been bold and happy;

but these, if they utter a curse,

No sting it has and no meaning,

it is empty sound on the air.

Thy life is full of mourning,

and theirs so empty and bare,

That they have no words of complaining;

nor so happy have they been

That they may measure sorrow

or tell what grief may mean.

And thou; thou hast deeds to do,

and toil to meet thee soon;

Depart and ponder on these

through the sun-worn afternoon.

MINE AND THINE

FROM A FLEMISH POEM OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY

Two words about the world we see,

And nought but Mine and Thine they be.

Ah! might we drive them forth and wide

With us should rest and peace abide;

All free, nought owned of goods and gear,

By men and women though it were.

Common to all all wheat and wine

Over the seas and up the Rhine.

No manslayer then the wide world o'er

When Mine and Thine are known no more.

Yea, God, well counselled for our health,

Gave all this fleeting earthly wealth

A common heritage to all,

That men might feed them therewithal,

And clothe their limbs and shoe their feet

And live a simple life and sweet.

But now so rageth greediness

That each desireth nothing less

Than all the world, and all his own;

And all for him and him alone.

THE LAY OF CHRISTINE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ICELANDIC

Of silk my gear was shapen,

Scarlet they did on me,

Then to the sea-strand was I borne

And laid in a bark of the sea.