The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

Why does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan. It frets against the boundary shore; All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed: Anemones, salt, passionless, Blow flower-like; just enough alive To blow and multiply and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, Encrusted live things argus-eyed, All fair alike, yet all unlike, Are born without a pang, and die Without a pang,—and so pass by.

A dream that waketh, Bubble that breaketh, Song whose burden sigheth, A passing breath, Smoke that vanisheth,— Such is life that dieth.

A flower that fadeth, Fruit the tree sheddeth, Trackless bird that flieth, Summer time brief, Falling of the leaf,— Such is life that dieth.

A scent exhaling, Snow waters failing, Morning dew that drieth, A windy blast, Lengthening shadows cast,— Such is life that dieth.

A scanty measure, Rust-eaten treasure, Spending that nought buyeth, Moth on the wing, Toil unprofiting,— Such is life that dieth.

Morrow by morrow Sorrow breeds sorrow, For this my song sigheth; From day to night We lapse out of sight,— Such is life that dieth.

She came among us from the South And made the North her home awhile Our dimness brightened in her smile, Our tongue grew sweeter in her mouth.

We chilled beside her liberal glow, She dwarfed us by her ampler scale, Her full-blown blossom made us pale, She summer-like and we like snow.

We Englishwomen, trim, correct, All minted in the self-same mould, Warm-hearted but of semblance cold, All-courteous out of self-respect.

She woman in her natural grace, Less trammelled she by lore of school, Courteous by nature not by rule, Warm-hearted and of cordial face.

So for awhile she made her home Among us in the rigid North, She who from Italy came forth And scaled the Alps and crossed the foam.

But if she found us like our sea, Of aspect colourless and chill, Rock-girt; like it she found us still Deep at our deepest, strong and free.

I said: This is a beautiful fresh rose. I said: I will delight me with its scent, Will watch its lovely curve of languishment, Will watch its leaves unclose, its heart unclose. I said: Old Earth has put away her snows, All living things make merry to their bent, A flower is come for every flower that went In autumn; the sun glows, the south wind blows. So walking in a garden of delight I came upon one sheltered shadowed nook Where broad leaf shadows veiled the day with night, And there lay snow unmelted by the sun:— I answered: Take who will the path I took, Winter nips once for all; love is but one.

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring: Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves, Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves, Their own, and others dropped down withering; For violets suit when home birds build and sing, Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves; Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves, But when the green world buds to blossoming. Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope: Or if a later sadder love be born, Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, But give itself, nor plead for answering truth— A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.

I would not if I could undo my past, Tho' for its sake my future is a blank; My past for which I have myself to thank, For all its faults and follies first and last. I would not cast anew the lot once cast, Or launch a second ship for one that sank, Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank, Or break by feasting my perpetual fast. I would not if I could: for much more dear Is one remembrance than a hundred joys, More than a thousand hopes in jubilee; Dearer the music of one tearful voice That unforgotten calls and calls to me, "Follow me here, rise up, and follow here."

What seekest thou, far in the unknown land? In hope I follow joy gone on before; In hope and fear persistent more and more, As the dry desert lengthens out its sand. Whilst day and night I carry in my hand The golden key to ope the golden door Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore, For long the journey is that makes no stand. And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee? Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right; One exile holds us both, and we are bound To selfsame home-joys in the land of light. Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?— Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.

A dimness of a glory glimmers here Thro' veils and distance from the space remote, A faintest far vibration of a note Reaches to us and seems to bring us near; Causing our face to glow with braver cheer, Making the serried mist to stand afloat, Subduing languor with an antidote, And strengthening love almost to cast out fear: Till for one moment golden city walls Rise looming on us, golden walls of home, Light of our eyes until the darkness falls; Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome I hear again the tender voice that calls, "Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come."

"And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn A skylark hang between the two, A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord, White butterflies danced on the wing, And still the singing skylark soared And silent sank, and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green To right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks:

And as I paused to hear his song While swift the sunny moments slid, Perhaps his mate sat listening long, And listened longer than I did.

Through the vales to my love! To the happy small nest of home Green from basement to roof; Where the honey-bees come To the window-sill flowers, And dive from above, Safe from the spider that weaves Her warp and her woof In some outermost leaves.

Through the vales to my love! In sweet April hours All rainbows and showers, While dove answers dove,— In beautiful May, When the orchards are tender And frothing with flowers,— In opulent June, When the wheat stands up slender By sweet-smelling hay, And half the sun's splendour Descends to the moon.

Through the vales to my love! Where the turf is so soft to the feet, And the thyme makes it sweet, And the stately foxglove Hangs silent its exquisite bells; And where water wells The greenness grows greener, And bulrushes stand Round a lily to screen her.

Nevertheless, if this land, Like a garden to smell and to sight, Were turned to a desert of sand, Stripped bare of delight, All its best gone to worst, For my feet no repose, No water to comfort my thirst, And heaven like a furnace above,— The desert would be As gushing of waters to me, The wilderness be as a rose, If it led me to thee, O my love!

Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled paler, whilst my hair Showed the first tinge of grey.

"Oh, what is life, that we should live? Or what is death, that we must die? A bursting bubble is our life: I also, what am I?"

"What is your grief? now tell me, sweet, That I may grieve," my sister said; And stayed a white embroidering hand And raised a golden head:

Her tresses showed a richer mass, Her eyes looked softer than my own, Her figure had a statelier height, Her voice a tenderer tone.

"Some must be second and not first; All cannot be the first of all: Is not this, too, but vanity? I stumble like to fall.

"So yesterday I read the acts Of Hector and each clangorous king With wrathful great Æacides:— Old Homer leaves a sting."

The comely face looked up again, The deft hand lingered on the thread "Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting, Old Homer's sting?" she said.

"He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, He melts me like the wind of spice, Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand, And grand like Juno's eyes.

"I cannot melt the sons of men, I cannot fire and tempest-toss:— Besides, those days were golden days, Whilst these are days of dross."

She laughed a feminine low laugh, Yet did not stay her dexterous hand: "Now tell me of those days," she said, "When time ran golden sand."

"Then men were men of might and right, Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords; Then men in open blood and fire Bore witness to their words,—

"Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears; But if these shivered in the shock They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees, Or hurled the effacing rock.

"Then hand to hand, then foot to foot, Stern to the death-grip grappling then, Who ever thought of gunpowder Amongst these men of men?

"They knew whose hand struck home the death, They knew who broke but would not bend, Could venerate an equal foe And scorn a laggard friend.

"Calm in the utmost stress of doom, Devout toward adverse powers above, They hated with intenser hate And loved with fuller love.

"Then heavenly beauty could allay As heavenly beauty stirred the strife: By them a slave was worshipped more Than is by us a wife."

She laughed again, my sister laughed; Made answer o'er the laboured cloth: "I rather would be one of us Than wife, or slave, or both."

"Oh better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away: Then night had holiness of night, And day was sacred day.

"The princess laboured at her loom, Mistress and handmaiden alike; Beneath their needles grew the field With warriors armed to strike.

"Or, look again, dim Dian's face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night: Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white?

"A shame it is, our aimless life; I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed—

"The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand."

Her needle erred; a moment's pause, A moment's patience, all was well. Then she: "But just suppose the horse, Suppose the rider fell?

"Then captive in an alien house, Hungering on exile's bitter bread,— They happy, they who won the lot Of sacrifice," she said.

Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was!

"Ah well, be those the days of dross; This, if you will, the age of gold: Yet had those days a spark of warmth, While these are somewhat cold—

"Are somewhat mean and cold and slow, Are stunted from heroic growth: We gain but little when we prove The worthlessness of both."

"But life is in our hands," she said; "In our own hands for gain or loss: Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire Suffice to purge our dross?

"Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length: Why should not you, why should not I, Attain heroic strength?

"Our life is given us as a blank, Ourselves must make it blest or curst: Who dooms me I shall only be The second, not the first?

"Learn from old Homer, if you will, Such wisdom as his books have said: In one the acts of Ajax shine, In one of Diomed.

"Honoured all heroes whose high deeds Through life, through death, enlarge their span Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man."

"Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod?

"He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price: Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice.

"Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page, Is this the man, the less than men Of this degenerate age?"

"Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his; So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness."

But here she paused; our eyes had met, And I was whitening with the jeer; She rose: "I went too far," she said; Spoke low: "Forgive me, dear.

"To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content; Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant.

"Homer, though greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed And rough-hewn men: but what are such To us who learn of Christ?"

The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak.

For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke, And reverence what I said:

I elder sister by six years; Not half so glad, or wise, or good: Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood.

She never guessed her words reproved A silent envy nursed within, A selfish, souring discontent Pride-born, the devil's sin.

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: "The wisest man of all the wise Left for his summary of life 'Vanity of vanities.'

"Beneath the sun there's nothing new: Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: If I am wearied of my life, Why, so was Solomon.

"Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought: Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught.

"This in the wisdom of the world, In Homer's page, in all, we find: As the sea is not filled, so yearns Man's universal mind.

"This Homer felt, who gave his men With glory but a transient state: His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate.

"Uncertain all their lot save this— Who wins must lose, who lives must die: All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity."

She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said: "One Is here," low-voiced and loving, "Yea, Greater than Solomon."

So both were silent, she and I: She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content:

A little graver than her wont, Because her words had fretted me; Not warbling quite her merriest tune Bird-like from tree to tree.

I chose a book to read and dream: Yet half the while with furtive eyes Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise,

And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach.

By birthright higher than myself, Though nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest.

I watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor; Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before.

Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered colour went and came: I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name.

Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life—

The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She, loved and loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet.

A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled:

Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been.

Yet, though of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love.

She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; Most like a vine which full of fruit Doth cling and lean and climb toward heaven, While earth still binds its root.

I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers:

Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk.

While I? I sat alone and watched; My lot in life, to live alone In mine own world of interests, Much felt, but little shown.

Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke: But, thank God, learned at last.

So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here.

Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come:

Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first.