‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves
Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens,
whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
Margaret and Rosalys.
‘Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like
flame
Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
Who are just born, being dead.
‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:
Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
Not
once abash’d or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
My pride, and let me speak.
‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged
unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles:
And angels meeting us shall sing
To their citherns and
citoles.
‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord
Thus much for him and me:—
Only to live as once on earth
With
Love,—only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now
Together, I and he.’
She gazed and listen’d and then said,
Less sad of speech than mild,—
‘All this is when he
comes.’ She ceased.
The light thrill’d towards her, fill’d
With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed,
and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her
arms along
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
And wept. (I heard her tears.)
THE wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walk’d
on at the wind’s will,—
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was,—
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in
the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the
sun,
The woodspurge flower’d, three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing learnt remains to
me,—
The woodspurge has a cup of three.
UNDER the arch of Life, where love and death,
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
Beauty
enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath.
Hers are the eyes which,
over and beneath,
The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
By sea or sky or woman, to one
law,
The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.
This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to
thee
By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
How passionately
and irretrievably,
In what fond flight, how many ways and days!
THINK thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth upon the shore,
Thou
say’st: ‘Man’s measured path is all gone o’er:
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb
until he touch’d the truth; and I,
Even I, am he whom it was destined for.’
How should this be? Art thou
then so much more
Than they who sow’d, that thou shouldst reap thereby?
|
