Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice, And thereupon imagination and heart were driven So wild that every casual thought of that and this Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago; And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason, Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro, Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken, Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

THAT THE NIGHT COME

She lived in storm and strife, Her soul had such desire For what proud death may bring That it could not endure The common good of life, But lived as 'twere a king That packed his marriage day With banneret and pennon, Trumpet and kettledrum, And the outrageous cannon, To bundle time away That the night come.

AN APPOINTMENT

Being out of heart with government I took a broken root to fling Where the proud, wayward squirrel went, Taking delight that he could spring; And he, with that low whinnying sound That is like laughter, sprang again And so to the other tree at a bound.

Nor the tame will, nor timid brain, Bred that fierce tooth and cleanly limb And threw him up to laugh on the bough; No government appointed him.

I

THE MAGI

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the b.e.s.t.i.a.l floor.

II

THE DOLLS

A doll in the doll-maker's house Looks at the cradle and b.a.l.l.s: 'That is an insult to us.'

But the oldest of all the dolls Who had seen, being kept for show, Generations of his sort, Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although There's not a man can report Evil of this place, The man and the woman bring Hither to our disgrace, A noisy and filthy thing.'

Hearing him groan and stretch The doll-maker's wife is aware Her husband has heard the wretch, And crouched by the arm of his chair, She murmurs into his ear, Head upon shoulder leant: 'My dear, my dear, oh dear, It was an accident.'

A COAT

I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eye As though they'd wrought it.

Song, let them take it For there's more enterprise In walking naked.

_While I, from that reed-throated whisperer_ _Who comes at need, although not now as once_ _A clear articulation in the air_ _But inwardly, surmise companions_ _Beyond the fling of the dull a.s.s's hoof,_ _--Ben Jonson's phrase--and find when June is come_ _At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof_ _A sterner conscience and a friendlier home,_ _I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs,_ _Those undreamt accidents that have made me_ _--Seeing that Fame has perished this long while_ _Being but a part of ancient ceremony--_ _Notorious, till all my priceless things_ _Are but a post the pa.s.sing dogs defile._

FROM THE GREEN HELMET AND OTHER POEMS

HIS DREAM

I swayed upon the gaudy stern The b.u.t.t end of a steering oar, And everywhere that I could turn Men ran upon the sh.o.r.e.

And though I would have hushed the crowd There was no mother's son but said, 'What is the figure in a shroud Upon a gaudy bed?'

And fishes bubbling to the brim Cried out upon that thing beneath, --It had such dignity of limb-- By the sweet name of Death.

Though I'd my finger on my lip, What could I but take up the song?

And fish and crowd and gaudy ship Cried out the whole night long,

Crying amid the glittering sea, Naming it with ecstatic breath, Because it had such dignity By the sweet name of Death.

A WOMAN HOMER SUNG

If any man drew near When I was young, I thought, 'He holds her dear,'

And shook with hate and fear.

But oh, 'twas bitter wrong If he could pa.s.s her by With an indifferent eye.

Whereon I wrote and wrought, And now, being grey, I dream that I have brought To such a pitch my thought That coming time can say, 'He shadowed in a gla.s.s What thing her body was.'

For she had fiery blood When I was young, And trod so sweetly proud As 'twere upon a cloud, A woman Homer sung, That life and letters seem But an heroic dream.

THE CONSOLATION