THE LISTENERS

AND OTHER POEMS

by

WALTER DE LA MARE

[Illustration]

New YorkHenry Holt and Company

The author's thanks for permission to reprint certain of the poemsincluded in this collection are due to the Editors of the _SaturdayReview_, the _Thrush_, the _Pall Mall Magazine_, the _Odd Volume_, the_Lady's Realm_, the _English Review_, the _Westminster Gazette_, the_Commonwealth_, and the _Nation_. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE

THE THREE CHERRY TREES 1

OLD SUSAN 3

OLD BEN 5

MISS LOO 7

THE TAILOR 9

MARTHA 10

THE SLEEPER 12

THE KEYS OF MORNING 14

RACHEL 16

ALONE 17

THE BELLS 19

THE SCARECROW 21

NOD 23

THE BINDWEED 25

WINTER 26

THERE BLOOMS NO BUD IN MAY 27

NOON AND NIGHT FLOWER 29

ESTRANGED 30

THE TIRED CUPID 31

DREAMS 32

FAITHLESS 33

THE SHADE 34

BE ANGRY NOW NO MORE 35

SPRING 36

EXILE 37

WHERE? 38

MUSIC UNHEARD 39

ALL THAT'S PAST 41

WHEN THE ROSE IS FADED 43

SLEEP 44

THE STRANGER 45

NEVER MORE, SAILOR 47

THE WITCH 49

ARABIA 52

THE MOUNTAINS 54

QUEEN DJENIRA 55

NEVER-TO-BE 57

THE DARK CHATEAU 59

THE DWELLING-PLACE 61

THE LISTENERS 64

TIME PASSES 66

BEWARE! 68

THE JOURNEY 69

HAUNTED 74

SILENCE 76

WINTER DUSK 78

AGES AGO 80

HOME 82

THE GHOST 84

AN EPITAPH 85

'THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL' 86

THE THREE CHERRY TREES

 There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady;And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady. 

 Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet. 

 But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender. 

 Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady:Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady. 

OLD SUSAN

When Susan's work was done she'd sit, With one fat guttering candle lit, And window opened wide to winThe sweet night air to enter in;There, with a thumb to keep her placeShe'd read, with stern and wrinkled face, Her mild eyes gliding very slowAcross the letters to and fro, While wagged the guttering candle flameIn the wind that through the window came. And sometimes in the silence sheWould mumble a sentence audibly, Or shake her head as if to say, 'You silly souls, to act this way!'And never a sound from night I'd hear, Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;Or her old shuffling thumb should turnAnother page; and rapt and stern, Through her great glasses bent on meShe'd glance into reality;And shake her round old silvery head, With--'You!--I thought you was in bed!'--Only to tilt her book again, And rooted in Romance remain. 

OLD BEN

Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite, Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone. 

He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees. 

Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky. 

He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blowWhistling in his casement, And the rain drip thro'. 

He thinks of his old Bettie, How she'd shake her head and say, 'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue Could scold--some day, '

But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay. 

Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will beDenser and shadier and greener, Greener the moss-grown tree. 

MISS LOO

When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair--her muffled words, And how she'd open her green eyes, As if in some immense surprise, Whenever as we sat at teaShe made some small remark to me. 

It's always drowsy summer whenFrom out the past she comes again;The westering sunshine in a poolFloats in her parlour still and cool;While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, As into piercing song it breaks;Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajarDream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar. 

And I am sitting, dull and shy, And she with gaze of vacancy, And large hands folded on the tray, Musing the afternoon away;Her satin bosom heaving slowWith sighs that softly ebb and flow, And her plain face in such dismay, It seems unkind to look her way:Until all cheerful back will comeHer cheerful gleaming spirit home:And one would think that poor Miss LooAsked nothing else, if she had you. 

THE TAILOR

Few footsteps stray when dusk droops o'erThe tailor's old stone-lintelled door:There sits he stitching half asleep, Beside his smoky tallow dip. 'Click, click, ' his needle hastes, and shrillCries back the cricket 'neath the sill. Sometimes he stays, and o'er his threadLeans sidelong his old tousled head;Or stoops to peer with half-shut eyeWhen some strange footfall echoes by;Till clearer gleams his candle's sparkInto the dusty summer dark. Then from his crosslegs he gets down, To find how dark the evening's grown;And hunched-up in his door he'll hearThe cricket whistling crisp and clear;And so beneath the starry greyWill mutter half a seam away. 

MARTHA

'Once ... Once upon a time ... ' Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen. 

Hers were those clear grey eyes You watch, and the story seemsTold by their beautifulness Tranquil as dreams. 

She'd sit with her two slim hands Clasped round her bended knees;While we on our elbows lolled, And stared at ease. 

Her voice and her narrow chin, Her grave small lovely head, Seemed half the meaning Of the words she said. 

'Once ... Once upon a time ... ' Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light. 

And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:--

All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by. 

THE SLEEPER

As Ann came in one summer's day, She felt that she must creep, So silent was the clear cool house, It seemed a house of sleep. And sure, when she pushed open the door, Rapt in the stillness there, Her mother sat, with stooping head, Asleep upon a chair;Fast--fast asleep; her two hands laid Loose-folded on her knee, So that her small unconscious face Looked half unreal to be:So calmly lit with sleep's pale light Each feature was; so fairHer forehead--every trouble was Smooth'd out beneath her hair. But though her mind in dream now moved, Still seemed her gaze to restFrom out beneath her fast-sealed lids, Above her moving breast, On Ann, as quite, quite still she stood; Yet slumber lay so deepEven her hands upon her lap Seemed saturate with sleep. And as Ann peeped, a cloudlike dread Stole over her, and then, On stealthy, mouselike feet she trod, And tiptoed out again. 

THE KEYS OF MORNING

While at her bedroom window once, Learning her task for school, Little Louisa lonely sat In the morning clear and cool, She slanted her small bead-brown eyes Across the empty street, And saw Death softly watching her In the sunshine pale and sweet. His was a long lean sallow face, He sat with half-shut eyes, Like an old sailor in a ship Becalmed 'neath tropic skies. Beside him in the dust he'd set His staff and shady hat;These, peeping small, Louisa saw Quite clearly where she sat--The thinness of his coal-black locks, His hands so long and leanThey scarcely seemed to grasp at all The keys that hung between:Both were of gold, but one was small, And with this last did heWag in the air, as if to say, 'Come hither, child, to me!'

Louisa laid her lesson book On the cold window-sill;And in the sleepy sunshine house Went softly down, untilShe stood in the half-opened door, And peeped; but strange to say, Where Death just now had sunning sat Only a shadow lay;--Just the tall chimney's round-topped cowl, And the small sun behind, Had with its shadow in the dust Called sleepy Death to mind. But most she thought how strange it was Two keys that he should bear, And that, when beckoning, he should wag The littlest in the air. 

RACHEL

Rachel sings sweet-- Oh yes, at night, Her pale face bent In the candle-light, Her slim hands touch The answering keys, And she sings of hope And of memories:Sings to the little Boy that standsWatching those slim, Light, heedful hands. He looks in her face; Her dark eyes seemDark with a beautiful Distant dream;And still she plays, Sings tenderlyTo him of hope, And of memory. 

ALONE

A very old womanLives in yon house--The squeak of the cricket, The stir of the mouse, Are all she knowsOf the earth and us. 

Once she was young, Would dance and play, Like many anotherYoung popinjay;And run to her motherAt dusk of day. 

And colours brightShe delighted in;The fiddle to hear, And to lift her chin, And sing as smallAs a twittering wren. 

But age apaceComes at last to all;And a lone house filledWith the cricket's call;And the scampering mouseIn the hollow wall. 

THE BELLS

Shadow and light both strove to beThe eight bell-ringers' company, As with his gliding rope in hand, Counting his changes, each did stand;While rang and trembled every stone, To music by the bell-mouths blown, Till the bright clouds that towered on highSeemed to re-echo cry with cry. Still swang the clappers to and fro, When, in the far-spread fields below, I saw a ploughman with his teamLift to the bells and fix on themHis distant eyes, as if he wouldDrink in the utmost sound he could;While near him sat his children three, And in the green grass placidlyPlayed undistracted on, as ifWhat music earthly bells might giveCould only faintly stir their dream, And stillness make more lovely seem. Soon night hid horses, children, allIn sleep deep and ambrosial;Yet, yet it seemed from star to star, Welling now near, now faint and far, Those echoing bells rang on in dream, And stillness made even lovelier seem. 

THE SCARECROW

All winter through I bow my head Beneath the driving rain;The North wind powders me with snow And blows me black again;At midnight 'neath a maze of stars I flame with glittering rime, And stand, above the stubble, stiff As mail at morning-prime. But when that child, called Spring, and all His host of children, come, Scattering their buds and dew upon Those acres of my home, Some rapture in my rags awakes; I lift void eyes and scanThe skies for crows, those ravening foes, Of my strange master, Man. I watch him striding lank behind His clashing team, and knowSoon will the wheat swish body high Where once lay sterile snow;Soon shall I gaze across a sea Of sun-begotten grain, Which my unflinching watch hath sealed For harvest once again. 

NOD

Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. 

His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold. 

The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep. 

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all. 

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, 'Rest, rest, and rest again. '

THE BINDWEED

The bindweed roots pierce downDeeper than men do lie, Laid in their dark-shut gravesTheir slumbering kinsmen by. 

Yet what frail thin-spun flowersShe casts into the air, To breathe the sunshine, andTo leave her fragrance there. 

But when the sweet moon comes, Showering her silver down, Half-wreathèd in faint sleep, They droop where they have blown. 

So all the grass is set, Beneath her trembling ray, With buds that have been flowers, Brimmed with reflected day. 

WINTER

 Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless boughThe robin with its burning breast Alone sings now. 

 The rayless sun, Day's journey done, Sheds its last ebbing lightOn fields in leagues of beauty spread Unearthly white. 

 Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soonOver that sea of frozen foam Floats the white moon. 

THERE BLOOMS NO BUD IN MAY

There blooms no bud in MayCan for its white compareWith snow at break of day, On fields forlorn and bare. 

For shadow it hath rose, Azure, and amethyst;And every air that blowsDies out in beauteous mist. 

It hangs the frozen boughWith flowers on which the nightWheeling her darkness throughScatters a starry light. 

Fearful of its pale glareIn flocks the starlings rise;Slide through the frosty air, And perch with plaintive cries. 

Only the inky rook, Hunched cold in ruffled wings, Its snowy nest forsook, Caws of unnumbered Springs. 

NOON AND NIGHT FLOWER

 Not any flower that blows But shining watch doth keep;Every swift changing chequered hour it knowsNow to break forth in beauty; now to sleep. 

 This for the roving bee Keeps open house, and thisStainless and clear is, that in darkness sheMay lure the moth to where her nectar is. 

 Lovely beyond the rest Are these of all delight:--The tiny pimpernel that noon loves best, The primrose palely burning through the night. 

 One 'neath day's burning sky With ruby decks her place, The other when Eve's chariot glideth byLifts her dim torch to light that dreaming face. 

ESTRANGED

No one was with me there--Happy I was--alone;Yet from the sunshine suddenly A joy was gone. 

A bird in an empty houseSad echoes makes to ring, Flitting from room to room On restless wing:

Till from its shades he flies, And leaves forlorn and dimThe narrow solitudes So strange to him. 

So, when with fickle heartI joyed in the passing day, A presence my mood estranged Went grieved away. 

THE TIRED CUPID

The thin moonlight with trickling ray, Thridding the boughs of silver may, Trembles in beauty, pale and cool, On folded flower, and mantled pool. All in a haze the rushes lean--And he--he sits, with chin betweenHis two cold hands; his bare feet setDeep in the grasses, green and wet. About his head a hundred ringsOf gold loop down to meet his wings, Whose feathers arched their stillness throughGleam with slow-gathering drops of dew. The mouse-bat peers; the stealthy voleCreeps from the covert of its hole;A shimmering moth its pinions furls, Grey in the moonshine of his curls;'Neath the faint stars the night-airs stray, Scattering the fragrance of the may;And with each stirring of the boughShadow beclouds his childlike brow. 

DREAMS

Be gentle, O hands of a child;Be true: like a shadowy seaIn the starry darkness of night Are your eyes to me. 

But words are shallow, and soonDreams fade that the heart once knew;And youth fades out in the mind, In the dark eyes too. 

What can a tired heart say, Which the wise of the world have made dumb?Save to the lonely dreams of a child, 'Return again, come!'

FAITHLESS

The words you said grow faint;The lamp you lit burns dim;Yet, still be near your faithless friendTo urge and counsel him. 

Still with returning feetTo where life's shadows brood, With steadfast eyes made clear in deathHaunt his vague solitude. 

So he, beguiled with earth, Yet with its vain things vexed, Keep even to his own heart unknownYour memory unperplexed. 

THE SHADE

Darker than night; and oh, much darker, she, Whose eyes in deep night darkness gaze on me. No stars surround her; yet the moon seems hidAfar somewhere, beneath that narrow lid. She darkens against the darkness; and her faceOnly by adding thought to thought I trace, Limned shadowily: O dream, return once moreTo gloomy Hades and the whispering shore!

BE ANGRY NOW NO MORE

Be angry now no more!If I have grieved thee--ifThy kindness, mine before, No hope may now restore:Only forgive, forgive!

If still resentment burnsIn thy cold breast, oh ifNo more to pity turns, No more, once tender, yearnsThy love; oh yet forgive!... 

Ask of the winter rainJune's withered rose again:Ask grace of the salt sea:She will not answer thee. God would ten times have shrivenA heart so riven;In her cold care thou'dst beStill unforgiven. 

SPRING

Once when my life was young, I, too, with Spring's bright faceBy mine, walked softly along, Pace to his pace. 

Then burned his crimson may, Like a clear flame outspread, Arching our happy way: Then would he shed

Strangely from his wild faceWonderful light on me--Like hounds that keen in chase Their quarry see. 

Oh, sorrow now to knowWhat shafts, what keenness coldHis are to pierce me through, Now that I'm old. 

EXILE

Had the gods loved me I had lain Where darnel is, and thorn, And the wild night-bird's nightlong strain Trembles in boughs forlorn. 

Nay, but they loved me not; and I Must needs a stranger be, Whose every exiled day gone by Aches with their memory. 

WHERE?

 Where is my love-- In silence and shadow she lies, Under the April-grey, calm waste of the skies; And a bird above, In the darkness tender and clear, Keeps saying over and over, Love lies here!

 Not that she's dead; Only her soul is flownOut of its last pure earthly mansion; And cries instead In the darkness, tender and clear, Like the voice of a bird in the leaves, Love--love lies here. 

MUSIC UNHEARD

Sweet sounds, begone--Whose music on my earStirs foolish discontentOf lingering here;When, if I crossedThe crystal verge of death, Him I should seeWho these sounds murmureth. 

Sweet sounds, begone--Ask not my heart to breakIts bond of bravery forSweet quiet's sake;Lure not my feetTo leave the path they mustTread on, unfaltering, Till I sleep in dust. 

Sweet sounds, begone:Though silence brings apaceDeadly disquietOf this homeless place;And all I loveIn beauty cries to me, 'We but vain shadowsAnd reflections be. '

ALL THAT'S PAST

Very old are the woods; And the buds that breakOut of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knowsThrough what wild centuries Roves back the rose. 

Very old are the brooks; And the rills that riseWhere snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skiesSing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon. 

Very old are we men; Our dreams are talesTold in dim Eden By Eve's nightingales;We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie. 

WHEN THE ROSE IS FADED

When the rose is faded, Memory may still dwell onHer beauty shadowed, And the sweet smell gone. 

That vanishing loveliness, That burdening breathNo bond of life hath thenNor grief of death. 

'Tis the immortal thoughtWhose passion stillMakes of the changingThe unchangeable. 

Oh, thus thy beauty, Loveliest on earth to me, Dark with no sorrow, shinesAnd burns, with Thee. 

SLEEP

Men all, and birds, and creeping beasts, When the dark of night is deep, From the moving wonder of their livesCommit themselves to sleep. 

Without a thought, or fear, they shutThe narrow gates of sense;Heedless and quiet, in slumber turnTheir strength to impotence. 

The transient strangeness of the earthTheir spirits no more see:Within a silent gloom withdrawn, They slumber in secrecy. 

Two worlds they have--a globe forgotWheeling from dark to light;And all the enchanted realm of dreamThat burgeons out of night. 

THE STRANGER

 Half-hidden in a graveyard, In the blackness of a yew, Where never living creature stirs, Nor sunbeam pierces through, Is a tombstone green and crooked, Its faded legend gone, And but one rain-worn cherub's head To sing of the unknown. 

 There, when the dusk is falling, Silence broods so deepIt seems that every wind that breathes Blows from the fields of sleep?

 Day breaks in heedless beauty, Kindling each drop of dew, But unforsaking shadow dwells Beneath this lonely yew. 

 And, all else lost and faded, Only this listening headKeeps with a strange unanswering smile Its secret with the dead. 

NEVER MORE, SAILOR

Never more, Sailor, Shalt thou beTossed on the wind-ridden, Restless sea. Its tides may labour;All the worldShake 'neath that weightOf waters hurled:But its whole shockCan only stirThy dust to a quietEven quieter. Thou mock'd'st at landWho now art comeTo such a smallAnd shallow home;Yet bore the seaFull many a careFor bones that onceA sailor's were. And though the grave'sDeep soundlessnessThy once sea-deafenedEar distress, No robin everOn the deepHopped with his songTo haunt thy sleep. 

THE WITCH

Weary went the old Witch, Weary of her pack, She sat her down by the churchyard wall, And jerked it off her back. 

The cord brake, yes, the cord brake, Just where the dead did lie, And Charms and Spells and SorceriesSpilled out beneath the sky. 

Weary was the old Witch;She rested her old eyesFrom the lantern-fruited yew trees, And the scarlet of the skies;

And out the dead came stumbling, From every rift and crack, Silent as moss, and plunderedThe gaping pack. 

They wish them, three times over, Away they skip full soon:Bat and Mole and Leveret, Under the rising moon;

Owl and Newt and Nightjar:They take their shapes and creep, Silent as churchyard lichen, While she squats asleep. 

All of these dead were stirring:Each unto each did call, 'A Witch, a Witch is sleepingUnder the churchyard wall;

'A Witch, a Witch is sleeping.... 'The shrillness ebbed away;And up the way-worn moon clomb bright, Hard on the track of day. 

She shone, high, wan and silvery;Day's colours paled and died:And, save the mute and creeping worm, Nought else was there beside. 

Names may be writ; and mounds rise;Purporting, Here be bones:But empty is that churchyardOf all save stones. 

Owl and Newt and Nightjar, Leveret, Bat and MoleHaunt and call in the twilight, Where she slept, poor soul. 

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon;And so dark is that vaulted purpleFlowers in the forest riseAnd toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom starsPale in the noonday skies. 

Sweet is the music of ArabiaIn my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawnDescry her gliding streams;Hear her strange lutes on the green banksRing loud with the grief and delightOf the dim-silked, dark-haired MusiciansIn the brooding silence of night. 

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests;No beauty on earth I seeBut shadowed with that dream recallsHer loveliness to me:Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say--'He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away. '

THE MOUNTAINS

Still, and blanched, and cold, and lone, The icy hills far off from meWith frosty ulys overgrownStand in their sculptured secrecy. 

No path of theirs the chamois fleetTreads, with a nostril to the wind;O'er their ice-marbled glaciers beatNo wings of eagles in my mind--

Yea, in my mind these mountains rise, Their perils dyed with evening's rose;And still my ghost sits at my eyesAnd thirsts for their untroubled snows. 

QUEEN DJENIRA

When Queen Djenira slumbers through The sultry noon's repose, From out her dreams, as soft she lies, A faint thin music flows. 

Her lovely hands lie narrow and pale With gilded nails, her headCouched in its banded nets of gold Lies pillowed on her bed. 

The little Nubian boys who fan Her cheeks and tresses clear, Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voices Seem afar to hear. 

They slide their eyes, and nodding, say, 'Queen Djenira walks to-dayThe courts of the lord Pthamasar Where the sweet birds of Psuthys are. '

And those of earth about her porch Of shadow cool and greyTheir sidelong beaks in silence lean, And silent flit away. 

NEVER-TO-BE

Down by the waters of the sea, Reigns the King of Never-to-be. His palace walls are black with night;His torches star and moonès light, And for his timepiece deep and graveBeats on the green unhastening wave. 

Windswept are his high corridors;His pleasance the sea-mantled shores;For sentinel a shadow standsWith hair in heaven, and cloudy hands;And round his bed, king's guards to be, Watch pines in iron solemnity. 

His hound is mute; his steed at willRoams pastures deep with asphodel;His queen is to her slumber gone;His courtiers mute lie, hewn in stone;He hath forgot where he did hideHis sceptre in the mountain-side. 

Grey-capped and muttering, mad is he--The childless King of Never-to-be;For all his people in the deepKeep everlasting fast asleep;And all his realm is foam and rain, Whispering of what comes not again. 

THE DARK CHATEAU

In dreams a dark château Stands ever open to me, In far ravines dream-waters flow, Descending soundlessly;Above its peaks the eagle floats, Lone in a sunless sky;Mute are the golden woodland throats Of the birds flitting by. 

No voice is audible. The wind Sleeps in its peace. No flower of the light can find Refuge 'neath its trees;Only the darkening ivy climbs Mingled with wilding rose, And cypress, morn and evening, time's Black shadow throws. 

All vacant, and unknown; Only the dreamer stepsFrom stone to hollow stone, Where the green moss sleeps, Peers at the river in its deeps, The eagle lone in the sky, While the dew of evening drips, Coldly and silently. 

Would that I could press in!-- Into each secret room;Would that my sleep-bright eyes could win To the inner gloom;Gaze from its high windows, Far down its mouldering walls, Where amber-clear still Lethe flows, And foaming falls. 

But ever as I gaze, From slumber soft doth comeSome touch my stagnant sense to raise To its old earthly home;Fades then that sky serene; And peak of ageless snow;Fades to a paling dawn-lit green, My dark château. 

THE DWELLING-PLACE

Deep in a forest where the kestrel screamed, Beside a lake of water, clear as glass, The time-worn windows of a stone house gleamed, Named only 'Alas. '

Yet happy as the wild birds in the gladesOf that green forest, thridding the still airWith low continued heedless serenades, Its heedless people were. 

The throbbing chords of violin and lute, The lustre of lean tapers in dark eyes, Fair colours, beauteous flowers, dainty fruit Made earth seem Paradise

To them that dwelt within this lonely house:Like children of the gods in lasting peace, They ate, sang, danced, as if each day's carouse Need never pause, nor cease. 

Some might cry, Vanity! to a weeping lyre, Some in that deep pool mock their longings vain, Came yet at last long silence to the wire, And dark did dark remain. 

Some to the hunt would wend, with hound and horn, And clash of silver, beauty, bravery, pride, Heeding not one who on white horse upborne With soundless hoofs did ride. 

Dreamers there were who watched the hours awayBeside a fountain's foam. And in the sweetOf phantom evening, 'neath the night-bird's lay, Did loved with loved-one meet. 

All, all were children, for, the long day done, They barred the heavy door 'gainst lightfoot fear;And few words spake though one known face was gone, Yet still seemed hovering near. 

They heaped the bright fire higher; poured dark wine;And in long revelry dazed the questioning eye;Curtained three-fold the heart-dismaying shine Of midnight streaming by. 

They shut the dark out from the painted wall, With candles dared the shadow at the door, Sang down the faint reiterated call Of those who came no more. 

Yet clear above that portal plain was writ, Confronting each at length alone to passOut of its beauty into night star-lit, That worn 'Alas!'

THE LISTENERS

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor:And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head:And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?' he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sillLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house thenStood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men:Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky;For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:--'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word, ' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake:Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. 

TIME PASSES

 There was nought in the Valley But a Tower of Ivory, Its base enwreathed with red Flowers that at evening Caught the sun's crimsonAs to Ocean low he sped. 

 Lucent and lovely It stood in the morningUnder a trackless hill; With snows eternal Muffling its summit, And silence ineffable. 

 Sighing of solitude Winds from the cold heightsHaunted its yellowing stone; At noon its shadow Stretched athwart cedarsWhence every bird was flown. 

 Its stair was broken, Its starlit walls wereFretted; its flowers shone Wide at the portal, Full-blown and fading, Their last faint fragrance gone. 

 And on high in its lantern A shape of the livingWatched o'er a shoreless sea, From a Tower rotting With age and weakness, Once lovely as ivory. 

BEWARE!

An ominous bird sang from its branch, 'Beware, O Wanderer!Night 'mid her flowers of glamourie spilled Draws swiftly near:

'Night with her darkened caravans, Piled deep with silver and myrrh, Draws from the portals of the East, O Wanderer near!

'Night who walks plumèd through the fields Of stars that strangely stir--Smitten to fire by the sandals of him Who walks with her. '

THE JOURNEY

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer; Footsore and sad was he;And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside, Looked out of sorcery. 

'Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer, ' She peeped from her casement small;'Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man, And apples for thirst withal. '

And he looked up out of his sad reverie, And saw all the woods in green, With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling, The jewel-bright leaves between. 

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice, And there, alluring-wise, Slanting through the silence of the long past, Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes. 

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory Voices seemed to cry;'What is the darkness of one brief life-time To the deaths thou hast made us die?

'Heed not the words of the Enchantress Who would us still betray!'And sad with the echo of their reproaches, Doubting, he turned away. 

'I may not shelter 'neath your roof, lady, Nor in this wood's green shadow seek repose, Nor will your apples quench the thirst A homesick wanderer knows. '

'"Homesick, " forsooth!' she softly mocked him: And the beauty in her faceMade in the sunshine pale and trembling A stillness in that place. 

And he sighed, as if in fear, the young Wanderer, Looking to left and to right, Where the endless narrow road swept onward, In the distance lost to sight. 

And there fell upon his sense the briar, Haunting the air with its breath, And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds' throats, Their tent of leaves beneath. 

And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding; Her arbour, and fruit-filled dish, Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask-- All that the weary wish. 

And the last gold beam across the green world Faltered and failed, as heRemembered his solitude and the dark night's Inhospitality. 

His shoulders were bowed with his knapsack; His staff trailed heavy in the dust;His eyes were dazed, and hopeless of the white road Which tread all pilgrims must. 

And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow In the darkening of the day;And turned him aside into oblivion; And the voices died away.... 

And the Witch stepped down from her casement: In the hush of night he heardThe calling and wailing in dewy thicket Of bird to hidden bird. 

And gloom stole all her burning crimson; Remote and faint in spaceAs stars in gathering shadow of the evening Seemed now her phantom face. 

And one night's rest shall be a myriad, Midst dreams that come and go;Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him This same strange by-way through:

To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes, The lips of welcome, and the eyesMore beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper Lone in the lightening skies:

Till once again the Witch's guile entreat him; But, worn with wisdom, heSteadfast and cold shall choose the dark night's Inhospitality. 

HAUNTED

The rabbit in his burrow keepsNo guarded watch, in peace he sleeps;The wolf that howls into the nightCowers to her lair at morning light;The simplest bird entwines a nestWhere she may lean her lovely breast, Couched in the silence of the bough;But thou, O man, what rest hast thou?

The deepest solitude can bringOnly a subtler questioningIn thy divided heart; thy bedRecalls at dawn what midnight said;Seek how thou wilt to feign contentThy flaming ardour's quickly spent;Soon thy last company is gone, And leaves thee--with thyself--alone. 

Pomp and great friends may hem thee round, A thousand busy tasks be found;Earth's thronging beauties may beguileThy longing lovesick heart awhile;And pride, like clouds of sunset, spreadA changing glory round thy head;But fade will all; and thou must come, Hating thy journey, homeless, home. 

Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote, That inward presence slumbers not, Frets out each secret from thy breast, Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest, Scans close thy very thoughts, lest theyShould sap his patient power away, Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cryWith tenderest taciturnity. 

SILENCE

With changeful sound life beats upon the ear; Yet striving for release The most delighting string's Sweet jargonings, The happiest throat's Most easeful, lovely notesFall back into a veiling silentness. 

Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host, Blackening the clear green earth, Vainly 'gainst that thin wall The trumpets call, Or with loud hum The smoke-bemuffled drum:From that high quietness no reply comes forth. 

When all at peace, two friends at ease alone Talk out their hearts, --yet still, Between the grace-notes of The voice of love From each to each Trembles a rarer speech, And with its presence every pause doth fill. 

Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush Of one who stooping near, No smallest stir will make Our fear to wake; But yet intent Upon some mystery bent, Hearkens the lightest word we say, or hear. 

WINTER DUSK

Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room. 

But of the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book. 

The children watched their mother's eyesMoving on softly line to line;It seemed to listen too--that shade, Yet made no outward sign. 

The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree;The children both in Faërie dreamed Beside their mother's knee. 

And nearer yet that spirit drewAbove that heedless one, intentOnly on what the simple words Of her small story meant. 

No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard. 

Yet when, the story done, she smiledFrom face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near. 

AGES AGO

Launcelot loved Guinevere, Ages and ages ago, Beautiful as a bird was she, Preening its wings in a cypress tree, Happy in sadness, she and he, They loved each other so. 

Helen of Troy was beautiful As tender flower in May, Her loveliness from the towers looked down, With the sweet moon for silver crown, Over the walls of Troy Town, Hundreds of years away. 

Cleopatra, Egypt's Queen, Was wondrous kind to ken, As when the stars in the dark skyLike buds on thorny branches lie, So seemed she too to Antony, That age-gone prince of men. 

The Pyramids are old stones, Scarred is that grey face, That by the greenness of Old NileGazes with an unchanging smile, Man with all mystery to beguile And give his thinking grace. 

HOME

Rest, rest--there is no rest, Until the quiet graveComes with its narrow arch The heart to saveFrom life's long cankering rust, From torpor, cold and still--The loveless, saddened dust, The jaded will. 

And yet, be far the hourWhose haven calls me home;Long be the arduous day Till evening come;What sureness now remainsBut that through livelong strifeOnly the loser gains An end to life?

Then in the soundless deepOf even the shallowest graveChildhood and love he'll keep, And his soul save;All vext desire, all vainCries of a conflict doneFallen to rest again; Death's refuge won. 

THE GHOST

 Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow;Flower of a moment in the eternal hour, Peace with me now. 

 Not a wave breaks, Not a bird calls, My heart, like a sea, Silent after a storm that hath died, Sleeps within me. 

 All the night's dews, All the world's leaves, All winter's snowSeem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream All sorrowing now. 

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she;I think she was the most beautiful ladyThat ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;However rare--rare it be;And when I crumble, who will rememberThis lady of the West Country?

'THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL'

The flowers of the field Have a sweet smell;Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme, And faint-heart pimpernel;But sweeter even than these, The silver of the mayWreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. 

An apple, a child, dust, When falls the evening rain, Wild briar's spicèd leaves, Breathe memories again;With further memory fraught, The silver of the mayWreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day. 

Eyes of all loveliness-- Shadow of strange delight, Even as a flower fades Must thou from sight;But oh, o'er thy grave's mound, Till come the Judgment Day, Wreathed shall with incense be Thy sharp-thorned may. 

_The Third Edition, Revised and Enlarged, of_

THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE

COMPILED BY

BURTON E. STEVENSON

has been revised from end to end--590 poems have been added, pagesrenumbered, author, title, and first line indices, and the biographicalmatter corrected, etc. , etc. 

The hundreds of letters from readers and poets suggesting additions orcorrections as well as the columns of reviews of the first edition havebeen considered. Poets who were chary of lending their support to anunknown venture have now generously permitted the use of their work. 

This edition includes the "new" poets such as MASEFIELD, CHESTERTON, FROST, RUPERT BROOKE, DE LA MARE, RALPH HODGSON, etc. 

 "A collection so complete and distinguished that it is difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for comparison. "--_New York Times Book Review_ on the first edition. 

_India Paper, 4, 096 pages_

_Cloth, one volume, __Cloth, two volumes, __Half Morocco, one volume, __Half Morocco, two volumes, _

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANYPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE

_By ROMAIN ROLLAND_

Translated from the French by GILBERT CANNAN. In three volumes, each$1. 50 net. 

This great trilogy, the life story of a musician, at first the sensationof musical circles in Paris, has come to be one of the most discussedbooks among literary circles in France, England and America. 

Each volume of the American edition has its own individual interest, canbe understood without the other, and comes to a definite conclusion. 

_The three volumes with the titles of the French volumes included are:_

JEAN-CHRISTOPHEDawn--Morning--Youth--Revolt

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARISThe Market Place--Antoinette--The House

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY'S ENDLove and Friendship--The Burning Bush--The New Dawn

_Some Noteworthy Comments_

 "'Hats off, gentlemen--a genius. ' · One may mention 'Jean-Christophe' in the same breath with Balzac's 'Lost Illusions'; it is as big as that. · It is moderate praise to call it with Edmund Gosse 'the noblest work of fiction of the twentieth century'. · A book as big, as elemental, as original as though the art of fiction began to-day. . We have nothing comparable in English literature. · "--_Springfield Republican. _

 "If a man wishes to understand those devious currents which make up the great, changing sea of modern life, there is hardly a single book more illustrative, more informing and more inspiring. "--_Current Opinion. _

 "Must rank as one of the very few important works of fiction of the last decade. A vital compelling work. We who love it feel that it will live. "--_Independent. _

 "The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from any other European country, in a decade. "--_Boston Transcript. _

_A 32-page booklet about Romain Rolland and Jean-Christophe, withportraits and complete reviews, on request. _

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANYPUBLISHERS NEW YORK