QUID HIC AGIS?

I

When I weekly knew An ancient pew, And murmured there The forms of prayer And thanks and praise In the ancient ways, And heard read out During August drought That chapter from Kings Harvest-time brings; - How the prophet, broken By griefs unspoken, Went heavily away To fast and to pray, And, while waiting to die, The Lord pa.s.sed by, And a whirlwind and fire Drew nigher and nigher, And a small voice anon Bade him up and be gone, - I did not apprehend As I sat to the end And watched for her smile Across the sunned aisle, That this tale of a seer Which came once a year Might, when sands were heaping, Be like a sweat creeping, Or in any degree Bear on her or on me!

II

When later, by chance Of circ.u.mstance, It befel me to read On a hot afternoon At the lectern there The selfsame words As the lesson decreed, To the gathered few From the hamlets near - Folk of flocks and herds Sitting half aswoon, Who listened thereto As women and men Not overmuch Concerned at such - So, like them then, I did not see What drought might be With me, with her, As the Kalendar Moved on, and Time Devoured our prime.

III

But now, at last, When our glory has pa.s.sed, And there is no smile From her in the aisle, But where it once shone A marble, men say, With her name thereon Is discerned to-day; And spiritless In the wilderness I shrink from sight And desire the night, (Though, as in old wise, I might still arise, Go forth, and stand And prophesy in the land), I feel the shake Of wind and earthquake, And consuming fire Nigher and nigher, And the voice catch clear, "What doest thou here?"

The Spectator 1916. During the War.

ON A MIDSUMMER EVE

I idly cut a parsley stalk, And blew therein towards the moon; I had not thought what ghosts would walk With shivering footsteps to my tune.

I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand As if to drink, into the brook, And a faint figure seemed to stand Above me, with the bygone look.

I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice, I thought not what my words might be; There came into my ear a voice That turned a tenderer verse for me.

TIMING HER (Written to an old folk-tune)

Lalage's coming: Where is she now, O?

Turning to bow, O, And smile, is she, Just at parting, Parting, parting, As she is starting To come to me?

Where is she now, O, Now, and now, O, Shadowing a bough, O, Of hedge or tree As she is rushing, Rushing, rushing, Gossamers brushing To come to me?

Lalage's coming; Where is she now, O; Climbing the brow, O, Of hills I see?

Yes, she is nearing, Nearing, nearing, Weather unfearing To come to me.

Near is she now, O, Now, and now, O; Milk the rich cow, O, Forward the tea; Shake the down bed for her, Linen sheets spread for her, Drape round the head for her Coming to me.

Lalage's coming, She's nearer now, O, End anyhow, O, To-day's husbandry!

Would a gilt chair were mine, Slippers of vair were mine, Brushes for hair were mine Of ivory!

What will she think, O, She who's so comely, Viewing how homely A sort are we!

Nothing resplendent, No prompt attendant, Not one dependent Pertaining to me!

Lalage's coming; Where is she now, O?

Fain I'd avow, O, Full honestly Nought here's enough for her, All is too rough for her, Even my love for her Poor in degree.

She's nearer now, O, Still nearer now, O, She 'tis, I vow, O, Pa.s.sing the lea.

Rush down to meet her there, Call out and greet her there, Never a sweeter there Crossed to me!

Lalage's come; aye, Come is she now, O! . . .

Does Heaven allow, O, A meeting to be?

Yes, she is here now, Here now, here now, Nothing to fear now, Here's Lalage!

BEFORE KNOWLEDGE

When I walked roseless tracks and wide, Ere dawned your date for meeting me, O why did you not cry Halloo Across the stretch between, and say:

"We move, while years as yet divide, On closing lines which--though it be You know me not nor I know you - Will intersect and join some day!"

Then well I had borne Each sc.r.a.ping thorn; But the winters froze, And grew no rose; No bridge bestrode The gap at all; No shape you showed, And I heard no call!

THE BLINDED BIRD

So zestfully canst thou sing?

And all this indignity, With G.o.d's consent, on thee!

Blinded ere yet a-wing By the red-hot needle thou, I stand and wonder how So zestfully thou canst sing!

Resenting not such wrong, Thy grievous pain forgot, Eternal dark thy lot, Groping thy whole life long; After that stab of fire; Enjailed in pitiless wire; Resenting not such wrong!

Who hath charity? This bird.

Who suffereth long and is kind, Is not provoked, though blind And alive ensepulchred?

Who hopeth, endureth all things?

Who thinketh no evil, but sings?

Who is divine? This bird.

"THE WIND BLEW WORDS"