The True Knowledge

Thou knowest all — I seek in vain

What lands to till or sow with seed —

The land is black with briar and weed,

Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all — I sit and wait

With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

Till the last lifting of the veil,

And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all — I cannot see.

I trust I shall not live in vain,

I know that we shall meet again,

In some divine eternity.

A Lament

O well for him who lives at ease

With garnered gold in wide domain,

Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,

The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne’er hath known

The travail of the hungry years,

A father grey with grief and tears,

A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose feet hath trod

The weary road of toil and strife,

Yet from the sorrows of his life

Builds ladders to be nearer God.

Wasted Days

A fair slim boy not made for this world’s pain.

With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears, And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain, Red under lip drawn for fear of Love, And white throat whiter than the breast of dove.

Alas! alas! if all should be in vain.

Behind, wide fields, and reapers all a-row

In heat and labour toiling wearily,

To no sweet sound of laughter or of lute.

The sun is shooting wide its crimson glow,

Still the boy dreams: nor knows that night is nigh, And in the night-time no man gathers fruit.

Désespoir

The seasons send their ruin as they go,

For in the spring the narciss shows its head

Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,

And in the autumn purple violets blow,

And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;

Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again

And this grey land grow green with summer rain

And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea

Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night

Covers the days which never more return?

Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn

We lose too soon, and only find delight

In withered husks of some dead memory.

Lotus Leaves

I

There is no peace beneath the moon, —

Ah! in those meadows is there peace

Where, girdled with a silver fleece,

As a bright shepherd, strays the moon?

Queen of the gardens of the sky,

Where stars like lilies, white and fair,

Shine through the mists of frosty air,

Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh!

Oh, tarry, for the envious day

Stretches long hands to catch thy feet.

Alas! but thou art overfleet,

Alas! I know thou wilt not stay.

II

Eastward the dawn has broken red,

The circling mists and shadows flee;

Aurora rises from the sea,

And leaves the crocus-flowered bed.

Eastward the silver arrows fall,

Splintering the veil of holy night:

And a long wave of yellow light

Breaks silently on tower and hall.

And speeding wide across the wold

Wakes into flight some fluttering bird;

And all the chestnut tops are stirred,

And all the branches streaked with gold.

III

To outer senses there is peace,

A dream-like peace on either hand,

Deep silence in the shadowy land,

Deep silence where the shadows cease,

Save for a cry that echoes shrill

From some lone bird disconsolate;

A curlew calling to its mate;

The answer from the distant hill.

And, herald of my love to Him

Who, waiting for the dawn, doth lie,

The orbed maiden leaves the sky,

And the white firs grow more dim.

IV

Up sprang the sun to run his race,

The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea,

But in the west I seemed to see

The likeness of a human face.

A linnet on the hawthorn spray

Sang of the glories of the spring,

And made the flow’ring copses ring

With gladness for the new-born day.

A lark from out the grass I trod

Flew wildly, and was lost to view

In the great seamless veil of blue

That hangs before the face of God.

The willow whispered overhead

That death is but a newer life

And that with idle words of strife

We bring dishonour on the dead.

I took a branch from off the tree,

And hawthorn branches drenched with dew,

I bound them with a sprig of yew,

And made a garland fair to see.

I laid the flowers where He lies

(Warm leaves and flowers on the stones):

What joy I had to sit alone

Till evening broke on tired eyes:

Till all the shifting clouds had spun

A robe of gold for God to wear

And into seas of purple air

Sank the bright galley of the sun.

V

Shall I be gladdened for the day,

And let my inner heart be stirred

By murmuring tree or song of bird,

And sorrow at the wild winds’ play?

Not so, such idle dreams belong

To souls of lesser depth than mine;

I feel that I am half divine;

I that I am great and strong.

I know that every forest tree

By labour rises from the root

I know that none shall gather fruit

By sailing on the barren sea.

Impressions

I
Le Jardin

The lily’s withered chalice falls

Around its rod of dusty gold,

And from the beeeh trees on the wold

The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower

Hangs black and barren on its stalk,

And down the windy garden walk

The dead leaves scatter, — hour by hour.
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