The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

Beautiful, tender, wasting away for sorrow; Thus to-day; and how shall it be with thee to-morrow? Beautiful, tender—what else? A hope tells.

Beautiful, tender, keeping the jubilee In the land of home together, past death and sea; No more change or death, no more Salt sea-shore.

Oh why is heaven built so far, Oh why is earth set so remote? I cannot reach the nearest star That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon, One round monotonous of change; Yet even she repeats her tune Beyond my range.

I never watch the scattered fire Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train, But all my heart is one desire, And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands, Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope; I strain my heart, I stretch my hands, And catch at hope.

Lovely Spring, A brief sweet thing, Is swift on the wing; Gracious Summer, A slow sweet comer, Hastens past; Autumn while sweet Is all incomplete With a moaning blast,— Nothing can last, Can be cleaved unto, Can be dwelt upon; It is hurried through, It is come and gone, Undone it cannot be done, It is ever to do, Ever old, ever new, Ever waxing old And lapsing to Winter cold.

The buttercup is like a golden cup, The marigold is like a golden frill, The daisy with a golden eye looks up, And golden spreads the flag beside the rill, And gay and golden nods the daffodil, The gorsey common swells a golden sea, The cowslip hangs a head of golden tips, And golden drips the honey which the bee Sucks from sweet hearts of flowers and stores and sips.

Johnny had a golden head Like a golden mop in blow, Right and left his curls would spread In a glory and a glow, And they framed his honest face Like stray sunbeams out of place.

Long and thick, they half could hide How threadbare his patched jacket hung; They used to be his Mother's pride; She praised them with a tender tongue, And stroked them with a loving finger That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.

On a doorstep Johnny sat, Up and down the street looked he; Johnny did not own a hat, Hot or cold tho' days might be; Johnny did not own a boot To cover up his muddy foot.

Johnny's face was pale and thin, Pale with hunger and with crying; For his Mother lay within, Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying, While Johnny racked his brains to think How to get her help and drink,

Get her physic, get her tea, Get her bread and something nice; Not a penny piece had he, And scarce a shilling might suffice; No wonder that his soul was sad, When not one penny piece he had.

As he sat there thinking, moping, Because his Mother's wants were many, Wishing much but scarcely hoping To earn a shilling or a penny, A friendly neighbor passed him by And questioned him: Why did he cry?

Alas! his trouble soon was told: He did not cry for cold or hunger, Though he was hungry both and cold; He only felt more weak and younger, Because he wished so to be old And apt at earning pence or gold.

Kindly that neighbor was, but poor, Scant coin had he to give or lend; And well he guessed there needed more Than pence or shillings to befriend The helpless woman in her strait, So much loved, yet so desolate.

One way he saw, and only one: He would—he could not—give the advice, And yet he must: the widow's son Had curls of gold would fetch their price; Long curls which might be clipped, and sold For silver, or perhaps for gold.

Our Johnny, when he understood Which shop it was that purchased hair, Ran off as briskly as he could, And in a trice stood cropped and bare, Too short of hair to fill a locket, But jingling money in his pocket.

Precious money—tea and bread, Physic, ease, for Mother dear, Better than a golden head: Yet our hero dropped one tear When he spied himself close shorn, Barer much than lamb new born.

His Mother throve upon the money, Ate and revived and kissed her son: But oh! when she perceived her Johnny, And understood what he had done All and only for her sake, She sobbed as if her heart must break.

There's no replying To the Wind's sighing, Telling, foretelling, Dying, undying, Dwindling and swelling, Complaining, droning, Whistling and moaning, Ever beginning, Ending, repeating, Hinting and dinning, Lagging and fleeting— We've no replying Living or dying To the Wind's sighing.

What are you telling, Variable Wind-tone? What would be teaching, O sinking, swelling, Desolate Wind-moan? Ever for ever Teaching and preaching, Never, ah never Making us wiser— The earliest riser Catches no meaning, The last who hearkens Garners no gleaning Of wisdom's treasure, While the world darkens:— Living or dying, In pain, in pleasure, We've no replying To wordless flying Wind's sighing.

Maiden May sat in her bower, In her blush rose bower in flower, Sweet of scent; Sat and dreamed away an hour, Half content, half uncontent.

"Why should rose blossoms be born, Tender blossoms, on a thorn Though so sweet? Never a thorn besets the corn Scentless in its strength complete.

"Why are roses all so frail, At the mercy of the gale, Of a breath? Yet so sweet and perfect pale, Still so sweet in life and death."

Maiden May sat in her bower, In her blush rose bower in flower, Where a linnet Made one bristling branch the tower For her nest and young ones in it.

"Gay and clear the linnet trills; Yet the skylark only, thrills Heaven and earth When he breasts the height, and fills Height and depth with song and mirth.

"Nightingales which yield to night Solitary strange delight, Reign alone: But the lark for all his height Fills no solitary throne;

"While he sings, a hundred sing; Wing their flight below his wing Yet in flight; Each a lovely joyful thing To the measure of its delight.

"Why then should a lark be reckoned One alone, without a second Near his throne? He in skyward flight unslackened, In his music, not alone."

Maiden May sat in her bower; Her own face was like a flower Of the prime, Half in sunshine, half in shower, In the year's most tender time.

Her own thoughts in silent song Musically flowed along, Wise, unwise, Wistful, wondering, weak or strong: As brook shallows sink or rise.

Other thoughts another day, Maiden May, will surge and sway Round your heart; Wake, and plead, and turn at bay, Wisdom part, and folly part.

Time not far remote will borrow Other joys, another sorrow, All for you; Not to-day, and yet to-morrow Reasoning false and reasoning true.

Wherefore greatest? Wherefore least? Hearts that starve and hearts that feast? You and I? Stammering Oracles have ceased, And the whole earth stands at "why?"

Underneath all things that be Lies an unsolved mystery; Over all Spreads a veil impenetrably, Spreads a dense unlifted pall.

Mystery of mysteries: This creation hears and sees High and low— Vanity of vanities: This we test and this we know.

Maiden May, the days of flowering Nurse you now in sweet embowering, Sunny days; Bright with rainbows all the showering, Bright with blossoms all the ways.

Close the inlet of your bower, Close it close with thorn and flower, Maiden May; Lengthen out the shortening hour,— Morrows are not as to-day.

Stay to-day which wanes too soon, Stay the sun and stay the moon, Stay your youth; Bask you in the actual noon, Rest you in the present truth.

Let to-day suffice to-day: For itself to-morrow may Fetch its loss; Aim and stumble, say its say, Watch and pray and bear its cross.

Long have I longed, till I am tired Of longing and desire; Farewell my points in vain desired, My dying fire; Farewell all things that die and fail and tire.

Springtide and youth and useless pleasure And all my useless scheming, My hopes of unattainable treasure, Dreams not worth dreaming, Glow-worms that gleam but yield no warmth in gleaming,

Farewell all shows that fade in showing: My wish and joy stand over Until to-morrow; Heaven is glowing Through cloudy cover, Beyond all clouds loves me my Heavenly Lover.

The Spring spreads one green lap of flowers Which Autumn buries at the fall, No chilling showers of Autumn hours Can stay them or recall; Winds sing a dirge, while earth lays out of sight Her garment of delight.

The cloven East brings forth the sun, The cloven West doth bury him What time his gorgeous race is run And all the world grows dim; A funeral moon is lit in heaven's hollow, And pale the star-lights follow.

Because you never yet have loved me, dear, Think you you never can nor ever will? Surely while life remains hope lingers still, Hope the last blossom of life's dying year. Because the season and mine age grow sere, Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil, Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill Of roses with the nightingales they hear? If you had loved me, I not loving you, If you had urged me with the tender plea Of what our unknown years to come might do (Eternal years, if Time should count too few), I would have owned the point you pressed on me, Was possible, or probable, or true.

Oh fair Milly Brandon, a young maid, a fair maid! All her curls are yellow and her eyes are blue, And her cheeks were rosy red till a secret care made Hollow whiteness of their brightness as a care will do.

Still she tends her flowers, but not as in the old days, Still she sings her songs, but not the songs of old: If now it be high Summer her days seem brief and cold days, If now it be high Summer her nights are long and cold.

If you have a secret keep it, pure maid Milly; Life is filled with troubles and the world with scorn; And pity without love is at best times hard and chilly, Chilling sore and stinging sore a heart forlorn.

Walter Brandon, do you guess Milly Brandon's secret? Many things you know, but not everything, With your locks like raven's plumage, and eyes like an egret, And a laugh that is music, and such a voice to sing.

Nelly Knollys, she is fair, but she is not fairer Than fairest Milly Brandon was before she turned so pale: Oh, but Nelly's dearer if she be not rarer, She need not keep a secret or blush behind a veil.

Beyond the first green hills, beyond the nearest valleys, Nelly dwells at home beneath her mother's eyes: Her home is neat and homely, not a cot and not a palace, Just the home where love sets up his happiest memories.

Milly has no mother; and sad beyond another Is she whose blessed mother is vanished out of call: Truly comfort beyond comfort is stored up in a mother Who bears with all, and hopes through all, and loves us all.

Where peacocks nod and flaunt up and down the terrace, Furling and unfurling their scores of sightless eyes, To and fro among the leaves and buds and flowers and berries Maiden Milly strolls and pauses, smiles and sighs.

On the hedged-in terrace of her father's palace She may stroll and muse alone, may smile or sigh alone, Letting thoughts and eyes go wandering over hills and valleys To-day her father's, and one day to be all her own.

If her thoughts go coursing down lowlands and up highlands, It is because the startled game are leaping from their lair; If her thoughts dart homeward to the reedy river islands, It is because the waterfowl rise startled here or there.

At length a footfall on the steps: she turns, composed and steady, All the long-descended greatness of her father's house Lifting up her head; and there stands Walter keen and ready For hunting or for hawking, a flush upon his brows.

"Good-morrow, fair cousin." "Good-morrow, fairest cousin: The sun has started on his course, and I must start to-day. If you have done me one good turn you've done me many a dozen, And I shall often think of you, think of you away."

"Over hill and hollow what quarry will you follow, Or what fish will you angle for beside the river's edge? There's cloud upon the hill-top and there 's mist deep down the hollow, And fog among the rushes and the rustling sedge."

"I shall speed well enough be it hunting or hawking, Or casting a bait towards the shyest daintiest fin. But I kiss your hands, my cousin; I must not loiter talking, For nothing comes of nothing, and I'm fain to seek and win."

"Here's a thorny rose: will you wear it an hour, Till the petals drop apart still fresh and pink and sweet? Till the petals drop from the drooping perished flower, And only the graceless thorns are left of it."

"Nay, I have another rose sprung in another garden, Another rose which sweetens all the world for me. Be you a tenderer mistress and be you a warier warden Of your rose, as sweet as mine, and full as fair to see."

"Nay, a bud once plucked there is no reviving, Nor is it worth your wearing now, nor worth indeed my own; The dead to the dead, and the living to the living. It's time I go within, for it's time now you were gone."

"Good-bye, Milly Brandon, I shall not forget you, Though it be good-bye between us for ever from to-day; I could almost wish to-day that I had never met you, And I'm true to you in this one word that I say."

"Good-bye, Walter. I can guess which thornless rose you covet; Long may it bloom and prolong its sunny morn: Yet as for my one thorny rose, I do not cease to love it, And if it is no more a flower I love it as a thorn."