We take our pack, and jog our way again
Towards the windy sunset and the night;
The inn is now behind us, out of sight,
Showing no welcome shine of windowpane,
But dark and silent standing by the way
As we go forward, seeing mile on mile
Sink out of sight--just for a little while
We rested, in the middle of the day.
Is there an end at last, and shall we reach,
By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars,
Our house at last, and find the heart-repose
Which is the ultimate desire of each
Poor traveller--ah! shall they drop the bars,
And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows?
"TO-DAY I MISS YOU"
To-day I miss you ... "Only for to-day,
Some little matter of hours and nothing more."
That at least the worldly-wise folk say,
Who've never waited for the opening door,
The greeting look, the known step on the floor;
Who've never missed a loved one like a lover.
To-day I miss you. What to-morrow brings
Is the other side of all the stars, God knows!
Only to have you here, now evening swings
Its quiet shadow round the globe again,
And in our talk of old familiar things,
And in familiar gestures, turn of brain,
Looks, tone of voice, I may discern again
That union from which alone love grows.
We'd close the curtains;--while the world outside,
Noisily autumn, makes a sense of peace
Deeper within,--open the bookcase wide
And take a book out; then another book,
And then another.... "Here's a favourite, look!
We cannot pass him." ... Then from reading cease,
Gossip and laugh, with finger in the page,
And challenge thought with thought, and mind with mind
Each speaking freely, that we might increase
Some knowledge to which, singly, we were blind.
So goes the evening. Side by side we stand,
Dear friends and brothers, till, a sudden pause,
Or kindly, almost careless touch of hands,
Swings us to face each other, and we feel
Those deepest stirrings of the human heart
Man has no name for yet, those changeless laws
Of more than mating--that eternal part
Our body is aware of, and our brain,
Unchallenging with reason, must receive,
That sense of intimate wonder!--Now again,
The blinds are drawn; lamp, books, chairs, all retain
Familiar aspects, but, you absent, leave
The room all empty, empty all the day.
"HOW SMALL THE THREAD THAT HOLDS UP HAPPINESS"
How small the thread that holds up happiness;
But one frail life between the dark and me,
Your life, dear love--and here I seem to see
You whimsically smile, that I confess
The whole round world, with its vast energy,
Its summers, and its sunshine, and its aims,
Its splendid hopes, the faith that unquenched, flames
--All sunk into the compass of you and me.
Yes, you are right, the single leaves that fall
Mar not the summer; do I think one leaf
Denudes a forest?--We are nought at all.
Yet the bereaved small bird within the tree
May break its heart above its nest for grief
--And perhaps this must happen, love, to me.
"IN ALL THINGS GRACIOUS THERE IS A THOUGHT OF YOU"
In all things gracious there is a thought of you:
In the soft fall of April rain, the blue
Of April skies in the morning, the full moon
Of windless August nights, perfect and still,
When the white moonlight lies across the hill
Of new-cut stubble, where a little mist,
Flickering, rises. In the song of birds
My heart turns to you, emptied all of words
By loveliness, and in the poise and swing
Of flowering grasses, and in the lingering
Grave, spacious fall of evening on the earth,
When the wide, liquid spaces of the sky,
Above the dewy fields and darkening lanes,
And windless water lying quietly,
Yield up the daylight, until none remains.
I could endure--or so it seems to me--
Without your presence, a life of winter days,
Stark, grey Novembers stretching endlessly,
Where I, forgetting laughter and bright things,
Might set my face to duty; but the stir,
The loveliness, the poignancy of springs,
The growth, the rise, the universal press
Up to sensation--ah, I could not bear
To live an April through, but must take wings
Out of a world too fair for loneliness.
"THERE'S DUTY, FRIEND, TO JOG WITH ARM IN ARM"
There's duty, friend, to jog with arm in arm
Through these dark streets; there's kindliness indeed,
And there's the hope a little more to weed
Our own small patch of life which the tares harm;
There's patience for the folly of the earth;
There's pity for the poor who suffer wrong;
There's honour for the striving and the strong
--But ah, dear friend of mine, where is the mirth?
Where's the old jollity of everyday
That makes a holiday of common things
Because they all are shared by us aright,
The trivial daily work and happenings
Having a sort of fervour and delight,
And the sun rising, even, a different way?
"EVENING"
Beloved of my soul, the day is done;
The busy noises cease, the lights are low;
Gently the doors shut to behind each one
Seeking his sleep; the fading embers glow
On silent hearths; the silent ashes fall--
Ah, absent spirit, do you hear me call,
Me, sitting waiting by the fireside?
This is the hour of all the night and day,
--This is the hour when, work put aside,
And all the talking, whether grave or gay,
For pleasure or for profit, hushed and dumb,
We used to, in the days before you died,
Seek out each other's mind for rest, and say:
"Now am I home, and all is well with me;
To-day is gone, to-morrow is to come;
Here let us be."
Surely, for all the barriers of sense,
And the stark grossness of this flesh I wear,
For all the vacant distance of the skies
Between me here alone, and you, gone hence,
There must be some quick knowledge; I must hear
That dear familiar voice again, must see
Some semblance of you with my bodily eyes,
Now, now, when in the solitude I yearn
Towards your heart, my home; now when I turn
Humbly and searchingly towards that goal
That lies beyond the purchase of the world--
You again, you, dear comrade of my soul.