The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night, Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.

I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled Like overflowing Jordan in its youth: It waxed and colored sensibly to sight, Till out of myriad pregnant waves there welled Young crocodiles, a gaunt blunt-featured crew, Fresh-hatched perhaps and daubed with birthday dew. The rest if I should tell, I fear my friend, My closest friend, would deem the facts untrue; And therefore it were wisely left untold; Yet if you will, why, hear it to the end.

Each crocodile was girt with massive gold And polished stones, that with their wearers grew: But one there was who waxed beyond the rest, Wore kinglier girdle and a kingly crown, Whilst crowns and orbs and sceptres starred his breast. All gleamed compact and green with scale on scale, But special burnishment adorned his mail, And special terror weighed upon his frown; His punier brethren quaked before his tail, Broad as a rafter, potent as a flail. So he grew lord and master of his kin: But who shall tell the tale of all their woes? An execrable appetite arose, He battened on them, crunched, and sucked them in. He knew no law, he feared no binding law, But ground them with inexorable jaw: The luscious fat distilled upon his chin, Exuded from his nostrils and his eyes, While still like hungry death he fed his maw; Till every minor crocodile being dead And buried too, himself gorged to the full, He slept with breath oppressed and unstrung claw. O marvel passing strange which next I saw: In sleep he dwindled to the common size, And all the empire faded from his coat. Then from far off a wingèd vessel came, Swift as a swallow, subtle as a flame: I know not what it bore of freight or host, But white it was as an avenging ghost. It levelled strong Euphrates in its course; Supreme yet weightless as an idle mote It seemed to tame the waters without force Till not a murmur swelled or billow beat: Lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands, The prudent crocodile rose on his feet And shed appropriate tears and wrung his hands.

What can it mean? you ask. I answer not For meaning, but myself must echo, What? And tell it as I saw it on the spot.

O roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.

O violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time.

O love, love, hold me fast,— He draws me away from thee; I cannot stem the blast, Nor the cold strong sea: Far away a light shines Beyond the hills and pines; It is lit for me.

I have thee close, my dear, No terror can come near; Only far off the northern light shines clear.

Come with me, fair and false, To our home, come home. It is my voice that calls: Once thou wast not afraid When I wooed, and said, "Come, our nest is newly made,"— Now cross the tossing foam.

Hold me one moment longer, He taunts me with the past, His clutch is waxing stronger, Hold me fast, hold me fast. He draws me from thy heart, And I cannot withhold: He bids my spirit depart With him into the cold:— O bitter vows of old!

Lean on me, hide thine eyes: Only ourselves, earth and skies, Are present here: be wise.

Lean on me, come away, I will guide and steady: Come, for I will not stay: Come, for house and bed are ready. Ah, sure bed and house, For better and worse, for life and death: Goal won with shortened breath: Come, crown our vows.

One moment, one more word, While my heart beats still, While my breath is stirred By my fainting will. O friend forsake me not, Forget not as I forgot: But keep thy heart for me, Keep thy faith true and bright; Through the lone cold winter night Perhaps I may come to thee.

Nay, peace, my darling, peace: Let these dreams and terrors cease: Who spoke of death or change or aught but ease?

O fair frail sin, O poor harvest gathered in! Thou shalt visit him again To watch his heart grow cold; To know the gnawing pain I knew of old; To see one much more fair Fill up the vacant chair, Fill his heart, his children bear:— While thou and I together In the outcast weather Toss and howl and spin.

Live all thy sweet life through Sweet Rose, dew-sprent, Drop down thine evening dew To gather it anew When day is bright: I fancy thou wast meant Chiefly to give delight.

Sing in the silent sky, Glad soaring bird; Sing out thy notes on high To sunbeam straying by Or passing cloud; Heedless if thou art heard Sing thy full song aloud.

O that it were with me As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns.

O that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew.

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree, And wore them all that evening in my hair: Then in due season when I went to see I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass As I had come I went the selfsame track: My neighbors mocked me while they saw me pass So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by, Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer; Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky, Their mother's home was near.

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full, A stronger hand than hers helped it along; A voice talked with her through the shadows cool More sweet to me than song.

Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worth Than apples with their green leaves piled above? I counted rosiest apples on the earth Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk Laughing and listening in this very lane: To think that by this way we used to walk We shall not walk again!

I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twos And groups; the latest said the night grew chill, And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews Fell fast I loitered still.

Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:— O happy they who look on them.

Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night.

Out of the church she followed them With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid, Maude Clare was like a queen.

"Son Thomas," his lady mother said, With smiles, almost with tears: "May Nell and you but live as true As we have done for years;

"Your father thirty years ago Had just your tale to tell; But he was not so pale as you, Nor I so pale as Nell."

My lord was pale with inward strife, And Nell was pale with pride; My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare Or ever he kissed the bride.

"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord, Have brought my gift," she said: "To bless the hearth, to bless the board, To bless the marriage-bed.

"Here's my half of the golden chain You wore about your neck, That day we waded ankle-deep For lilies in the beck:

"Here's my half of the faded leaves We plucked from budding bough, With feet amongst the lily-leaves,— The lilies are budding now."

He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He faltered in his place: "Lady," he said,—"Maude Clare," he said,— "Maude Clare":—and hid his face.

She turned to Nell: "My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you; Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew.

"Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love: Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof."

"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take, And what you spurn, I'll wear; For he's my lord for better and worse, And him I love, Maude Clare.

"Yea, though you're taller by the head, More wise, and much more fair; I'll love him till he loves me best, Me best of all, Maude Clare."

Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. To-day's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to every one who taps, And let the draughts come whistling through my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good-will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither through the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

If I might see another Spring I'd not plant summer flowers and wait: I'd have my crocuses at once, My leafless pink mezereons, My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet My white or azure violet, Leaf-nested primrose; anything To blow at once not late.

If I might see another Spring I'd listen to the daylight birds That build their nests and pair and sing, Nor wait for mateless nightingale; I'd listen to the lusty herds, The ewes with lambs as white as snow, I'd find out music in the hail And all the winds that blow.

If I might see another Spring— O stinging comment on my past That all my past results in "if"— If I might see another Spring I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief; I would not wait for anything: I'd use to-day that cannot last, Be glad to-day and sing.

Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell. All my lamps burn scented oil, Hung on laden orange-trees, Whose shadowed foliage is the foil To golden lamps and oranges. Heap my golden plates with fruit, Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; Strike the bells and breathe the pipe; Shut out showers from summer hours; Silence that complaining lute; Shut out thinking, shut out pain, From hours that cannot come again.

Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep: My friend is passing to his bed, Fast asleep; There's plaited linen round his head, While foremost go his feet,— His feet that cannot carry him. My feast's a show, my lights are dim; Be still, your music is not sweet,— There is no music more for him: His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drained, is broken, cannot hold; My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun.

A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun; Like lead I chase it evermore, I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound; Goes singing as it leaps along To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay; It is so far before, I weep: I hope I shall lie down some day, Lie down and sleep.

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart?—Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth: Catch at to-day, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less: and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,— No, thank you, John.

I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day When May was young; ah, pleasant May! As yet the poppies were not born Between the blades of tender corn; The last eggs had not hatched as yet, Nor any bird foregone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was; But this I know: it did but pass. It passed away with sunny May, With all sweet things it passed away, And left me old, and cold, and gray.