The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February Snow-flakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:— If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss-rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind, Cornfields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First-fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam,— It's O for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November The fog forms and shifts; All the world comes out again When the fog lifts. Loosened from their sapless twigs Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December, The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day, Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts, Brings back the snow.

How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts, Still hold the Queen of Hearts?

I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze, Resolved to fathom these your secret ways: But, sift them as I will, Your ways are secret still.

I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again; But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain: Vain hope, vain forethought, too; That Queen still falls to you.

I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal Was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel: "There should be one card more," You said, and searched the floor.

I cheated once: I made a private notch In Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch; Yet such another back Deceived me in the pack:

The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown An imitative dint that seemed my own; This notch, not of my doing, Misled me to my ruin.

It baffles me to puzzle out the clew, Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you: Unless, indeed, it be Natural affinity.

I will tell you when they met: In the limpid days of Spring; Elder boughs were budding yet, Oaken boughs looked wintry still, But primrose and veined violet In the mossful turf were set, While meeting birds made haste to sing And build with right good will.

I will tell you when they parted: When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown, Then they parted heavy-hearted; The full rejoicing sun looked down As grand as in the days before; Only they had lost a crown; Only to them those days of yore Could come back nevermore.

When shall they meet? I cannot tell, Indeed, when they shall meet again, Except some day in Paradise: For this they wait, one waits in pain. Beyond the sea of death love lies Forever, yesterday, to-day; Angels shall ask them, "Is it well?" And they shall answer, "Yea."

"Croak, croak, croak," Thus the Raven spoke, Perched on his crooked tree As hoarse as hoarse could be. Shun him and fear him, Lest the Bridegroom hear him; Scout him and rout him With his ominous eye about him.

Yet, "Croak, croak, croak," Still tolled from the oak; From that fatal black bird, Whether heard or unheard: "O ship upon the high seas, Freighted with lives and spices, Sink, O ship," croaked the Raven: "Let the Bride mount to heaven."

In a far foreign land Upon the wave-edged sand, Some friends gaze wistfully Across the glittering sea. "If we could clasp our sister," Three say, "now we have missed her!" "If we could kiss our daughter!" Two sigh across the water.

O, the ship sails fast, With silken flags at the mast, And the home-wind blows soft; But a Raven sits aloft, Chuckling and choking, Croaking, croaking, croaking:— Let the beacon-fire blaze higher; Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.

On a sloped sandy beach, Which the spring-tide billows reach, Stand a watchful throng Who have hoped and waited long: "Fie on this ship, that tarries With the priceless freight it carries. The time seems long and longer: O languid wind, wax stronger";—

Whilst the Raven perched at ease Still croaks and does not cease, One monotonous note Tolled from his iron throat: "No father, no mother, But I have a sable brother: He sees where ocean flows to, And he knows what he knows, too."

A day and a night They kept watch worn and white; A night and a day For the swift ship on its way: For the Bride and her maidens,— Clear chimes the bridal cadence,— For the tall ship that never Hove in sight forever.

On either shore, some Stand in grief loud or dumb As the dreadful dread Grows certain though unsaid. For laughter there is weeping, And waking instead of sleeping, And a desperate sorrow Morrow after morrow.

O, who knows the truth, How she perished in her youth, And like a queen went down Pale in her royal crown? How she went up to glory From the sea-foam chill and hoary, From the sea-depth black and riven To the calm that is in Heaven?

They went down, all the crew, The silks and spices too, The great ones and the small, One and all, one and all. Was it through stress of weather, Quicksands, rocks, or all together? Only the Raven knows this, And he will not disclose this.—

After a day and a year The bridal bells chime clear; After a year and a day The Bridegroom is brave and gay: Love is sound, faith is rotten; The old Bride is forgotten:— Two ominous Ravens only Remember, black and lonely.

These two pieces, written during the suspense of a great nation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not political bias.

All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed; Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage: When, as one man's hand, a cloud Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder In rain and fire and thunder.

Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest? Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield? Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness, And they reap a red crop from the field. Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright, Though your souls be called to-night.

A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads, A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth: Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth; God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet He doth not forget.

Mournful Mother, prone in dust weeping, Who shall comfort thee for those who are not? As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure, And heat the furnace sevenfold hot: As thou once, now these to thee—who pitieth thee From sea to sea?

O thou King, terrible in strength, and building Thy strong future on thy past! Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach, Yet he shall drink at the last. Art thou greater than great Babylon, Which lies overthrown?

Take heed, ye unwise among the people; O ye fools, when will ye understand?— He that planted the ear shall He not hear, Nor He smite who formed the hand? "Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord:— O Man, put up thy sword.

She sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more— Let us sit with thee weeping sore, O fair France!

She trembleth as the days advance Who used to be so light of heart:— We in thy trembling bear a part, Sister France!

Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons? "Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."— Alas, France!

She struggles in a deathly trance, As in a dream her pulses stir, She hears the nations calling her, "France, France, France!"

Thou people of the lifted lance, Forbear her tears, forbear her blood: Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, Back from France.

Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France.

A time there is for change and chance, A time for passing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France.

A time there is for change and chance: Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up After France?

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, Sporting at ease and courting full in view. When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; So farewell life and love and pleasures new. Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:— We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,— He guards us too.

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:— What profits all this care And all this coil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:— Much more our Father seeks To do us good.

While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily's straighter than she, And if she were as red or white She'd be but one of three.

Whether she flush in love's summer Or in its winter grow pale, Whether she flaunt her beauty Or hide it away in a veil, Be she red or white, And stand she erect or bowed, Time will win the race he runs with her And hide her away in a shroud.

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year, 'T will be little lord or lady at my knee.

O, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil, That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost? You're as white as I turned once down by the mill, When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:

Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl (It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me), Philip with the merry life in lip and curl, Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!

I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint; I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad, Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.

They said I looked so pale,—some say so fair,— My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life: I know I missed a ringlet from my hair Next morning; and now I am his wife.

Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring, I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe: All day long I sit in the sun and sing, Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.

And I'm the rose of roses says my lord; And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky, While I hold him fast with the golden cord Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.

His mother said "fie," and his sisters cried "shame," His high-born ladies cried "shame" from their place: They said "fie" when they only heard my name, But fell silent when they saw my face.

Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you think I was so fair when we played boy and girl, Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent awhirl?

If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now, Sitting where a score of servants stand, With a coronet on high days for my brow And almost a sceptre for my hand.

You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown, A stranger on land and at home on the sea, Coasting as best you may from town to town: Coasting along do you often think of me?

I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower, With hands grown white through having naught to do: Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.