The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

Never on this side of the grave again, On this side of the river, On this side of the garner of the grain, Never,—

Ever while time flows on and on and on, That narrow noiseless river, Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan, Ever,—

Never despairing, often fainting, ruing, But looking back, ah never! Faint yet pursuing, faint yet still pursuing Ever.

Many have sung of love a root of bane: While to my mind a root of balm it is, For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss For life and death and rising up again. Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain, Love will grow plain with all its mysteries; Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain. Love in our borders, love within our heart, Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest, Ended for ever life's unending quest, Ended for ever effort, change and fear: Love all in all;—no more that better part Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.

There is silence that saith, "Ah me!" There is silence that nothing saith; One the silence of life forlorn, One the silence of death; One is, and the other shall be.

One we know and have known for long, One we know not, but we shall know, All we who have ever been born; Even so, be it so,— There is silence, despite a song.

Sowing day is a silent day, Resting night is a silent night; But whoso reaps the ripened corn Shall shout in his delight, While silences vanish away.

I sat beneath a willow tree, Where water falls and calls; While fancies upon fancies solaced me, Some true, and some were false.

Who set their heart upon a hope That never comes to pass, Droop in the end like fading heliotrope, The sun's wan looking-glass.

Who set their will upon a whim Clung to through good and ill, Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim, Or hit or miss their will.

All things are vain that wax and wane, For which we waste our breath; Love only doth not wane and is not vain, Love only outlives death.

A singing lark rose toward the sky, Circling he sang amain; He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high, And then he sank again.

A second like a sunlit spark Flashed singing up his track; But never overtook that foremost lark, And songless fluttered back.

A hovering melody of birds Haunted the air above; They clearly sang contentment without words, And youth and joy and love.

O silvery weeping willow tree With all leaves shivering, Have you no purpose but to shadow me Beside this rippled spring?

On this first fleeting day of Spring, For Winter is gone by, And every bird on every quivering wing Floats in a sunny sky;

On this first Summer-like soft day, While sunshine steeps the air, And every cloud has gat itself away, And birds sing everywhere.

Have you no purpose in the world But thus to shadow me With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled, O weeping willow tree?

With all your tremulous leaves outspread Betwixt me and the sun, While here I loiter on a mossy bed With half my work undone;

My work undone, that should be done At once with all my might; For after the long day and lingering sun Comes the unworking night.

This day is lapsing on its way, Is lapsing out of sight; And after all the chances of the day Comes the resourceless night.

The weeping-willow shook its head And stretched its shadow long; The west grew crimson, the sun smouldered red, The birds forbore a song.

Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves, The ripple made a moan, The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves; And then I felt alone.

I rose to go, and felt the chill, And shivered as I went; Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still, What more that willow meant;

That silvery weeping-willow tree With all leaves shivering, Which spent one long day overshadowing me Beside a spring in Spring.

The splendor of the kindling day, The splendor of the setting sun, These move my soul to wend its way, And have done With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.

The paling roses of a cloud, The fading bow that arches space, These woo my fancy toward my shroud; Toward the place Of faces veiled, and heads discrowned and bowed.

The nation of the awful stars, The wandering star whose blaze is brief, These make me beat against the bars Of my grief; My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.

O fretted heart tossed to and fro, So fain to flee, so fain to rest! All glories that are high or low, East or west, Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.

The soonest mended, nothing said; And help may rise from east or west; But my two hands are lumps of lead, My heart sits leaden in my breast.

O north wind swoop not from the north, O south wind linger in the south, Oh come not raving raging forth, To bring my heart into my mouth;

For I've a husband out at sea, Afloat on feeble planks of wood; He does not know what fear may be; I would have told him if I could.

I would have locked him in my arms, I would have hid him in my heart; For oh! the waves are fraught with harms, And he and I so far apart.

Why has Spring one syllable less Than any its fellow season? There may be some other reason, And I'm merely making a guess; But surely it hoards such wealth Of happiness, hope and health, Sunshine and musical sound, It may spare a foot from its name Yet all the same Superabound.

Soft-named Summer, Most welcome comer, Brings almost everything Over which we dream or sing Or sigh; But then Summer wends its way, To-morrow,—to-day,— Good-bye!

Autumn,—the slow name lingers, While we likewise flag; It silences many singers; Its slow days drag, Yet hasten at speed To leave us in chilly need For Winter to strip indeed.

In all-lack Winter, Dull of sense and of sound, We huddle and shiver Beside our splinter Of crackling pine, Snow in sky and snow on ground. Winter and cold Can't last for ever! To-day, to-morrow, the sun will shine; When we are old, But some still are young, Singing the song Which others have sung, Ringing the bells Which others have rung,— Even so! We ourselves, who else? We ourselves long Long ago.

Not for me marring or making, Not for me giving or taking; I love my Love and he loves not me, I love my Love and my heart is breaking.

Sweet is Spring in its lovely showing, Sweet the violet veiled in blowing, Sweet it is to love and be loved; Ah, sweet knowledge beyond my knowing!

Who sighs for love sighs but for pleasure, Who wastes for love hoards up a treasure; Sweet to be loved and take no count, Sweet it is to love without measure.

Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for, Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for, Will you once love me and sigh for me, You my Love whom I love and die for?

Poor the pleasure Doled out by measure, Sweet though it be, while brief As falling of the leaf; Poor is pleasure By weight and measure.

Sweet the sorrow Which ends to-morrow; Sharp though it be and sore, It ends for evermore: Zest of sorrow, What ends to-morrow.

"Oh tell me once and tell me twice And tell me thrice to make it plain, When we who part this weary day, When we who part shall meet again."

"When windflowers blossom on the sea And fishes skim along the plain, Then we who part this weary day, Then you and I shall meet again."

"Yet tell me once before we part, Why need we part who part in pain? If flowers must blossom on the sea, Why, we shall never meet again.

"My cheeks are paler than a rose, My tears are salter than the main, My heart is like a lump of ice If we must never meet again."

"Oh weep or laugh, but let me be, And live or die, for all's in vain; For life's in vain since we must part, And parting must not meet again

"Till windflowers blossom on the sea, And fishes skim along the plain; Pale rose of roses let me be, Your breaking heart breaks mine again."

A million buds are born that never blow, That sweet with promise lift a pretty head To blush and wither on a barren bed And leave no fruit to show.

Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood One joy, by their fragility made plain: Nothing was ever beautiful in vain, Or all in vain was good.

"If you'll busk you as a bride And make ready, It's I will wed you with a ring, O fair lady."

"Shall I busk me as a bride, I so bonny, For you to wed me with a ring, O boy Johnny?"

"When you've busked you as a bride And made ready, Who else is there to marry you, O fair lady?"

"I will find my lover out, I so bonny, And you shall bear my wedding-train, O boy Johnny."

Such a hubbub in the nests, Such a bustle and squeak! Nestlings, guiltless of a feather, Learning just to speak, Ask—"And how about the fashions?" From a cavernous beak.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges, Perched on firm hahas, Perched on anything that holds them, Gay papas and grave mammas Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings: Hear the gay papas.

Robin says: "A scarlet waistcoat Will be all the wear, Snug, and also cheerful-looking For the frostiest air, Comfortable for the chest too When one comes to plume and pair."

"Neat gray hoods will be in vogue," Quoth a Jackdaw: "Glossy gray, Setting close, yet setting easy, Nothing fly-away; Suited to our misty mornings, A la negligée."

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, Haughty Cockatoos Answer—"Hoods may do for mornings, But for evenings choose High head-dresses, curved like crescents, Such as well-bred persons use."

"Top-knots, yes; yet more essential Still, a train or tail," Screamed the Peacock: "Gemmed and lustrous Not too stiff, and not too frail; Those are best which rearrange as Fans, and spread or trail."

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind An inimitable neck: "After all, there's nothing sweeter For the lawn or lake Than simple white, if fine and flaky And absolutely free from speck."

"Yellow," hinted a Canary, "Warmer, not less distingué." "Peach color," put in a Lory, "Cannot look outré." "All the colors are in fashion, And are right," the Parrots say.

"Very well. But do contrast Tints harmonious," Piped a Blackbird, justly proud Of bill aurigerous; "Half the world may learn a lesson As to that from us."

Then a Stork took up the word: "Aim at height and chic: Not high heels, they're common; somehow, Stilted legs, not thick, Nor yet thin:" he just glanced downward And snapped to his beak.

Here a rustling and a whirring, As of fans outspread, Hinted that mammas felt anxious Lest the next thing said Might prove less than quite judicious, Or even underbred.

So a mother Auk resumed The broken thread of speech: "Let colors sort themselves, my dears, Yellow, or red, or peach; The main points, as it seems to me, We mothers have to teach,

"Are form and texture, elegance, An air reserved, sublime; The mode of wearing what we wear With due regard to month and clime. But now, let's all compose ourselves, It's almost breakfast-time."

A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle! Who cares to chatter or sing With delightful breakfast coming? Yet they whisper under the wing: "So we may wear whatever we like, Anything, everything!"

In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane! Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall.

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend: An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend.

All things that pass Are woman's looking-glass; They show her how her bloom must fade, And she herself be laid With withered roses in the shade; With withered roses and the fallen peach, Unlovely, out of reach Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass Are woman's tiring-glass; The faded lavender is sweet, Sweet the dead violet Culled and laid by and cared for yet; The dried-up violets and dried lavender Still sweet, may comfort her, Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will; For there is nothing new beneath the sun; Our doings have been done, And that which shall be was.