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Page 6
The moon went out in a golden blur,
And the small stars followed after her,
But when the fireflies cleft the air
I saw those three forms standing there,
Until the night cooled, and the trees
Shook in the strong hands of the breeze,
And then I heard their footsteps press
The muffled grass beyond the door,
And so went forth for ever more,
My three Fates to the wilderness.
Pomfret, 1919
XI - THE MAKER RESTS
I have worked too long and my hands are tired,
Said the maker;
From the earliest dawn unto deepest nightfall
Have I laboured.
From the earliest dawn before any spirit
Stirred from sleeping,
When no single note from the frozen forest
Wakened music,
Unto nightfall and the new moon rising
When the silence
From the valleys rose in a faint blue spiral,
Have I laboured.
I created dawn and the new moon rising
Out of silence;
I have worked too long and my hands are tired,
Said the maker.
I shall fold my hands; I shall rest till sunrise,
Said the maker;
In the shade of hills and the calm of starlight
Shall I slumber.
O my night is sweet with a distant music!
I shall hear
The responding waves and the wind's slight murmur
While I slumber.
O my night is fair with amazing colour!
I shall dream
Of the blue-white stars and the glimmering forest
While I slumber.
O my night is rich with unfolding flowers!
I shall breathe
All the scattered smells of the field and garden
While I slumber...
I will rise, O Night, I will make new beauty,
Said the maker,
I will make more songs, more stars, more flowers,
Said the Lord.
Cambridge, 1920
XII - THE PILGRIMAGE
Beside a deep and mossy well
In the dark starless night I lay;
And dropping water like a bell,
Like a bell ringing far away,
Struck liquid notes in monotone,--
An echo of a distant bell
Tolling the knell of yesterday.
Deep down beneath the mossy ground
The liquid notes in monotone
Kept dropping, dropping endlessly,
And as I listened, over me
Crept like a mist a filmy spell;
My spirit's waving wings were bound,
And dreams came that were not my own.
Half-sleeping, half-awake, I heard
The drowsy chirp of a forest bird,
And the wind came up and the grasses stirred
And the curtaining woods that cluster round
That resonantly-echoing well
Shook all their leaves with silver sound
Like voices murmuring in a shell.
Was it the past that lived again
In that nocturnal murmuring,
Waking a hidden voice to sing
Deep in my heart of other times
Whose memory long entombed had lain
Covered with all the dust of the years?...
Falling in splashing tears
The wet notes drop in liquid chimes,
And the white fingers of the breeze
Gather a song from the melodious trees....
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