A NOVEMBER VIGIL
I wonder why my love for him
Should grow so much these last three days,
While he but stares as if some whim
Had been discovered to his gaze;
Some foolish whim that brings but shame
Whatever time he thinks thereof,—
To him my name is now the name
Of some old half-forgotten love.
And yet I starve for his least kiss
And faint because my love is great;
I, who am now no more than this,—
An unseen beggar at his gate....
She watched the moon and spake aloud.
The moon seemed not to rise, but hung
Just underneath the long straight cloud
That low across the heavens swung,
As if to press the old moon back
Into its place behind the trees.
The trees stood where the hill was black;
They were not vexed by any breeze.
The moon was not as it had been
Before, when she had watched it rise;
It was misshapen now, and thin,
As if some trouble in the skies
Had happened more than it could bear,
Its color, too, was no more red;
Nor was it like her yellow hair;—
It looked as if its soul were dead.
I, who was once well-loved of him,
Am as a beggar by his gate
Whereon black carvéd things look grim
At one who thinks to penetrate.
I do not ask if I may stray
Once more in those desired lands;
Another night, yet one more day,
For these I do not make demands;
For when the ripened hour is past
Things such as these are asked in vain:
His first day's love,—were that the last
I were repaid for this new pain.
Out of his love great joy I had
For many days; and even now
I do not dare to be but glad
When I remember, often, how
He said he had great joy of me.
The while he loved, no man, I think,
Exceeded him in constancy;
My passion, even, seemed to shrink
Almost to nothing, when he came
And told me all of love's strange things:
The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,
Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
The moon still waited, watching her
(The cloud still stretched there, close above;
The trees beneath); it could not stir,
And yet it seemed the shape thereof,
Since she looked first, some change had known.
In places it had burned away,
And one side had much thinner grown;
—What light that came from it was gray.
It was not curved from east to west.
But lay upon its back; like one
Wounded, or weary of some quest,
Or by strong enemies undone.
Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;
She knew they were burned out and dead
Because no clouds went, drifting by,
Across the light the strange moon shed.
Now, I can hope for naught but death.
I would not stay to give him pain,
Or say the words a woman saith
When love hath called aloud in vain
And got no answer anywhere.
It were far better I should die,
And have rough strangers come to bear
My body far away, where I
Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
That they should leave me, with no tears,
To think and think within the gloom
For many years, for many years.
The thought of that strange, narrow place
Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
I do not fear cold Death's embrace,
And where black worms draw nigh to feed
On my white body, then, I know
That I shall make no mournful cry:
But that I should be hidden so
Where I no more may see the sky,—
The wide sky filled with many a star,
Or all around the yellow sun,
Or even the sky where great clouds are
That wait until the rain be done,
—That is an evil thing for me....
Across the sky the cloud swung still
And pressed the moon down heavily
Where leafless trees grew on the hill.
The pale moon now was very thin.
There was no water near the place,
Else would the moon that slept therein
Have frightened her with its gray face.
How shall I wish to see the sky!
For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
I care not where they make me lie,
Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,
So they leave loose my coffin's lid
And throw on me no mouldy clay,
That the white stars may not be hid:
This little thing is all I pray.
Then I shall move me wearily,
And clasp each bone that was my wrist,
Around each slender bony knee;
And wind my hair, that once he kissed,
Around my body wasted thin,
To keep me from the grave's cold breath;
And on my knees rest my poor chin,
And think of what I lose by death.
I shall be happy, being dead....
The moon, by now, had nearly gone,
As if it knew its time was sped
And feared the coming of the dawn.
It had not risen; one could see
The cloud was strong to keep it back;
It merely faded utterly,
And where it was the sky grew black.
Till suddenly the east turned gray,
Although no stars were overhead;
And though the moon had died away,
There came faint glimmerings of red;
Then larger waves of golden light
Heralded that the day was born,
And on the furthest eastern height
With swift feet came the waited morn.
With swift feet came the morn, but lo!
Just as its triumph was begun,
The first wild onset of the snow
Strangled the glad imperial sun!
NUNC DIMITTIS
Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:
Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,
Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;
Because the memories of the things that were—
That little blessed while with Thee and her—
Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.
And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,
I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—
Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,
And only waitest—Thou and she alone—
Until I know again as I have known
The glory that abideth near our throne.
BETWEEN THE BATTLES
Let us bury him here,
Where the maples are red!
He is dead,
And he died thanking God that he fell with the
fall of the leaf and the year.
fall of the leaf and the year.
Where the hillside is sheer,
Let it echo our tread
Whom he led;
Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who
never knew fear.
never knew fear.
Ere he died, they had fled;
Yet they heard his last cheer
Ringing clear,—
When we lifted him up, he would fain have
pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
Break his sword and his spear!
Let this last prayer be said
By the bed
We have made underneath the wet wind in the
maple trees moaning so drear:
maple trees moaning so drear:
"O Lord God, by the red
Sullen end of the year
That is here,
We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our
swords till his slayers be dead!"
swords till his slayers be dead!"
THE QUIET VALLEY
They pity me who have grown old,—
So old, mine eyes may not behold
If any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me, because, alas!
I lie and dream among the grass,
And let the herds unheeded pass.
They deem I must be sorrowing,
Because I note not when the Spring
Is over me and everything.
They know not why I am forlorn,—
How could they know?—They were not born
When he rode here that April morn.
They were not living when he came
Into this valley, swift like flame,—
Perchance they have not heard his name!
My men were very valiant men—
(Alas, that I had only ten!
These people were not living then.)
But when one is not yet awake
His banner is not hard to take,
His spears are easy things to break.
And dazed men are not hard to slay
When many foes, as strong as they,
With swords and spears come down their way.
This valley now has quiet grown;
And I lie here content, alone,
Dreaming of things that I have known;
And count the mounds of waving grass—
(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)
And let the restless cattle pass.
THE KINGFISHER
Under the sun, the Kingfisher
From his high place was watching her.
He knew she came from some far place;
For when she threw her body down,
She seemed quite tired; and her face
Had dust upon it; and her gown,
That had been yellow, now was brown.
She lay near where the shadows lie
At noontime when they meet the sun.
The water floated slowly by
Her feet. Her hair was all undone,
And with the grass its gold was spun.
The trees were tall and green behind,
And hid the house upon the hill.
This place was sheltered from the wind,
And all the little leaves were still,
And every fern and daffodil.
Her face was hidden in her hands;
And through the grass, and through her hair,
The sunlight found the golden bands
About her wrists. (It was aware,
Also, that her two arms were bare.)
From his high branch, the Kingfisher
Looked down on her and pitied her.
He wondered who that she could be,—
This dear, strange lady, who had come
To vex him with her misery;
And why her days were wearisome,
And what far country was her home.
Her home must be far off indeed,
Wherein such bitter grief could grow.
Had there been no one there to plead
For her when they had wronged her so?
Did none her perfect honor know?
Was there no sword or pennoned lance
Omnipotent in hall or field
For her complete deliverance?
To make them cry, "We yield! we yield
Were not her colors on some shield?
Had he been there? the Kingfisher,
How he had fought and died for her!
A little yellow bird flew by;
And where the water-weeds were still,
Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;
Small fishes set the streams a-thrill
The Kingfisher forgot to kill.
The Kingfisher forgot to kill.
He only thought of her who lay
Upon the ground and was so fair,—
As fair as she who came one day
And sat long with her lover there.
The same gold sun was in her hair.
They had come down, because of love,
From the great house on the hillside:
This lady had no share thereof,
For now this place was sanctified!
Had this fair lady's lover died?
Was this dear lady's lover dead?
Had she come here to wait until
Her heart and soul were comforted?
Why was it not within her will
To seek the lady on the hill?
She, too, was lonely; for he had
Beheld her just this morning, when
Her last kiss made her lover glad
Who went to fight the heathen-men:
(He said he would return again!)
That lady would have charity
He knew, because her love was great;
And this one—fairer even than she—
Should enter in her open gate
And be no more disconsolate!
Under the sun, the Kingfisher
Knew no one else might comfort her.