The Dead Village Here there is death. But even here, they say, — Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon As desolate as ever the dead moon Did glimmer on dead Sardis, — men were gay; And there were little children here to play, With small soft hands that once did keep in tune The strings that stretch from heaven, till too soon The change came, and the music passed away. Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things, — No life, no love, no children, and no men; And over the forgotten place there clings The strange and unrememberable light That is in dreams. The music failed, and then God frowned, and shut the village from His sight. Boston My northern pines are good enough for me, But there's a town my memory uprears — A town that always like a friend appears, And always in the sunrise by the sea. And over it, somehow, there seems to be A downward flash of something new and fierce, That ever strives to clear, but never clears The dimness of a charmed antiquity. Two Sonnets I Just as I wonder at the twofold screen Of twisted innocence that you would plait For eyes that uncourageously await The coming of a kingdom that has been, So do I wonder what God's love can mean To you that all so strangely estimate The purpose and the consequent estate Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen. No, I have not your backward faith to shrink Lone-faring from the doorway of God's home To find Him in the names of buried men; Nor your ingenious recreance to think We cherish, in the life that is to come, The scattered features of dead friends again. II Never until our souls are strong enough To plunge into the crater of the Scheme — Triumphant in the flash there to redeem Love's handsel and forevermore to slough, Like cerements at a played-out masque, the rough And reptile skins of us whereon we set The stigma of scared years — are we to get Where atoms and the ages are one stuff. Nor ever shall we know the cursed waste Of life in the beneficence divine Of starlight and of sunlight and soul-shine That we have squandered in sin's frail distress, Till we have drunk, and trembled at the taste, The mead of Thought's prophetic endlessness. The Clerks I did not think that I should find them there When I came back again; but there they stood, As in the days they dreamed of when young blood Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. Be sure, they met me with an ancient air, — And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood About them; but the men were just as good, And just as human as they ever were. And you that ache so much to be sublime, And you that feed yourselves with your descent, What comes of all your visions and your fears? Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time, Tiering the same dull webs of discontent, Clipping the same sad alnage of the years. Fleming Helphenstine At first I thought there was a superfine Persuasion in his face; but the free glow That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!" Shone joyously, and so I let it shine. He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine, But be that as it may; — I only know He talked of this and that and So-and-So, And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine. But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me, And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince: Then, with a wordless clogged apology That sounded half confused and half amazed, He dodged, — and I have never seen him since. For a Book by Thomas Hardy With searching feet, through dark circuitous ways, I plunged and stumbled; round me, far and near, Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear, Twisting and turning in a bootless chase, — When, like an exile given by God's grace To feel once more a human atmosphere, I caught the world's first murmur, large and clear, Flung from a singing river's endless race. Then, through a magic twilight from below, I heard its grand sad song as in a dream: Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe It sang me; and, with many a changing gleam, Across the music of its onward flow I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam. Thomas Hood The man who cloaked his bitterness within This winding-sheet of puns and pleasantries, God never gave to look with common eyes Upon a world of anguish and of sin: His brother was the branded man of Lynn; And there are woven with his jollities The nameless and eternal tragedies That render hope and hopelessness akin. We laugh, and crown him; but anon we feel A still chord sorrow-swept, — a weird unrest; And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal, As if the very ghost of mirth were dead — As if the joys of time to dreams had fled, Or sailed away with Ines to the West. The Miracle "Dear brother, dearest friend, when I am dead, And you shall see no more this face of mine, Let nothing but red roses be the sign Of the white life I lost for him," she said; "No, do not curse him, — pity him instead; Forgive him! — forgive me! . . God's anodyne For human hate is pity; and the wine That makes men wise, forgiveness. I have read Love's message in love's murder, and I die." And so they laid her just where she would lie, — Under red roses. Red they bloomed and fell; But when flushed autumn and the snows went by, And spring came, — lo, from every bud's green shell Burst a white blossom. — Can love reason why? Horace to Leuconoe I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore With unpermitted eyes on what may be Appointed by the gods for you and me, Nor on Chaldean figures any more. 'T were infinitely better to implore The present only: — whether Jove decree More winters yet to come, or whether he Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last — Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, The envious close of time is narrowing; — So seize the day, — or ever it be past, — And let the morrow come for what it will. Reuben Bright Because he was a butcher and thereby Did earn an honest living (and did right), I would not have you think that Reuben Bright Was any more a brute than you or I; For when they told him that his wife must die, He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, And cried like a great baby half that night, And made the women cry to see him cry. And after she was dead, and he had paid The singers and the sexton and the rest, He packed a lot of things that she had made Most mournfully away in an old chest Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house. The Altar Alone, remote, nor witting where I went, I found an altar builded in a dream — A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam So swift, so searching, and so eloquent Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme Unending impulse to that human stream Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent. Alas! I said, — the world is in the wrong. But the same quenchless fever of unrest That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng Thrilled me, and I awoke . . . and was the same Bewildered insect plunging for the flame That burns, and must burn somehow for the best. The Tavern Whenever I go by there nowadays And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass, The torn blue curtains and the broken glass, I seem to be afraid of the old place; And something stiffens up and down my face, For all the world as if I saw the ghost Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host, With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze. The Tavern has a story, but no man Can tell us what it is. We only know That once long after midnight, years ago, A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town, Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown. Sonnet Oh for a poet — for a beacon bright To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray; To spirit back the Muses, long astray, And flush Parnassus with a newer light; To put these little sonnet-men to flight Who fashion, in a shrewd, mechanic way, Songs without souls, that flicker for a day, To vanish in irrevocable night. What does it mean, this barren age of ours? Here are the men, the women, and the flowers, The seasons, and the sunset, as before. What does it mean? Shall not one bard arise To wrench one banner from the western skies, And mark it with his name forevermore? George Crabbe Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will, — But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. In spite of all fine science disavows, Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows. Whether or not we read him, we can feel From time to time the vigor of his name Against us like a finger for the shame And emptiness of what our souls reveal In books that are as altars where we kneel To consecrate the flicker, not the flame. Credo I cannot find my way: there is no star In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; And there is not a whisper in the air Of any living voice but one so far That I can hear it only as a bar Of lost, imperial music, played when fair And angel fingers wove, and unaware, Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are. No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, The black and awful chaos of the night; For through it all, — above, beyond it all, — I know the far-sent message of the years, I feel the coming glory of the Light! On the Night of a Friend's Wedding If ever I am old, and all alone, I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown. The devil only knows what I have done, But here I am, and here are six or eight Good friends, who most ingenuously prate About my songs to such and such a one. But everything is all askew to-night, — As if the time were come, or almost come, For their untenanted mirage of me To lose itself and crumble out of sight, Like a tall ship that floats above the foam A little while, and then breaks utterly. Sonnet The master and the slave go hand in hand, Though touch be lost. The poet is a slave, And there be kings do sorrowfully crave The joyance that a scullion may command. But, ah, the sonnet-slave must understand The mission of his bondage, or the grave May clasp his bones, or ever he shall save The perfect word that is the poet's wand! The sonnet is a crown, whereof the rhymes Are for Thought's purest gold the jewel-stones; But shapes and echoes that are never done Will haunt the workshop, as regret sometimes Will bring with human yearning to sad thrones The crash of battles that are never won. Verlaine Why do you dig like long-clawed scavengers To touch the covered corpse of him that fled The uplands for the fens, and rioted Like a sick satyr with doom's worshippers? Come! let the grass grow there; and leave his verse To tell the story of the life he led. Let the man go: let the dead flesh be dead, And let the worms be its biographers. Song sloughs away the sin to find redress In art's complete remembrance: nothing clings For long but laurel to the stricken brow That felt the Muse's finger; nothing less Than hell's fulfilment of the end of things Can blot the star that shines on Paris now. Sonnet When we can all so excellently give The measure of love's wisdom with a blow, — Why can we not in turn receive it so, And end this murmur for the life we live? And when we do so frantically strive To win strange faith, why do we shun to know That in love's elemental over-glow God's wholeness gleams with light superlative? Oh, brother men, if you have eyes at all, Look at a branch, a bird, a child, a rose, — Or anything God ever made that grows, — Nor let the smallest vision of it slip, Till you can read, as on Belshazzar's wall, The glory of eternal partnership! Supremacy There is a drear and lonely tract of hell From all the common gloom removed afar: A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell. I walked among them and I knew them well: Men I had slandered on life's little star For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar Upon their brows of woe ineffable. But as I went majestic on my way, Into the dark they vanished, one by one, Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, The dream of all my glory was undone, — And, with a fool's importunate dismay, I heard the dead men singing in the sun. The Night Before Look you, Dominie; look you, and listen! Look in my face, first; search every line there; Mark every feature, — chin, lip, and forehead! Look in my eyes, and tell me the lesson You read there; measure my nose, and tell me Where I am wanting! A man's nose, Dominie, Is often the cast of his inward spirit; So mark mine well. But why do you smile so? Pity, or what? Is it written all over, This face of mine, with a brute's confession? Nothing but sin there? nothing but hell-scars? Or is it because there is something better — A glimmer of good, maybe — or a shadow Of something that's followed me down from childhood — Followed me all these years and kept me, Spite of my slips and sins and follies, Spite of my last red sin, my murder, — Just out of hell? Yes? something of that kind? And you smile for that? You're a good man, Dominie, The one good man in the world who knows me, — My one good friend in a world that mocks me, Here in this hard stone cage. But I leave it To-morrow. To-morrow! My God! am I crying? Are these things tears? Tears! What! am I frightened? I, who swore I should go to the scaffold With big strong steps, and — No more. I thank you, But no — I am all right now! No! — listen! I am here to be hanged; to be hanged to-morrow At six o'clock, when the sun is rising. And why am I here? Not a soul can tell you But this poor shivering thing before you, This fluttering wreck of the man God made him, For God knows what wild reason. Hear me, And learn from my lips the truth of my story. There's nothing strange in what I shall tell you, Nothing mysterious, nothing unearthly, — But damnably human, — and you shall hear it. Not one of those little black lawyers had guessed it; The judge, with his big bald head, never knew it; And the jury (God rest their poor souls!) never dreamed it. Once there were three in the world who could tell it; Now there are two. There'll be two to-morrow, — You, my friend, and — But there's the story: — When I was a boy the world was heaven. I never knew then that the men and the women Who petted and called me a brave big fellow Were ever less happy than I; but wisdom — Which comes with the years, you know — soon showed me The secret of all my glittering childhood, The broken key to the fairies' castle That held my life in the fresh, glad season When I was the king of the earth. Then slowly — And yet so swiftly! — there came the knowledge That the marvellous life I had lived was my life; That the glorious world I had loved was my world; And that every man, and every woman, And every child was a different being, Wrought with a different heat, and fired With passions born of a single spirit; That the pleasure I felt was not their pleasure, Nor my sorrow — a kind of nameless pity For something, I knew not what — their sorrow. And thus was I taught my first hard lesson, — The lesson we suffer the most in learning: That a happy man is a man forgetful Of all the torturing ills around him. When or where I first met the woman I cherished and made my wife, no matter. Enough to say that I found her and kept her Here in my heart with as pure a devotion As ever Christ felt for his brothers. Forgive me For naming His name in your patient presence; But I feel my words, and the truth I utter Is God's own truth. I loved that woman, — Not for her face, but for something fairer, Something diviner, I thought, than beauty: I loved the spirit — the human something That seemed to chime with my own condition, And make soul-music when we were together; And we were never apart, from the moment My eyes flashed into her eyes the message That swept itself in a quivering answer Back through my strange lost being. My pulses Leapt with an aching speed; and the measure Of this great world grew small and smaller, Till it seemed the sky and the land and the ocean Closed at last in a mist all golden Around us two. And we stood for a season Like gods outflung from chaos, dreaming That we were the king and the queen of the fire That reddened the clouds of love that held us Blind to the new world soon to be ours — Ours to seize and sway. The passion Of that great love was a nameless passion, Bright as the blaze of the sun at noonday, Wild as the flames of hell; but, mark you, Never a whit less pure for its fervor. The baseness in me (for I was human) Burned like a worm, and perished; and nothing Was left me then but a soul that mingled Itself with hers, and swayed and shuddered In fearful triumph. When I consider That helpless love and the cursed folly That wrecked my life for the sake of a woman Who broke with a laugh the chains of her marriage (Whatever the word may mean), I wonder If all the woe was her sin, or whether The chains themselves were enough to lead her In love's despite to break them. . . . Sinners And saints — I say — are rocked in the cradle, But never are known till the will within them Speaks in its own good time. So I foster Even to-night for the woman who wronged me, Nothing of hate, nor of love, but a feeling Of still regret; for the man — But hear me, And judge for yourself: — For a time the seasons Changed and passed in a sweet succession That seemed to me like an endless music: Life was a rolling psalm, and the choirs Of God were glad for our love. I fancied All this, and more than I dare to tell you To-night, — yes, more than I dare to remember; And then — well, the music stopped. There are moments In all men's lives when it stops, I fancy, — Or seems to stop, — till it comes to cheer them Again with a larger sound. The curtain Of life just then is lifted a little To give to their sight new joys — new sorrows — Or nothing at all, sometimes. I was watching The slow, sweet scenes of a golden picture, Flushed and alive with a long delusion That made the murmur of home, when I shuddered And felt like a knife that awful silence That comes when the music goes — forever. The truth came over my life like a darkness Over a forest where one man wanders, Worse than alone. For a time I staggered And stumbled on with a weak persistence After the phantom of hope that darted And dodged like a frightened thing before me, To quit me at last, and vanish. Nothing Was left me then but the curse of living And bearing through all my days the fever And thirst of a poisoned love. Were I stronger, Or weaker, perhaps my scorn had saved me, Given me strength to crush my sorrow With hate for her and the world that praised her — To have left her, then and there — to have conquered That old false life with a new and a wiser, — Such things are easy in words. You listen, And frown, I suppose, that I never mention That beautiful word, FORGIVE! — I forgave her First of all; and I praised kind Heaven That I was a brave, clean man to do it; And then I tried to forget. Forgiveness! What does it mean when the one forgiven Shivers and weeps and clings and kisses The credulous fool that holds her, and tells him A thousand things of a good man's mercy, And then slips off with a laugh and plunges Back to the sin she has quit for a season, To tell him that hell and the world are better For her than a prophet's heaven? Believe me, The love that dies ere its flames are wasted In search of an alien soul is better, Better by far than the lonely passion That burns back into the heart that feeds it. For I loved her still, and the more she mocked me, — Fooled with her endless pleading promise Of future faith, — the more I believed her The penitent thing she seemed; and the stronger Her choking arms and her small hot kisses Bound me and burned my brain to pity, The more she grew to the heavenly creature That brightened the life I had lost forever. The truth was gone somehow for the moment; The curtain fell for a time; and I fancied We were again like gods together, Loving again with the old glad rapture. But scenes like these, too often repeated, Failed at last, and her guile was wasted. I made an end of her shrewd caresses And told her a few straight words. She took them Full at their worth — and the farce was over. . . . . . At first my dreams of the past upheld me, But they were a short support: the present Pushed them away, and I fell. The mission Of life (whatever it was) was blasted; My game was lost. And I met the winner Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers His painful strength at the sight of his master; And when he was past I cursed him, fearful Of that strange chance which makes us mighty Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed His easy march with a backward envy, And cursed myself for the beast within me. But pride is the master of love, and the vision Of those old days grew faint and fainter: The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered Was nothing now but a woman, — a woman Out of my way and out of my nature. My battle with blinded love was over, My battle with aching pride beginning. If I was the loser at first, I wonder If I am the winner now! . . . I doubt it. My life is a losing game; and to-morrow — To-morrow! — Christ! did I say to-morrow? . . . Is your brandy good for death? . . . There, — listen: — When love goes out, and a man is driven To shun mankind for the scars that make him A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries A double burden. The woes I suffered After that hard betrayal made me Pity, at first, all breathing creatures On this bewildered earth. I studied Their faces and made for myself the story Of all their scattered lives. Like brothers And sisters they seemed to me then; and I nourished A stranger friendship wrought in my fancy Between those people and me. But somehow, As time went on, there came queer glances Out of their eyes, and the shame that stung me Harassed my pride with a crazed impression That every face in the surging city Was turned to me; and I saw sly whispers, Now and then, as I walked and wearied My wasted life twice over in bearing With all my sorrow the sorrows of others, — Till I found myself their fool. Then I trembled, — A poor scared thing, — and their prying faces Told me the ghastly truth: they were laughing At me and my fate. My God, I could feel it — That laughter! And then the children caught it; And I, like a struck dog, crept and listened. And then when I met the man who had weakened A woman's love to his own desire, It seemed to me that all hell were laughing In fiendish concert! I was their victim — And his, and hate's. And there was the struggle! As long as the earth we tread holds something A tortured heart can love, the meaning Of life is not wholly blurred; but after The last loved thing in the world has left us, We know the triumph of hate. The glory Of good goes out forever; the beacon Of sin is the light that leads us downward — Down to the fiery end. The road runs Right through hell; and the souls that follow The cursed ways where its windings lead them Suffer enough, I say, to merit All grace that a God can give. — The fashion Of our belief is to lift all beings Born for a life that knows no struggle In sin's tight snares to eternal glory — All apart from the branded millions Who carry through life their faces graven With sure brute scars that tell the story Of their foul, fated passions. Science Has yet no salve to smooth or soften The cradle-scars of a tyrant's visage; No drug to purge from the vital essence Of souls the sleeping venom. Virtue May flower in hell, when its roots are twisted And wound with the roots of vice; but the stronger Never is known till there comes that battle With sin to prove the victor. Perilous Things are these demons we call our passions: Slaves are we of their roving fancies, Fools of their devilish glee. — You think me, I know, in this maundering way designing To lighten the load of my guilt and cast it Half on the shoulders of God. But hear me! I'm partly a man, — for all my weakness, — If weakness it were to stand and murder Before men's eyes the man who had murdered Me, and driven my burning forehead With horns for the world to laugh at. Trust me! And try to believe my words but a portion Of what God's purpose made me! The coward Within me cries for this; and I beg you Now, as I come to the end, to remember That women and men are on earth to travel All on a different road. Hereafter The roads may meet. . . . I trust in something — I know not what. . . . Well, this was the way of it: — Stung with the shame and the secret fury That comes to the man who has thrown his pittance Of self at a traitor's feet, I wandered Weeks and weeks in a baffled frenzy, Till at last the devil spoke. I heard him, And laughed at the love that strove to touch me, — The dead, lost love; and I gripped the demon Close to my breast, and held him, praising The fates and the furies that gave me the courage To follow his wild command. Forgetful Of all to come when the work was over, — There came to me then no stony vision Of these three hundred days, — I cherished An awful joy in my brain. I pondered And weighed the thing in my mind, and gloried In life to think that I was to conquer Death at his own dark door, — and chuckled To think of it done so cleanly. One evening I knew that my time had come. I shuddered A little, but rather for doubt than terror, And followed him, — led by the nameless devil I worshipped and called my brother. The city Shone like a dream that night; the windows Flashed with a piercing flame, and the pavements Pulsed and swayed with a warmth — or something That seemed so then to my feet — and thrilled me With a quick, dizzy joy; and the women And men, like marvellous things of magic, Floated and laughed and sang by my shoulder, Sent with a wizard motion. Through it And over and under it all there sounded A murmur of life, like bees; and I listened And laughed again to think of the flower That grew, blood-red, for me! . . . This fellow Was one of the popular sort who flourish Unruffled where gods would fall. For a conscience He carried a snug deceit that made him The man of the time and the place, whatever The time or the place might be. Were he sounding, With a genial craft that cloaked its purpose, Nigh to itself, the depth of a woman Fooled with his brainless art, or sending The midnight home with songs and bottles, — The cad was there, and his ease forever Shone with the smooth and slippery polish That tells the snake. That night he drifted Into an up-town haunt and ordered — Whatever it was — with a soft assurance That made me mad as I stood behind him, Gripping his death, and waited. Coward, I think, is the name the world has given To men like me; but I'll swear I never Thought of my own disgrace when I shot him — Yes, in the back, — I know it, I know it Now; but what if I do? . . . As I watched him Lying there dead in the scattered sawdust, Wet with a day's blown froth, I noted That things were still; that the walnut tables, Where men but a moment before were sitting, Were gone; that a screen of something around me Shut them out of my sight. But the gilded Signs of a hundred beers and whiskeys Flashed from the walls above, and the mirrors And glasses behind the bar were lighted In some strange way, and into my spirit A thousand shafts of terrible fire Burned like death, and I fell. The story Of what came then, you know. But tell me, What does the whole thing mean? What are we, — Slaves of an awful ignorance? puppets Pulled by a fiend? or gods, without knowing it? Do we shut from ourselves our own salvation, — Or what do we do! I tell you, Dominie, There are times in the lives of us poor devils When heaven and hell get mixed. Though conscience May come like a whisper of Christ to warn us Away from our sins, it is lost or laughed at, — And then we fall. And for all who have fallen — Even for him — I hold no malice, Nor much compassion: a mightier mercy Than mine must shrive him. — And I — I am going Into the light? — or into the darkness? Why do I sit through these sickening hours, And hope? Good God! are they hours? — hours? Yes! I am done with days. And to-morrow — We two may meet! To-morrow! — To-morrow! . . . Walt Whitman The master-songs are ended, and the man That sang them is a name. And so is God A name; and so is love, and life, and death, And everything. But we, who are too blind To read what we have written, or what faith Has written for us, do not understand: We only blink, and wonder. Last night it was the song that was the man, But now it is the man that is the song. We do not hear him very much to-day: His piercing and eternal cadence rings Too pure for us — too powerfully pure, Too lovingly triumphant, and too large; But there are some that hear him, and they know That he shall sing to-morrow for all men, And that all time shall listen. The master-songs are ended? Rather say No songs are ended that are ever sung, And that no names are dead names. When we write Men's letters on proud marble or on sand, We write them there forever. The Chorus of Old Men in "Aegeus" Ye gods that have a home beyond the world, Ye that have eyes for all man's agony, Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen, — Look with a just regard, And with an even grace, Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king, Here on a suffering world where men grow old And wander like sad shadows till, at last, Out of the flare of life, Out of the whirl of years, Into the mist they go, Into the mist of death. O shades of you that loved him long before The cruel threads of that black sail were spun, May loyal arms and ancient welcomings Receive him once again Who now no longer moves Here in this flickering dance of changing days, Where a battle is lost and won for a withered wreath, And the black master Death is over all, To chill with his approach, To level with his touch, The reigning strength of youth, The fluttered heart of age. Woe for the fateful day when Delphi's word was lost — Woe for the loveless prince of Aethra's line! Woe for a father's tears and the curse of a king's release — Woe for the wings of pride and the shafts of doom! — And thou, the saddest wind That ever blew from Crete, Sing the fell tidings back to that thrice unhappy ship! — Sing to the western flame, Sing to the dying foam, A dirge for the sundered years and a dirge for the years to be! Better his end had been as the end of a cloudless day, Bright, by the word of Zeus, with a golden star, Wrought of a golden fame, and flung to the central sky, To gleam on a stormless tomb for evermore: — Whether or not there fell To the touch of an alien hand The sheen of his purple robe and the shine of his diadem, Better his end had been To die as an old man dies, — But the fates are ever the fates, and a crown is ever a crown. The Wilderness Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes, And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water; There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland Of a dirge that sings to send us back to the arms of those that love us. There is nothing left but ashes now where the crimson chills of autumn Put off the summer's languor with a touch that made us glad For the glory that is gone from us, with a flight we cannot follow, To the slopes of other valleys and the sounds of other shores. Come away! come away! you can hear them calling, calling, Calling us to come to them, and roam no more. Over there beyond the ridges and the land that lies between us, There's an old song calling us to come! Come away! come away! — for the scenes we leave behind us Are barren for the lights of home and a flame that's young forever; And the lonely trees around us creak the warning of the night-wind, That love and all the dreams of love are away beyond the mountains. The songs that call for us to-night, they have called for men before us, And the winds that blow the message, they have blown ten thousand years; But this will end our wander-time, for we know the joy that waits us In the strangeness of home-coming, and a faithful woman's eyes. Come away! come away! there is nothing now to cheer us — Nothing now to comfort us, but love's road home: — Over there beyond the darkness there's a window gleams to greet us, And a warm hearth waits for us within. Come away! come away! — or the roving-fiend will hold us, And make us all to dwell with him to the end of human faring: There are no men yet can leave him when his hands are clutched upon them, There are none will own his enmity, there are none will call him brother. So we'll be up and on the way, and the less we brag the better For the freedom that God gave us and the dread we do not know: — The frost that skips the willow-leaf will again be back to blight it, And the doom we cannot fly from is the doom we do not see. Come away! come away! there are dead men all around us — Frozen men that mock us with a wild, hard laugh That shrieks and sinks and whimpers in the shrill November rushes, And the long fall wind on the lake.