Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled, Looking at nothing; and my thin dreams filed Before me one by one till once again I set new words unto an old refrain:

"Treasures thou hast that never have been mine! Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown Like blossoms out to me that sat alone! And I have waited well for thee to show If any share were mine,--and now I go! Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain I shall but come into mine own again!" Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more, But turning, straightway, sought a certain door In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low And dark,--a way by which none e'er would go That other exit had, and never knock Was heard thereat,--bearing a curious lock Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily, Whereof Life held content the useless key, And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust, Whose sudden voice across a silence must, I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,-- A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.--So near I came I felt upon my feet the chill Of acid wind creeping across the sill. So stood longtime, till over me at last Came weariness, and all things other passed To make it room; the still night drifted deep Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep.

But, suddenly, marking the morning hour, Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower! Startled, I raised my head,--and with a shout Laid hold upon the latch,--and was without.

* * * * *

Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road, Leading me back unto my old abode, My father's house! There in the night I came, And found them feasting, and all things the same As they had been before. A splendour hung Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung As, echoing out of very long ago, Had called me from the house of Life, I know. So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame On the unlovely garb in which I came; Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked: "It is my father's house!" I said and knocked; And the door opened. To the shining crowd Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud, Seeing no face but his; to him I crept, And "Father!" I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept. Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone I wandered through the house. My own, my own, My own to touch, my own to taste and smell, All I had lacked so long and loved so well! None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song, Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.

I know not when the wonder came to me Of what my father's business might be, And whither fared and on what errands bent The tall and gracious messengers he sent. Yet one day with no song from dawn till night Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight. And the next day I called; and on the third Asked them if I might go,--but no one heard. Then, sick with longing, I arose at last And went unto my father,--in that vast Chamber wherein he for so many years Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres. "Father," I said, "Father, I cannot play The harp that thou didst give me, and all day I sit in idleness, while to and fro About me thy serene, grave servants go; And I am weary of my lonely ease. Better a perilous journey overseas Away from thee, than this, the life I lead, To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed That grows to naught,--I love thee more than they Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way. Father, I beg of thee a little task To dignify my days,--'tis all I ask Forever, but forever, this denied, I perish." "Child," my father's voice replied, "All things thy fancy hath desired of me Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee Within my house a spacious chamber, where Are delicate things to handle and to wear, And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song? My minstrels shall attend thee all day long. Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand Open as fields to thee on every hand. And all thy days this word shall hold the same: No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name. But as for tasks--" he smiled, and shook his head; "Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by", he said.

God's World

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,--Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,--let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

Sorrow

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain,-- Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town; I sit in my chair. All my thoughts are slow and brown: Standing up or sitting down Little matters, or what gown Or what shoes I wear.

Tavern

I'll keep a little tavern Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend.

Aye, 'tis a curious fancy-- But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago.

Ashes of Life

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will,--and would that night were here! But ah!--to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again!--with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through,-- There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me,--and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,-- And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house.

The Little Ghost

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone-- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do--and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled--there was no hint Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

Kin to Sorrow

Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door-- Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow's hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow-- And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there? Am I kin to Sorrow? Are we kin? That so oft upon my door-- *Oh, come in*!

Three Songs of Shattering

I

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,--it must have been Very pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;-- But not in the old way!

I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring-- But not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going--ah, spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,-- Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

The Shroud

Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.)

Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other!