{"collection":"Northern European Mythology","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/neu/morris/ep2/ep204.htm","path":"neu/morris/ep2/ep204.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/neu/morris/ep2/ep204.htm","text":"The Earthly Paradise, (September-November), by William Morris, [1870]\nTHIS tale, which is set forth as a dream, tells of a churl's son who won a fair Queen to his love, and afterwards lost her, and yet in the end was not deprived of her.\nIN Norway, in King Magnus\u2019 days,\n A man there dwelt, my story says,\n Who Gregory had got to name;\n Folk said from outland parts he came,\n Though none knew whence; he served withal\n The Marshal Biorn in field and hall,\n And little, yet was deft of hand\n And stout of heart, when men did stand\n Spear against spear; and his black eyes\n Folk deemed were somewhat overwise.\n For of the stars full well he knew,\n And whither lives of men they drew.\n So Gregory the Star gazer\n Men called him, and somewhat in fear\n They held him, though his daily mood p. 35\n Was ever mild enow and good.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0It chanced upon a summer day,\n When in the south King Magnus lay,\n With all his men, the Marshal sent\n A well-manned cutter, with intent\n To get him fish for house-keeping,\n And Gregory, skilful in this thing,\n The skipper over them to be;\n So merrily they put to sea,\n And of a little island lay,\n Amidst the firth, and fished all day,\n But when night fell, ashore they went\n Upon the isle, and pitched their tent,\n And ate and drank, and slept at last.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But while sleep held the others fast\n Did Gregory waken, turning oft\n Upon his rough bed nothing soft,\n Till stealthily at last he rose\n And crept from the tent thronged and close\n Into the fresh and cloudless night,\n And \u2019neath the high-set moon's cold light\n Went softly down unto the sea;\n And sleep, that erst had seemed to be\n A thing his life must hope in vain,\n Now \u2019gan to fall on him again,\n E\u2019en as he reached the sandy bay\n Where on the beach their cutter lay.\n Calm was the sea \u2019twixt wall and wall\n Of the green bight; the surf did fall p. 36\n With little noise upon the sand,\n Where \u2019neath the moon the smooth curved strand\n Shone white \u2019twixt dark sea, rocks, and turf.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0There, hearkening to the lazy surf,\n Musing he scarcely knew of what,\n Upon a grey rock Gregory sat,\n Till sleep had all its will of him,\n And now at last, with slackened limb\n And nodding head, he fell to dream;\n And far away now did he seem,\n Waked up within the great hall, where\n King Magnus held right merry cheer\n In honour of the Christmas-tide,\n At Ladir; and on every side\n His courtmen and good bonders sat.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0There as folk talked of this and that,\n And drank, and all were blithe enow,\n Amid the drifting of the snow\n And howling of the wind without,\n Within the porch folk heard a shout,\n And opening of the outer door;\n Then one came in, who to the floor\n Cast down the weight of snow, and stood\n Undoing of his fur-lined hood,\n And muttering in his beard the while.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The King gazed on him with a smile,\n Then said at last\u2014\"What is it then?\n Art thou called one of my good men, p. 37\n And art thou of the country-side,\n Or hast thou mayhap wandered wide?\n Come sit thee down and eat and drink\u2014\n \u2014And yet hast thou some news, I think?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The man said, \"News from over sea\n Of Mary and the Trinity,\n And goodman Joseph, do I bring;\n Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, O King!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Inward he stalked on, therewithal,\n But stopped amidmost of the hall,\n And cast to earth his cloak and hood,\n And there in glittering raiment stood,\n While the maids went about the board\n And deftly the cup's river poured,\n And \u2019mid great clank of ewer and horn\n Men drank the day when Christ was born.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then by the King the gold-clad man\n Sat, Gregory dreamed, and soon began\n Great marvels of far lands to tell,\n And said at last:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ye serve me well,\n And strange things therefore will I show,\n Wonders that none save ye may know;\n That ye this stormy night may call\n A joyful tide in kingly hall\n A night to be remembered.\" p. 38\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then Gregory dreamed he turned his head\n Unto the stranger, and their eyes\n Met therewith, and a great surprise\n Shot through his heart, because indeed\n That strange man in the royal weed\n Seemed as his other self to be\n As he began this history.\nIN this your land there once did dwell\n A certain carle who lived full well,\n And lacked few things to make him glad;\n And three fair sons this goodman had,\n Whereof were two stout men enow\n Betwixt the handles of the plough,\n Ready to drive the waggons forth,\n Or pen the sheep up from the north,\n Or help the corn to garner in,\n Or from the rain the hay to win;\n To dyke after the harvesting,\n And many another needful thing.\n But slothful was the youngest one,\n A loiterer in the spring-tide sun,\n A do-nought by the fire-side\n From end to end of winter-tide,\n And wont in summer heats to go p. 39\n About the garden to and fro,\n Plucking the flowers from bough and stalk;\n And muttering oft amid his walk\n Old rhymes that few men understood.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Now is he neither harm nor good,\"\n His father said; \"there, let him go\n And do what he has lust to do.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now so it chanced the goodman had\n A meadow meet to make him glad\n Full oft because of its sweet grass,\n Whereto an ill thing came to pass,\n When else the days were drawing nigh\n To hay-harvest, and certainly\n Our goodman thought all would be won\n Before the morrow of St. John.\n For as he walked thereto one day\n He fell to thinking on the way,\n \"A fair east wind, and cloudless sky\n In scythes before two days go by.\"\n But yet befell a grievous slip\n Betwixt that fair cup and the lip,\n For when he reached the wattled fence,\n And looked across his meadow thence,\n His broad face drew into a frown,\n For there he saw all trodden down\n A full third of the ripening grass,\n So that no scythe might through it pass; p. 40\n Then in a rage he turned away\n And was a moody man that day.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But when that eve he sat at home\n And his two eldest sons had come\n Back from the field, he spake and said:\u2014\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ill-doers, sons, by likelihood\n Be here about, or envious men;\n I thought the last had left us, when\n Skeggi's two sons put off to sea,\n Yet is there left some enemy\n Not bold enough on field or way\n To draw the sword his debt to pay;\n Therefore, son Thorolf, shalt thou go\n And bear with thee the great cross-bow,\n And hide within the white-thorn brake\n And lie there all this night awake\n Watching the great south meadow well;\n Because last night it so befell\n This gangrel thief thought fit to tread\n The grass to mammocks by my head!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So Thorolf rose unwillingly,\n And round about his waist did tie\n The case of bolts, and took adown\n The mighty cross-bow tough and brown,\n And in his strong belt set a knife\n Lest he should come to closer strife, p. 41\n And thereon, having drunk full well,\n Went on his way, and thought to tell,\n A goodly tale at break of day.\n Thus to the mead he gat, and lay\n Close hidden in the hawthorn brake,\n And kept but little time awake,\n But on the sorrel slept as soft\n As on his truckle in the loft,\n Nor woke until the sun was high,\n When looking thence full sleepily\n He saw yet more of that fair field,\n So dealt with, that it scarce would yield\n Much fodder to his father's neat\n That summer-tide, of sour or sweet.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then home he turned with hanging head,\n And right few words that tide he said,\n In answer to his father's scoff,\n But toward the middenstead went off.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So that same night the vexed carle sent\n His next son Thord with like intent;\n But ere the yellow moon was down\n Asleep and snoring lay our clown,\n And waking at the dawn could see\n The meadow trodden grievously.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now when unto the house he came,\n Speaking no word for very shame,\n The good man \u2019gan to gibe and jeer, p. 42\n Saying, that many a groat too dear\n Such sleepy-headed fools he bought,\n That tide when he their mother sought\n With Flemish cloth and silver rings\n And chains, and far-fetched, dear-bought things\n The mariners had sold to him,\n For which had many a man to swim\n Head downward to the porpoises\u2014\n All to get gluttons like to these!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The third son John, who on the floor\n Was lying kicking at the door,\n Turned round and yawned, and stretched, and said,\n \"Alas, then, all my rest is sped,\n For now thou wilt be sending me,\n O father, the third watch to be.\n Well, keep thy heart up, I shall know\n To-morrow, what thing grieves thee so.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Yea, yea,\" his father said, \"truly\n A noble son thou art to me!\n Thou fool, thou thinkest then to win\n The game when these have failed therein!\n Truly a mighty mind I have\n Thy bread and beer henceforth to save,\n And send thee with some skipper forth,\n Who brings back stockfish from the north;\n Then no more dreaming wouldst thou spend\n Thy days, but learn to know rope's-end, p. 43\n And stumble on the icy decks\n To no sweet music of rebecks.\n \u2014Yet since indeed a fool may do\n What no wise man may come unto,\n Go thou, if thou hast any will,\n Because thou canst not do me ill;\n And lo, thou! if thou dost me good\n Then will I fill thy biggest hood\n With silver pennies for thine own,\n To squander in the market-town.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Nought answered John, but turned away,\n And underneath the trees all day\n He slept, but with the moon arose;\n Nor did he arm himself like those,\n His brethren, for he thought, 'Indeed\n Of bolt and bow have I no need,\n For if ill-doers there should be,\n Then will they slay me certainly,\n If I should draw on them a bolt;\n And, though my brethren call me dolt,\n Yet have I no such foolish thought\n For a shaft's whistle to be brought\n To death\u2014withal I shall not see\n Men-folk belike, but fa\u00ebrie,\n And all the arms within the seas\n Should help me nought to deal with these;\n Rather of such lore were I fain\n As fell to Sigurd Fafnir's-bane p. 44\n When of the dragon's heart he ate.\n \u2014Well whatso hap I gain of fate,\n I know I will not sleep this night,\n But wake to see a marvellous sight.'\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith he came unto the mead,\n And looked around with utmost heed\n About the remnant of the hay;\n Then in the hawthorn brake he lay\n And watched night-long \u2019midst many a thought\n Of what might be, and yet saw nought\n As slowly the short night went by,\n \u2019Midst bittern's boom and fern-owl's cry;\n Then the moon sank, the stars grew pale,\n And the first dawn \u2019gan show the veil\n The night had drawn from tree to tree,\n A light wind rose, and suddenly\n A thrush drew head from under wing,\n And through the cold dawn \u2019gan to sing,\n And one by one about him woke\n The minstrels of the feathered folk,\n Long ere the first gleam of the sun.\n Then, though his watch was but begun,\n E\u2019en at that tide, as well he knew,\n O\u2019er John a drowsiness there drew,\n And nothing seemed so good as sleep,\n And sweet dreams o\u2019er his eyes \u2019gan creep\n That made him smile, then wake again\n In terror that his watch was vain; p. 45\n But in the midst of one of these\n He started up, for through the trees\n A mighty rushing sound he heard,\n As of the wings of many a bird;\n And, stark awake, with beating heart,\n He put the hawthorn twigs apart,\n And yet saw no more wondrous thing\n Than seven white swans, who on wide wing\n Went circling round, till one by one\n They dropped the dewy grass upon.\n He smiled thereat, and thought to shout\n And scare them off; but yet a doubt\n Clung to him, as he gazed on those,\n And in the brake he held him close,\n And watched them bridle there, and preen\n Their snowy feathers well beseen;\n So near they were, that he a stone\n Might have cast o\u2019er the furthest one\n With his left hand, as there he lay.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Apace came on the summer day,\n Though the sun lingered, and more near\n The swans drew, and began to peer\n About in strange wise, and John deemed,\n In after days, he must have dreamed\n Again, if for the shortest space;\n For a cloud seemed to dull the place\n And silence of the birds there was;\n And when he next looked o\u2019er the grass, p. 46\n Six swan-skins lay anigh his hand,\n And nearby on the grass did stand\n Seven white-skinned damsels, wrought so fair\n That John must sit and tremble there,\n And flush blood-red, and cast his eyes\n Down on the ground in shamefast wise,\n Then look again with longings sweet\n Piercing his heart; because their feet\n Moved through the long grey-seeded grass\n But some two yards from where he was.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A while in gentle wise they went,\n Among the ripe long grass that bent\n Before their beauty; then there ran\n A thrill through him as they began,\n In musical sweet speech and low,\n To talk a tongue he did not know;\n But when at last one spake alone,\n It was to him as he had known\n That heavenly voice for many years,\n His heart swelled, till through rising tears\n He saw them now, nor would that voice\n Suffer his hot heart to rejoice,\n In all that erst his eyes did bless\n With unimagined loveliness:\n Because her face, that yet had been\n Alone among those girls unseen,\n He longed for with such strong desire,\n That his heart sickened, and quick-fire p. 47\n Within his parched throat seemed to burn.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A while she stood and did not turn,\n While still the music of her voice\n Made the birds' song seem tuneless noise;\n And she alone of all did stand,\n Holding within her down-drooped hand\n The swan-skin\u2014like a pink-tinged rose\n Plucked from amidst a July close,\n And laid on January snow,\n Her fingers on the plumes did show:\n A rosy flame of inner love\n Seemed glowing through her; she did move\n Lightly at whiles, or the soft wind\n Played in her hair no coif did bind.\n Then did he fear to draw his breath\n Lest he should find the hand of Death\n Was showing him vain images;\n Then did he deem the morning breeze\n Blew from the flowery fields of heaven,\n Such fragrance to the morn was given.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now across the long dawn's grey\n The climbing sun's first level ray,\n Long hoped, yet sudden when it came,\n Over the trembling grass did flame\n And made the world alive once more;\n And therewithal a pause came o\u2019er\n The earth and heaven, because she turned, p. 48\n And with such longing his heart burned\n That there he thought he needs must die,\n And, breathless, opened mouth to cry.\n And yet how soft and kind she seemed;\n What a sweet helpful smile there gleamed\n Over the perfect loveliness\n That now his feeble eyes did bless!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now fell the swan-skin from her hand,\n And silent all a space did stand,\n And then again she turned away,\n And seemed some whispered word to say\n Unto her fellows; and therewith\n Their delicate round limbs and lithe\n Began to sway in measured time\n Unto a sweet-voiced outland rhyme\n As they cleft through the morning air\n Hither and thither: fresh and fair\n Beyond all words indeed were these,\n Yet unto him but images\n Well wrought, fair coloured: while she moved\n Amid them all, a thing beloved\n By earth and heaven: could she be\n Made for his sole felicity?\u2014\n Yet if she were not, earth and heaven\n Belike for nought to men were given\n But to torment his weary heart.\n He put the thorny twigs apart\n A little more to gaze his fill; p. 49\n And as he gazed a thought of ill\n Shot through him: close unto his hand,\n Nigher than where she erst did stand,\n Nigher than where her unkissed feet\n Had kissed the clover-blossoms sweet,\n The snowy swan-skin lay cast down.\n His heart thought, 'She will get her gon\n E\u2019en as she came, unless I take\n This snow-white thing for her sweet sake;\n Then whether death or life shall be,\n She needs must speak one word to me\n Before I die.'\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And therewithal\n His hand upon the skin did fall\n Almost without his will, while yet\n His eyes upon her form were set.\n He drew it to him, and there lay\n Until the first dance died away,\n And from amid the rest thereof\n Another sprang, whose rhythm did move\n Light foot, long hair, and supple limb,\n As the wind moves the poplars slim;\n Then as the wind dies out again,\n Like to the end of summer rain\n Amid their leaves, and quivering now\n No more their June-clad heads they bow,\n So sank the rippling song and sweet,\n And gently upon level feet\n They swayed, and circle-wise did stand p. 50\n Each scarcely touching each with hand,\n Until at last all motion ceased.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Still as the dewy shade decreased,\n Panting John lay, and did not move,\n Sunk in the wonder of his love,\n Though fear weighed on him; for he knew\n That short his time of pleasance grew\n Though none had told him.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now the one\n His heart was set on spake alone,\n And therewith hand and arm down-dropped,\n Their scarce-heard murmuring wholly stopped,\n And softly in long line they passed\n Unto the thorn-brake, she the last.\n Then unto agony arose\n John's fear, as once again all close\n She was to him. The wind ran by\n The notched green leaves, the sun was high,\n Dappling the grass whereon he lay:\n Fresh, fair, and cheery was the day,\n And nought like guile or wizardry\n Could one have thought there was anigh,\n Till, suddenly, did all things change,\n E\u2019en as his heart, and dim and strange\n The old familiar world had grown,\n That blithe and rough he erst had known,\n And racked and mined time did seem. p. 51\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A sudden, sharp cry pierced his dream,\n And then his cleared eyes could behold\n His love, half-hid with hair of gold,\n Her slim hands covering up her face,\n Standing amid the grassy place,\n Shaken with sobs, and round her woe,\n With long caressing necks of snow\n And ruffling plumes, the others stood'\n Bird-like again. Chilled to the blood,\n Yet close he lay and did not move,\n Strengthening his heart with thoughts of love,\n Wild as a morning dream. Withal\n Some murmured word from her did fall,\n Closer awhile the swans did press\n Around her woeful loveliness,\n As though a loth farewell they bade;\n And she one fair hand softly laid\n Upon their heads in wandering wise,\n Nor drew the other from her eyes,\n As one by one her body fair\n They left, and rose into the air\n With clangorous cries, and circled wide\n Above her, till the blue did hide\n Their soaring wings, and all were gone.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0As scarce she knew that she was lone,\n She stood there for a little space,\n One hand still covering up her face,\n The other drooped down, half stretched out, p. 52\n As if her lone heart yet did doubt\n Somewhat was left her to caress.\n Yet soon all sound of her distress\n Was silent, though thought held her fast\n And nought she moved; the field-mouse passed\n Close to her feet, the dragon-fly,\n A thin blue needle flickered by,\n The bee whirled past her as the morn\n Grew later, and strange thoughts were born\n Within her.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So she raised her head\n At last, and, gazing round, she said:\n \"Is pitying love all dead on earth?\n Is no heart left that holds of worth\n Love that hands touch not, and that eyes\n Behold not? Is none left so wise\n As not to know the smart of bliss\n That dieth out \u2019twixt kiss and kiss?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She stopped and trembled, for she heard\n The hawthorn brake beside her stirred,\n Then turned round, half unwittingly,\n Across the meadow-grass to flee,\n And knew not whither, as, half blind,\n She heard the rustling twigs behind,\n And therewithal a breathless cry\n And eager footsteps drawing nigh.\n With streaming hair, a little way\n She fled across the trodden hay, p. 53\n Then failed her feet, and turning round,\n She cowered low upon the ground,\n With wild eyes turned to meet her fate,\n E\u2019en as the partridge doth await,\n With half-dead breast and broken wing,\n The winged death the hawk doth bring.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Dim with the horror of that race,\n Wild eyes her eyes met, and pale face,\n And trembling outstretched hands that moved\n No nigher to her body loved,\n Whereto they had been brought so near.\n For very fear of her wild fear.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So each of other sore afraid,\n There fleer and pursuer stayed,\n Each gathering breath and heart to speak\u2014\n And he too hopeless, she too weak,\n For a long space to say a word.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet first her own faint voice she heard,\n For in his hand she saw the skin,\n And deemed she knew what he would win,\n And how that morning's deed had gone:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"What have I done? what have I done?\n Did I work ever harm to thee,\n That thou this day my bane shouldst be?\n Why is there such hate in thine eyes\n Against me?\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0From his breast did rise p. 54\n A dumb sound, but no word came forth;\n She shrank aback yet more:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"What worth,\n What worth in all that thou hast done?\n For say my body thou hast won,\n Art thou God, then, to keep alive,\n Unless my will therewith I give?\"\n E\u2019en as she spake, a look of pain\n Twitched at his face; she spoke again:\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\n\"For now I see thou hat\u2019st me not,\n But thinkest thou a prize hast got\n Thou wilt not lightly cast away:\n O hearken, hearken!\u2014a poor prey\n Thy toils shall take, a thing of stone\n Amid your folk to dwell alone\n And hide a heart that hateth thee.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He shrank back from her wretchedly,\n And dropped his hand and hung his head;\n \"Nay, now I hate thee not,\" she said\u2014\n \"And who knows what may come to be\n If thou but give mine own to me,\n And free this trembling body here?\n Wouldst thou rejoice if thou wert dear,\n Dear unto me though far away,\n And hope still fed thee day by day?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She deemed he wept now, as he turned p. 55\n Away from her, and her heart yearned\n Somewhat toward him as she spake:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"And if thou dost this for my sake,\n Wilt thou, for all that, deem this morn\n Has made thee utterly forlorn?\n Hast thou not cast thine arms round Love\n At least, thy weary heart to move,\n To make thy wakening strange and new,\n And dull life false and old tales true;\n Yea, and a tale to make thy life\n To speed the others in the strife,\n To quicken thee with wondrous fire,\n And make thee fairer with desire?\n Wilt thou, then, think it all in vain,\n 'The restless longing and the pain,\n Lightened by hope that shall not die?\n For thou shalt hope still certainly,\n And well mayst deem that thou hast part,\n Somewhat, at least, in this my heart,\n Whatever else therein may be.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He turned about most eagerly\n And gazed upon her for a while .\n Wild fear had left her, and a smile\n Had lit up now her softened face,\n Sweet pleading kindness gave new grace\n To all her beauty; fresh again\n Her cheeks grew, haggard erst with pain p. 56\n She saw the deep love in his eyes,\n And slowly therewithal \u2019gan rise,\n While something in her heart there moved,\n Some pleasure to be well beloved,\n Some pain because of doubt and fear,\n Of once-loved things grown scarce so dear;\n Less clear all things she seemed to see,\n Her wisdom in life's mystery\n Seemed fleeting, and for very shame\n A tingling flush across her came.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But close unto him did she stand,\n And, reaching out her little hand,\n Took his, and in strange searching wise\n Gazed on him with imploring eyes;\n And with the sweetness of that touch\n And look, wrought fear and hope o\u2019ermuch\n Within him, and his eyes waxed dim,\n And trembling sore in every limb,\n He slid adown, and knelt, and said:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"O sweetly certes hast thou prayed,\n Nor used vain words, but smitten me\n With all the greater agony\n For all thy sweetness: so, indeed,\n If thou art holpen well at need\n By this thy prayer, yet meet it is\n Ere this one moment of great bliss\n Has turned to nought all life to come, p. 57\n That thou shouldst hear me ere my doom,\n \u2014And yet indeed what prayer to make\n Thy heart amid its calm to shake,\n When thou art gone\u2014when thou art gone,\n And I and woe are left alone!\n \u2014What fiercest word shall yet avail\n If this my first and last one fail\u2014\n Wherewith shall the hard heart be moved\n If this move not, that it is loved?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His eager hand her hand did press,\n His eyes devoured her loveliness.\n But silent she a short while stood,\n Her face now pale, now red as blood,\n While her lip trembled, and her eyes\n Grew wet to see his miseries,\n At last she spake with down-cast head;\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Alas, what shall I do?\" she said,\n \"Thy prayer shall make me sorrow more\n Whenas I go to that far shore\n I needs must go to; for I know,\n Poor soul! that thou wilt let me go,\n Since thou art grown too wise and kind\n My helpless soul with force to bind\u2014\n \u2014Would thou might\u2019st have some part in me!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She shrank aback afraid, for he\n Now sprang up with a bitter cry: p. 58\n \"Thou knowest not my agony!\n Thou knowest not the words thou say\u2019st,\n Or what a wretched, empty waste\n This remnant of my life is grown,\n Or how I need thee all alone\n To heal the wound this morn has made!\n \u2014Why tremblest thou?\u2014be not afraid;\n I will not leave thee any more:\n Come near to me! My mother bore\n No dreadful thing when I was born.\n Fear not, thou art not yet forlorn,\n As I, as I, as I shall be\n If ever thou shouldst go from me.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She shrank no more, but looked adown\n And said, \"Alas! why dost thou frown?\n Wilt thou be ever angry thus?\"\n Her voice was weak and piteous\n As thus she spake, and in her breast\n A sob there moved, yet hard she pressed\n The hand she held: too sweet was love\n For any word his lips to move;\n Too sweet was hope that lips might dare\n To touch her sweet cheek smooth and fair.\n Yet with her downcast eyes she knew\n That nigher ever his face drew\n To hers, and new-born love did flame\n Out from her heart, as now there came p. 59\n A sound half sigh, half moan from him;\n She trembled sore, all things \u2019gan swim\n Before her eyes, nor felt her feet\n The firm earth\u2014for all over-sweet\n For sight or hearing life \u2019gan grow,\n As panting, and with changed eyes now,\n She raised her parted lips to his.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But ere their fair young mouths might kiss,\n While hand stole unto hand, and breath\n Met breath, the image of cold death,\n With his estranging agonies,\n Smote on her heart that once was wise;\n As touched by some sharp sudden sting,\n Back from her love's arms did she spring,\n And stood there trembling; and her cry\n Rang through the morn:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Why shouldst thou die\n Amidst thy just-won joy?\" she said,\n \"And must I see thee stark and dead\n Who have beheld thy gathering bliss?\n Touch me no more yet\u2014so it is\n That thy fierce heart hath conquered me,\n That I no more may look on thee\n Without desire\u2014for such an end\n I hitherward, belike, did wend,\n Led on by fate, and knew it not\u2014\n But if thy love is e\u2019en as hot\n As thine eyes say, what wilt thou do? p. 60\n Loved or loved not, still is it so,\n That in thy land I may not live.\n Too strong thou art that I should strive\n With thee and love\u2014Yet what say\u2019st thou?\n Art thou content thy love to throw\n Unto the waste of time, and dwell\n Here in thy land, and fare right well,\n Feared, hated maybe, yet through all\n A conquering man, whate\u2019er shall fall\u2014\n \u2014Or, in mine own land be mine own,\n Live long, perchance, yet all unknown,\n Love for thy master and thy law,\n Nor hope another lot to draw\n From out life's urn?\u2014Think of it, then!\n Be great among the sons of men\n Because I love thee, and forget\n That here amid the hay we met\u2014\n Or else be loved and love, the while\n Life's vision doth thine eyes beguile.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He fell upon his knees, and cried:\n \"Ah, wilt thou go?\u2014the world is wide\n And waste; we were together here\n A while ago, and I grew dear\n To thee, I deemed\u2014what hast thou said?\n Behold, behold, the world is dead,\n And I must die, or ere I deal\n With its dead follies more, or feel\n The dead men's dreams that move men there, p. 61\n \u2014Alas, how shall I make my prayer\n To thee, who lovedest me time agone,\n No more to leave my heart alone?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Musing, his passionate speech she heard,\n And with a strange look, half afeard,\n Half pitying, did she gaze on him,\n Until through tears that sight waxed dim;\n At last she spake:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"No need to pray\n Lest I thy love, O love, betray;\n But many a thought there is in me\n If I through love might clearly see;\n \u2014But the morn wanes fast, dear, arise\n And let me hence, lest eviler eyes\n Than thine behold my body here,\n And thou shouldst buy thy bliss too dear;\n So bring me to some place anigh\n Amid thick trees, where thou and I\n May be alone a little space,\n To make us ready for the place\n Where love may still be happiness\n Unmixed with change and ill distress.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He gazed on her, but durst not speak,\n Nor noted how a sigh did break\n The sweetness of her speech, but took\n Her white hand with a hand that shook\n For very love, and o\u2019er the grass, p. 62\n Scarce knowing where his feet did pass,\n He led her, till they came at last\n Unto a beech-wood, where the mast\n And dry leaves, made a carpet meet,\n Sun-speckled, underneath their feet.\n She stopped him, grown all grave and calm,\n And laid lips like a healing balm\n Upon his brow and spake:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ah, would\n That I who know of ill and good,\n And thou who may\u2019st learn e\u2019en as much\n By misery, might deem this touch\n Of calm lips, joy enough to last\n Till life with all its whirl were past\u2014\n This kiss, and memory of the morn\n Whereon the sweet desire was born.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He trembled, and beseechingly\n Gazed on her: \"Ah, no, no,\" said she,\n \"No more with thee this day I strive,\n E\u2019en as thou prayedst will I give;\n Belike because I may not choose,\n Nay nor may let my own soul loose.\n Is it enow?\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Once more he strove,\n With some sweet word to bless his love\n And might not; but she smiled and said:\n \"The lovers of old time are dead,\n And so too shall it be with thee. p. 63\n Yea, hast thou heard no history\n Of lovers who outlived the love\n That once they deemed the world would move?\n And so too may it be with thee.\n \u2014Nay stretch thy right hand out to me,\n Poor soul, and all shall soon be done.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A gold ring with a dark green stone\n Upon his finger then she set,\n And said: \"Thou may\u2019st repent thee yet\n The giving of this gift to-day;\n Be wise then! Cast the ring away,\n Give me my own and get thee gone;\n For all the past, not so alone\n Shall thou and I then be, as erst;\n Sad, longing, loving, not accurst.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She trembled as she spake, and turned\n Unto his eyes a face that yearned\n With great desire, although her eyes\n Seemed wonderful and overwise.\n But pain of anger changed his face,\n He said; \"I have compelled thy grace,\n But not thy love then; do to me\n E\u2019en as thou willest, and go free.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She murmured; \"Nay, what wilt thou have?\n Thou prayedst and the gift I gave,\n Giving what I might not withhold, p. 64\n In spite of wisdom clear and cold.\n \u2014Alas, poor heart unsatisfied,\n Why wilt thou love? the world is wide\n And holdeth many a joyous thing:\n Why wilt thou for thy misery cling\n To that desire that resteth not\n What part soever thou hast got\n Of that whose whole thou ne\u2019er shalt gain?\n Alas for thee and me, most vain,\n Most vain to wrangle more of this!\n Come then, where wait us woe and bliss,\n Give me the swan-skin, lay thee down,\n Nought doubting, on the beech-leaves brown!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0What spell weighed on his heart but love\n I know not, but nought might he move\n Except to do her whole command;\n He lay adown, and on his hand\n Rested his cheek; his eyes grew dim,\n Yet saw he the white beech-trunks slim\n At first; and his fair-footed love\n He saw \u2019twixt sun and shadow move\n Close unto him, and languidly\n Her rosy fingers did he see\n About the ruffled swan-skin white,\n Even as when that strange delight\n First maddened him; then dimmer grew\n His sight, and yet withal he knew\n That over him she hung, and blessed p. 65\n His face with her sweet eyes, till rest,\n As deep as death as soft as sleep,\n Across his troubled heart did creep;\n And then a long time seemed gone by\n And \u2019mid soft herbage did he lie\n With shut eyes, half awake, and seemed\n Some dream forgotten to have dreamed,\n So sweet, he fain would dream again;\n Then came back memory with a pain,\n Like death first heard of; with a cry\n And fear swift born of memory\n He oped his eyes, that dazed with light\n Long kept from them, saw nought aright;\n But something kind, and something fair,\n Seemed yet to be anigh him there,\n Whereto he stretched his arms, that met\n Soft hands, and his own hands were set\n On a smooth cheek, he seemed to know\n From days agone;\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Sweet, sweet doth blow\n The gentle wind,\" he said, \"whereas\n Surely o\u2019er blossoms it doth pass\n If any there be made so sweet.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And as he spake, his lips did meet\n In one unhoped, undreamed-of kiss,\n The very heart of all his bliss.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Like waking from an ecstasy, p. 66\n Too sweet for truth it seemed to be,\n Waking to life full satisfied\n When he arose, and side by side,\n Cheek touching cheek, hand laid in hand,\n They stood within a marvellous land,\n Fruitful, and summer-like, and fair.\n The light wind sported with her hair,\n Crowned with a leaf-like crown of gold,\n Or round her limbs drave lap and fold\n Of her light raiment strange of hue\n That earthly shuttle never knew;\n From overhead the blossoms sweet\n Fell soft, pink-edged upon her feet,\n That moved the grass now, as her voice\n Made the soft scented air rejoice\n And made him tremble; murmuring;\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Come,\n These are the meadows of my home,\n My home and thine; much have I now\n To tell thee of, and much to show.\n Is it with thee, love, as with me\n That too much of felicity\n Maketh thee sad? yet sweet it is\n That little sadness born of bliss\n And thought of death, and memory\n That even this perchance goes by.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Too glad his eyes now made his heart\n To let his tongue take any part p. 67\n In all his joy: afraid he felt,\n As though but for a while he dwelt\n Upon the outer ledge of heaven,\n And scarce he knew how much was given\n Of all his heart had asked, as she\n Led softly on from tree to tree.\n He shut his eyes that he might gain\n Some image of the world of pain,\n Some roughness of the world cast by,\n The more his heart to satisfy,\n The more to sound the depths of bliss\n That now belike was ever his.\nBUT therewithal the dream did break,\n And Gregory sat up, stark awake,\n And gazing at the surf-line white,\n Sore yearning for some lost delight,\n Some pleasure gone, he knew not what;\n For all that dream was clean forgot.\n So rising with a smile and sigh,\n He gat him backward pensively\n Unto the tent, and past between\n The sturdy sleepers, all unseen\n Of sleep-bound eyes, sore troubled yet\n That he must needs his dream forget.\n So on his rough bed down he lay, p. 68\n And thought to wake until the day,\n But scarce had time to turn him round\n Ere the lost wonder was well found\n By sleep; again he dreamed that he\n Sat at the King's festivity,\n Again did that sweet tale go on,\n But now the stranger guest was gone\n As though he had not been, and he\n Himself, Star gazing Gregory,\n Sat by King Magnus, clad in gold,\n And in such wise the sequel told.\nMIDST all that bliss, and part thereof,\n Full-fed with choicest gifts of love,\n The happy lover lived right long\n Till e\u2019en the names of woe and wrong\n Had he forgotten.\u2014Of his bliss\n Nought may we tell, for so it is\n That verse for battle-song is meet,\n And sings of sorrow piercing-sweet,\n And weaves the tale of heavy years\n And hopeless grief that knows no tears\n Into a smooth song sweet enow,\n For fear the winter pass too slow;\n Yet hath no voice to tell of Heaven\n Or heavenly joys for long years given, p. 69\n Themselves an unmatched melody,\n Where fear is slain of victory\n And hope, held fast in arms of love,\n No more the happy heart may move.\n Sweet souls, grudge not our drearihead,\n But let the dying mourn their dead\n With what melodious wail they will!\n Even as we through good and ill\n Grudge not your soundless happiness,\n Through hope whereof alone, we bless\n Our woe with music and with tears.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now deems the tale that three long years\n John in that marvellous land abode,\n Till something like a growing load\n Of unacknowledged longing came\n Upon him, mingled with a shame,\n Which happiness slew not, that he\n Apart from his own kind must be,\n Nor share their hopes and fears: withal\n A gloom upon his face did fall,\n His love failed not to note, and knew\n Whither his heart, unwitting, drew.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And so it fell that, on a day,\n As musing by her side he lay,\n She spake out suddenly, and said:\n \"What burden on thy soul is laid,\n What veil through which thou canst not see, p. 70\n Thinkst thou that I hide aught from thee?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He caught her in his arms, and cried,\n \"What is it that from love can hide?\n Thou knowest this, thou knowest this!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Alas,\" she said, \"yet so it is\n That never have I told to thee\n What danger crept toward thee and me!\n How could I spoil the lovesome years\n With telling thee of slow-foot fears,\n Or shade the sweetness of our home\n With what perchance might never come?\n But now we may not turn aside\n From the sharp thorn the rose did hide.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He turned on her a troubled face,\n And said, \"What is it, from what place\n Comes trouble on us?\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She flushed red\n As one who lies, and stammering said;\n \"In thine own land, where while ago\n Thou dwelledst, doth the danger grow.\n How thinkst thou? hast thou such a heart,\n That thou and I a while may part\n To make joy greater in a while?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She smiled, but something in her smile\n Was like the heralding of tears, p. 71\n When lonely pain the grieved heart bears.\n But he sprang up unto his feet,\n Glad \u2019gainst his will, and cried; \"O sweet,\n Fear nought at all, for certainly\n Thy fated fellow still am I;\n Tell me the tale, and let me go\n The nighest way to meet the foe.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Something there was, that for a while\n Made her keep silence; with a smile\n His bright flushed visage did she note,\n And put her hand unto her throat\n As though she found it hard to breathe;\n At last she spake:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"The long years seethe\n With many things, until at last\n From out their caldron is there cast\n Somewhat like poison mixed with food;\n To leave the ill, and take the good\n Were sweet indeed, but nowise. life,\n Where all things ever are at strife.\n Thou, knowing not belike, and I,\n Wide-eyed indeed and wilfully,\n Through these three years have ever striven\n To take the sweet of what was given\n And cast the bitter half aside;\n But fate his own time well can bide,\n And so it fares with us to-day.\n Bear this too, that I may not say p. 72\n What danger threatens; thou must go\n Unto thy land and nothing know\n Of what shall be\u2014a hard, hard part\n For such as thee, with patient heart\n To sit alone, and hope and wait,\n Nor strive in anywise with fate,\n Whatever doubt on thee may fall,\n Unless by certain sign I call\n On thee to help me: to this end\n Each day at nightfall shalt thou wend\n Unto that place, where thou and I\n First met; there let an hour go by,\n And if thereby nought hap to thee\n Of strange, then deem thou certainly\n All goeth, or too well or ill\n For thee to help, and bide thou still.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She had arisen, side by side\n They stood now, and all red had died\n From out his face, most wan he grew,\n He faltered forth:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Would that I knew,\n If thou hadst ever loved me, sweet!\n Then surely all things would I meet\n With good heart.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Such a trouble came\n Across his face, that she, for shame\n Of something hidden, blushed blood-red,\n Then turned all pale again, and said: p. 73\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Thou knowest that I love thee well!\n What shall I do then? can I tell\n In one short moment all the love\n That through these years my heart did move?\n Come nigher, love, and look at me,\n That thou in these mine eyes mayst see\n If long enow this troubled dream,\n That men call life, mine heart may deem\n To love thee in.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His arms he cast\n About her and his tears fell fast,\n Nor was she dry-eyed; slowly there\n Did their lips part, her fingers fair\n Sought for his hand:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Come, love,\" she said,\n \"Time wears;\" withal the way she led\n Unto the place where first he woke\n Betwixt a hawthorn and an oak,\n And said: \"Lie down, and dream a dream,\n That nought real, wasted then may seem\n When next we meet! yet hear a word\n Ere sleep comes: thou mayst well be stirred\n By idle talk, or longings vain,\n To wish me in thine arms again;\n Long then, but let no least word slip\n Of such a longing past thy lip;\n For if thou dost, so strangely now\n Are we twain wedded, I and thou,\n And that same golden green-stoned ring p. 74\n Is token of so great a thing\n That at thy word I needs must come\n Whereso I be unto thine home;\n And so were both of us undone:\n Because the great-eyed glaring sun\n That lights your world, too mighty is\n To look upon our secret bliss.\n \u2014What more to say or e\u2019er thou sleep?\n I would I yet had time to weep\n All that I would, then many a day\n Would pass, or thou shouldst go away.\n But time wears, and the hand of fate,\n For all our weeping, will not wait.\n \u2014Yet speak, before sleep wrap thee round,\n That I once more may hear the sound\n Of thy sweet voice, if never more.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0For all her words she wept right sore.\n \"What wouldest thou?\" he said in turn,\n \"Thou know\u2019st for thee and peace I yearn\n Past words\u2014but now thy lips have sealed,\n My lips with mysteries unrevealed;\n How shall I pray, this bitter morn\n That joy and me atwain hath torn?\n While yet as in a dream it is\n Both bliss and this strange end of bliss.\n Ah what more can I say thereof?\n That never any end of love\n I know, though all my bliss hath end; p. 75\n That where thou willest I will wend,\n Abide where thou wouldst have me stay,\n Pass bitter day on bitter day\n Silent of thee, and make no sign\n Of all the love and life divine,\n That is my life and knowledge now.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And with that word he lay a-low\n And by his side she knelt, and took\n His last kiss with a lovely look,\n Mingled of utmost love and ruth\n And knowledge of the hidden truth.\n And then he heard her sing again\n Unknown words to a soft low strain,\n Till dim his senses waxed, nor knew\n What things were false, and what were true,\n Mid all the things he saw and heard,\n But still among strange-plumaged bird,\n Strange-fruited tree, and strange-clad maid,\n And horrors making not afraid\n Of changing man, and dim-eyed beast,\n \u2014Through all he deemed he knew at least\n That over him his true-love hung\n And \u2019twixt her sobs in sweet voice sung\n That mystic song, until at last\n Into the dreamless land he passed\n Of deep, dark sleep without a flaw\n Where nought he heard and nought he saw. p. 76\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Amidst unreasoning huge surprise,\n Remembering nought, he oped his eyes\n And leapt up swiftly, and there stood\n Blinking upon a close beech-wood\n As one who knew not aught of it;\n Yet in a while \u2019gan memory flit\n Across him, and he muttered low\n Unwitting words said long ago\n When he was yet a child; then turned\n To where the autumn noon-sun burned\n Bright on a cleared space of the wood,\n Where midst rank grass a spruce-tree stood,\n Tall, grey-trunked, leafless a long way,\n And memory of another day,\n Like to a dream within a dream\n Therewith across his heart \u2019gan gleam,\n And gazing up into the tree,\n He raised his right arm suddenly,\n E\u2019en as he fain would climb the same;\n Then, as his vision clearer came,\n He muttered, 'O Nay, gone is the nest,\n Nor is it spring-tide; it were best\n Unto the stead to hurry back,\n Or else my dinner may I lack,\n For father's grip is close enow.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And therewithal, with head hung low,\n Even as one who needs not sight,\n And looking nor to left nor right,\n Through blind ways of the wood he went, p. 77\n Seeming as he were right intent\n On heavy thoughts, as well might be,\n But scarcely waked yet verily,\n Or knowing in what place he was.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In such wise swiftly did he pass\n Without a check straight through the wood,\n Until on the slope-side he stood,\n Where all its tangles were clean done;\n There staying, while the unclouded sun\n Gleamed on the golden braveries\n That clad him, did he raise his eyes,\n And \u2019neath his shading hand looked thence,\n And saw o\u2019er well-tilled close and fence\n A little knot of roofs between\n Dark leaves, their ridges bright and green\n With spiky house-leek; and withal\n Man unto man did he hear call\n Afar amid the fields below;\n And then a hoarse loud horn \u2019gan blow\n No point of war, but peasant-call\n To hurry toward the steaming hall.\n Then as a red spark lights a flame\n Among light straw, all memory came\n Back-rushing on his heart, and he\n \u2019Gan think of joy and misery,\n Trouble and hope, in tangled wise,\n Till longing in his heart \u2019gan rise\n Fretting with troublous ecstasy\n All else to nought. p. 78\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So pensively\n Down the hill-side he slipped, and saw\n All folk unto the homestead draw,\n And noted how a homeman there\n Turned round unto the hillside bare\n Whereas amid the sun he went,\n Then side-long to his fellow bent\n And pointed, and all turned about\n And stood a while, as if in doubt\n Whether for him they should not stay,\n Yet went at last upon their way.\n Now thereat somewhat did he smile\n And walked the slower for a while,\n As though with something of a care\n To meet outside no loiterer,\n Then went on at a swifter pace:\n And all things with familiar face\n Gazed on him; till again the shame\n Of not being of them o\u2019er him came.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Most fair to peaceful heart was all,\n Windless the ripe fruit down did fall,\n The shadows of the large grey leaves\n Lay grey upon the oaten sheaves\n By the garth-wall as he past by;\n The startled ousel-cock did cry\n As from the yew-tree by the gate\n He flew; the speckled hen did wait\n With outstretched neck his coming in, p. 79\n The March-hatched cockerel gaunt and thin\n Crowed shrilly, while his elder thrust\n His stiff wing-weathers in the dust\n That grew aweary of the sun:\n The old and one-eyed cart-horse dun\n The middenstead went hobbling round\n Blowing the light straw from the ground.\n With curious eyes the drake peered in\n O\u2019er the barn's dusk, where dust and din\n Were silent now a little space.\nThere for a while with anxious face,\n Yet smiling therewithal, John stood,\n Then toward the porch of carven wood\n He turned, and hearkened to the hum\n Of mingled speech that thence did come\n Through the dumb clatter of the hall,\n Lest any word perchance might fall\n Upon his ears to tell of aught\n That change or death thereto had brought,\n And, listening so, deemed he could hear\n His father's voice, but nothing clear,\n And then a pause, and then again\n The mingled speech of maids and men.\n Again some word remembered\n From old days half aloud he said,\n And pulled his hood about his brow,\n And went with doubtful steps and slow\n Unto the door, and took the horn, p. 80\n His own hand time past did adorn,\n And blew a loud, clear blast thereon,\n And pushed the door, then like a sun\n New come to a dull world he stood,\n Gleaming with gold from shoes to hood,\n In the dusk doorway of the place\n Whence toward him now turned every face.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0From \u2019neath his hood he gazed around,\n And soothly there few gaps he found;\n Amidmost of the upper board\n His brethren sat, Thorolf and Thord;\n He saw his sire, half risen up\n From the high-seat, a silver cup\n In his brown hand; and by his side\n His mother o\u2019er her barm-cloth wide\n Gazed forward somewhat timidly\n The new-corner's bright weed to see.\n Small change in these indeed, John thought,\n By lapse of days had yet been wrought\n And for the rest, but one or two\n There were, he deemed, of faces new.\n There open-eyed, beer-can in hand,\n And staring did the damsels stand\n As he had known them; there he saw\n Haldor the Icelander half draw\n His heavy short-sword forth, as he\n The gleam of gold and steel did see\n Flash suddenly across the door\u2014\n An old man skilled in ancient lore, p. 81\n And John's own foster-sire withal.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But on one face did John's eyes fall\n He needs must note\u2014a woman leaned\n O\u2019er Thord, and though her face was screened\n By his wide bush of light red hair\n Yet might he see that she was fair,\n And deemed his brother newly wed.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now, as thoughts ran through his head\n About the tale that he should tell,\n His sire, as one who knew right well\n What manners unto men were meet,\n Rose up and cried from out his seat:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Knight, or fair lord, whatso thou be\u2019st,\n If thou mayst share a bonder's feast,\n Sit by me, eat and drink thy fill;\n For this my hall is open still\n To peaceful men of all degree.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Strange seemed his own voice there to be\n To John, as he in feigned speech said:\n \"Thanks have thou for thy goodlihead\n And welcome, goodman; certainly\n Hungry and weary-foot am I,\n And fain of rest, and strange withal\n To this your land, for it did fall,\n That e\u2019en now as I chanced to ride p. 82\n I lighted by a waterside\n To slake my thirst; and just as I\n Was drinking therefrom eagerly,\n A blue-winged jay, new-hatched in spring,\n Must needs start forth and fall to sing\n His villain plain-song o\u2019er my head;\n And like a ghost come from the dead\n Was that unto my horse, I trow,\n Who swerved and went off quick enow,\n To leave me as a gangrel churl.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Thou seemest liker to an Earl,\"\n His father said; \"but come to meat,\n To hungry men are bannocks sweet.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So by his father's side he sat\n And of that homely cheer he ate,\n Remembered well; and oft he sighed\n To think how far away and wide\n The years had set him from all this,\n And how that all-devouring bliss\n Had made the simple life of old\n As a dull tale too often told.\n But as he sat thereby, full oft\n The goodwife's eyes waxed sad and soft,\n Beholding him; she muttered low:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Alas! fair lips, I ought to know,\n Like unto lips that once hung here; p. 83\n Eyes like to eyes that once were dear\n When all that body I could hold,\n And flaxen-white was hair of gold.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So muttered she, but said not aught\n Aloud. Now the fair damsel brought\n Mead to the gay-clad man, and he\n Beheld her beauty thoughtfully,\n As she shook back her cloud of hair,\n And swung aside her figure fair,\n And clasped the cup with fingers slim,\n And poured and reached it forth to him;\n Then his heart changed again with shame\n As cold cup and warm fingers came\n Into his hand, the while his eyes\n A look in hers must needs surprise\n That made him flush, and she\u2014the red\n O\u2019er face and neck and bosom spread\n And her hand trembled; Thord the while\n Gazed on her with a foolish smile\n Across his wide face. So went by\n The hour of that festivity,\n And then the boards were set aside;\n But the host prayed his guest to bide\n As long as he had will thereto,\n And therewith to the field did go\n With sons and homemen, leaving John\n Among the women-folk alone. p. 84\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So these being set to rock and wool,\n John sat him down upon a stool\n And \u2019gan to ponder dreamily,\n \u2019Mid longings, on the days gone by,\n And many a glance did Thord's wife steal\n Upon him as she plied the reel\n Not noted much, though once or twice\n His pensive eyes did meet her eyes,\n And troubled and abashed thereat\n He reddened. But the good wife sat\n Meanwhile, and ever span and span\n With steady fingers, and yet wan\n Her face was grown; her mouth and eyes\n Seemed troubled with deep memories.\n At last to Thord's wife did she turn\n And said:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"If honey we would earn\n Against Yule-tide, the weaving-room\n Must hear the clatter of the loom;\n Ere the long web is fully done;\n So, Thorgerd, thither get thee gone;\n Thou, Asa, to the cloth-room go\n And wait me there; and for you two,\n Mary and Kirstin, best were ye\n Sitting in Thorgerd's company,\n To give her help with reel and thread\n And shuttle.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith, as she said,\n So did they, and went, one and all; p. 85\n But in the doorway of the hall\n Did Thorgerd for a moment stand,\n Holding her gownskirt in her hand,\n Her body swaying daintily,\n Nor cared to hold aback a sigh.\n Nor son, nor mother noted her,\n A little time the twain sat there\n Nor spake, though twice the goodwife strove,\n But fear forbade her tongue to move;\n Nor had he noted much forsooth\n Midst his own longing and self-ruth,\n Her looks of loving and of doubt.\n So from the hall did she pass out,\n And left him there alone, and soon\n So longing dealt that afternoon\n That, fallen to musing pensively,\n In the lone hall, now scarce might he\n Know if his heart were glad or sad;\n And tunes within his head he had\n Of ancient songs learnt long ago,\n Remembered well through bliss and woe,\n And now withal a lovesome stave\n He murmured to a measure grave,\n Scarce thinking of its sense the while.\n But as he sat there, with a smile\n Came handmaid Asa back, who bare\n Heaped in her arms embroidered gear,\n Which by his feet did she let fall,\n Then gat her gone from out the hall; p. 86\n John, startled, ceased a while his drone\n To gaze upon the gear cast down,\n And saw a dark blue cloak and hood\n Wrought with strange needlework and rude\n That showed the sun and stars and moon;\n Then, gazing, John remembered soon\n How for Yule sport four years agone\n That selfsame raiment he did on,\n And thinking on that bygone mirth\n His own rich cloak he cast to earth,\n And did on him half wittingly\n That long-forgotten bravery;\n And though the sun was warm that day\n He hugged himself in his old way\n Within the warmth of fold on fold\n As though he came from out the cold,\n And \u2019gan the hall to pace about;\n And at the last must needs break out\n Into a song remembered well,\n That of the Christmas joy did tell.\nOutlanders, whence come ye last?\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n Through what green seas and great have ye past?\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nFrom far away, O masters mine,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door. p. 87\n We come to bear you goodly wine,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nFrom far away we come to you,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n To tell of great tidings strange and true.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nNews, news of the Trinity,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n And Mary and Joseph from over the sea!\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nFor as we wandered far and wide,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n What hap do ye deem there should us betide!\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nUnder a bent when the night was deep,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n There lay three shepherds tending their sheep.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\"In an ox-stall this night we saw,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door. p. 88\n A babe and a maid without a flaw.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\"There was an old man there beside,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n His hair was white and his hood was wide.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\"And as we gazed this thing upon,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n Those twain knelt down to the Little One.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\"And a marvellous song we straight did hear,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door.\n That slew our sorrow and healed our care.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\nNews of a fair and a marvellous thing,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The snow in the street and the wind on the door,\n Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing!\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So sang he, and in pensive wise\n He sighed, but lifting up his eyes\n Beheld his mother standing nigh,\n Looking upon him pitifully.\n He ran to her, for now he knew p. 89\n Her yearning love, round her he threw\n Strong arms, and cried out:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"So it is,\n O mother, that some days of bliss\n I still may give thee; yet since I\n To thee at least will never lie\n Of what I am, and what I hope,\n And what with ill things I must cope,\n Sit thou aside, and look not strange\n When of my glory and great change\n I shall tell even such a tale\n As best for all things may avail.\n And if thou wouldst know verily\n Meanwhile, how matters fare with me,\n This thing of all things may I tell;\n I have been happy and fared well,\n But now with blind eyes must await\n Some unseen, half-guessed turn of fate,\n Before the dropping of the scale\n Shall make an ending to the tale,\n Or blithe or sad: think not meanwhile\n That fear my heart shall now beguile\n Of all the joy I have in thee.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She wept about him tenderly\n A long while, ere she might say aught;\n Then she drew back, and some strange thought\n Stirred in her heart belike, for she\n Gazed at his splendour timidly, p. 90\n For the rude cloak to earth was cast,\n And whispered trembling at the last.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Fair art thou come again, sweet son,\n And sure a long way hast thou gone,\n I durst not ask thee where: but this\n I ask thee by the first sweet kiss,\n Wherewith I kissed thy new-born face\n Long since within the groaning place\u2014\n If thou hast been so far, that thou\n Canst tell to me\u2014grown old, son, now,\n Through weary life, unsatisfied\n Desires, and lingering hope untried\u2014\n If thou canst tell me of thy ruth,\n What thing there is of lies or truth,\n In what the new faith saith of those\n Great glories of the heavenly close,\n And how that poor folk twinned on earth\n Shall meet therein in joy and mirth.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Smiling with pity and surprise,\n He looked into her wistful eyes,\n And kissed her brow therewith, and said:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Nought know I, mother, of the dead,\n More than thou dost\u2014let be\u2014we live\n This day at least, great joy to give\n Each unto other: but the tale\n Must come from thee about the dale, p. 91\n And what has happed therein, since I\n That summer eve went off to try\n What thing by folly might be wrought\n When strength and wisdom came to nought.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She smiled amid her tears, and there\n She told him all he fain would hear,\n And happily they talked till eve,\n When the men-folk the field did leave\n And gat them to the hall, and then\n Was great rejoicing of all men\n Within a while, for, cloak and hood\n Thrown off, in glittering gear John stood\n And named himself; yet scarcely now\n His father durst his arms to throw\n Round his son's neck, remembering\n How he had thought him such a thing\n As scarce was meet his bread to win.\n Small thought had John of that old sin,\n Yea, scarce had heart to think of aught,\n But when again he should be brought\n Face to face with his love; and slow\n The leaden minutes lingered now;\n Nor could he fail to hope that he\n That very hour her face would see;\n Needs must he hope that his strong love,\n So sore the heart in her must move,\n That she no more might bear his pain. p. 92\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That very hour, he thought again\u2014\n That very hour; woe worth the while,\n Why should his heart not feel her smile\n Now, now?\u2014O weary time, O life,\n Consumed in endless, useless strife,\n To wash from out the hopeless clay\n Of heavy day and heavy day\n Some specks of golden love, to keep\n Our hearts from madness ere we sleep!\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Good welcome if of clownish kind\n Did John from both his brethren find,\n And from the homemen; Thorgerd seemed\n As somewhat less of him she deemed\n Than heretofore, and smiled, as she\n Put up her fair cheek daintily\n To take his kiss. So went the night\n Midst mirth and manifold delight,\n Till John at last was left alone\n To think upon the strange day gone,\n Scarce knowing yet, if nearer drew\n His bliss because it was gone through.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now in such wise, day passed by day,\n Till heavier on him longing lay,\n As still less strange it was to wake\n And no kind kiss of welcome take,\n And welcome with no loving kiss,\n Kind eyes to a new day of bliss; p. 93\n And as the days passed o\u2019er his head\n Sometimes he needs must wake in dread,\n That all the welfare, that did seem\n To be his life, was but a dream,\n Or all at least slipped swiftly by\n Into a wretched memory.\n Yet would hope leave him not, yea, whiles\n Wrapped round about by her strange guiles\n All seemed to go right well, and oft\n Would memory grow so sweet and soft,\n That scarce the thing it imaged had\n More might in it to make him glad.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Well may ye deem that mid all this\n His brooding face would cloud the bliss\n Of many a boisterous night; his sire\n Would mutter, \"He has clomb up higher.\n But still is moonstruck as before;\"\n His brethren ill his silence bore,\n Yet feared him; such a tale he told\n That in that mead he did behold\n Strange outland people come that morn,\n 'By whom afar he had been borne\n Into a fair land, where, he said,\n Thriving, the king's child did he wed\n Within a while; \"Now, when once more\n Their keels shall leave their noble shore,\n At Norway will they touch, and then\n Back go I with those goodly men, p. 94\n Now I have seen my land and kin.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fair Thorgerd ever sought to win\n Kind looks of him, and many a day\n She from the hall would go away\n To rage within some secret place,\n That all the sweetness of her face,\n Her lingering fingers, her soft word,\n \u2019Twixt red half-opened lips scarce heard,\n Had bought for her so little ruth;\n Although there seemed some times, in sooth,\n When John, grown weary of the strife\n Within him between dreams and life,\n Must think it not so over ill\n To watch her hand the shuttle fill,\n While on her cheek the red and white\n Flickered and changed with new delight,\n And hope of being a thing to move\n That dreamy man to earthly love.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So autumn fell to winter-tide,\n And ever there did John abide,\n \u2019Mid hope deferred and longing fierce,\n That strove the heavy veil to pierce;\n And howso strong his love might be,\n Yet were there tides of misery,\n When, in his helpless, hopeless rage,\n He felt himself as in a cage\n Shown to the gaping world; again p. 95\n Would heavy languor dull his pain,\n And make it possible to live,\n And wait to see if fate would give\n Some pleasure yet ere all was done.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Meantime, with every setting sun,\n Unto the meadow as she bade\n He went, and often, half afraid\n Half hopeful, did he watch the night\n Suck slowly in the lingering light;\n But of the homefolk, though all knew\n Whither his feet at evening drew,\n Yet now so great a man he was,\n None asked him why he needs must pass\n Each eve along the self-same way,\n Save Thorgerd, who would oft waylay\n His feet returning, and would watch\n Some gesture or some word to catch\n From his unwariness; and whiles\n Her tender looks and words and smiles\n Would seem to move him now, and she\n Laughed to herself delightedly;\n And as the days grew heavier\n To John, he oft would gaze on her,\n At such times as she tripped along,\n And wonder where would be the wrong\n If he should tell her of his tale;\n Withal he deemed her cheek grew pale,\n As unto Yule-tide drew the days, p. 96\n And oft into her eyes would gaze\n In such kind wise, that she awhile\n Forgot her foolishness and guile\n Surprised by sparks of inner love.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet nothing a long while did move\n His mouth to fatal speech, until\n When the snow lay on moor and hill\n And it was Yule-day, he did go\n \u2019Twixt the high drift o\u2019er beaten snow\n Unto the meadow, as the day\n Short, wind-bewildered, died away.\n And so, being come unto the thorn\n Where first that bitter love was born,\n He gazed around, but nothing saw\n But endless waste of grey clouds draw\n O\u2019er the white waste, while cold and blind\n The earth looked; e\u2019en the north-west wind\n Found there no long abiding place,\n But ever the low clouds did chase\n Nor let them weep their frozen tears.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Strange is it how the grieved heart bears\n Long hours and days and months of woe,\n As dull and leaden as they go,\n And makes no sign, yea, and knows not\n How great a burden it bath got\n Upon it, till all suddenly\n Some thought scarce heeded shall flit by, p. 97\n That tears the veil as by it goes\n With seeming careless hand, and shows\n The shrinking soul that deep abyss\n Of days to come all bare of bliss.\n And now with John e\u2019en so it fared.\n He saw his woe and longing bared\n Before his eyes, as slow and slow\n The twilight crept across the snow,\n Like to the dying out of hope;\n And suddenly he needs must cope\n With that in-rushing of despair\n Long held aback, till all things there\n Seemed grown his foes, his prison-wall;\n And, whatso good things might befall\n To others of the wide world, he\n Was left alone with misery.\n Why should he hold his peace or strive\n Amid these men as man to live\n Who recked not of him? Then he cried:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Would God, would God, that I had died\n Before the accursed name of Love\n My miserable heart did move!\n Why did I leave thee in such wise,\n False heart, with lovesome, patient eyes,\n And soul intent to do thy will?\n And why, why must I love thee still, .\n And long for thee, and cast on thee\n Blessings wrung out of misery, p. 98\n That will not bless thee, if in sooth\n On my wrecked heart thou hast no ruth?\n O come, come, come to me, my love,\n If aught my heart thy heart may move,\n For I am wretched and alone,\n With head grown wild, heart turned to stone,\n Come, if there yet be truth in thee!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He gazed about him timorously\n While thus he spake, as though he thought\n To see some sudden marvel wrought\n In earth and heaven; some dreadful death,\n Some sight, as when God threateneth\n The world with speedy end; but still\n Unchanged, o\u2019er mead and wold and hill\n Drave on the dull low twilight rack,\n Till all light seemed the sky to lack,\n And the snow-shrouded earth to gain\n What it had lost.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"In vain, in vain!\"\n He cried, \"and I was well bewrayed;\n She wept o\u2019er me when I was laid\n Upon the grass beside her feet,\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Because a pleasure somewhat sweet\n She needs must lay aside, while I\u2014\n \u2014What tears shall help my misery?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then back he turned in e\u2019en such mood\n As when one thing seems no more good p. 99\n Than is another, and will seems\n To move the body but by dreams\n Of ancient life and energy.\n But as he wandered listlessly\n Midst the wind's howling, and the drift\n Of light snow that its force did lift,\n And gained at last the garth's great gate,\n He started back, for there did wait\n A grey form in the dull grey night,\n Yea, and a woman's; strange affright,\n Strange hope possessed him, and he strove\n To cry aloud some word of love,\n But his voice failed him; she came nigh\n And drew up to him quietly,\n Not speaking; when she reached his side\n Her hand unto his hand did glide\n And thrilled him with its soft warm touch,\n He stammered:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Have I loved too much,\n Have I done wrong? I called thee, dear;\n Speak, love, and take away my fear!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A soft voice answered, \"O speak not!\n I cannot bear my joy, o\u2019er hot\n Waxeth my heart, when in such wise\n Thou art changed to me\u2014O thine eyes,\n I see them through the darksome night\n Gazing upon me! sweet delight,\n How shall I deal with all my bliss p. 100\n So that the world know nought of this,\n When scarce now I may breathe or stand\n Holding thy lovesome clinging hand.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now therewith Thorgerd's voice he knew,\n And from her hand his hand he drew,\n While o\u2019er his heart there swept again\n The bitter blast of doubting pain,\n And scarce he knew who by his side\n Was going, as aloud he cried:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"In vain I call; thou comest not\n And all our love is quite forgot;\n What new world hast thou got to rule?\n What mockeries mak\u2019st thou of the fool\n Who trusted thee? Alas, alas!\n Whatever ill may come to pass\n Still must I love thee.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now by him\n Went Thorgerd silent, every limb\n Tingling with madness and desire;\n Love lit within her such a fire\n As e\u2019en that eve in nowise cooled,\n As of her sweet, fresh hope befooled\n She strove to speak, and found no word\n To tell wherewith her heart was stirred.\n So on they went, she knowing nought\n The bitterness of his ill thought,\n He heeding not in any wise p. 101\n The wretchedness of her surprise,\n Until, thus far estranged, they carne\n To where the hall's bright light did flame\n Over a space of trodden snow.\n Faster a space then did she go,\n But, as they drew anigh the door,\n Stopped suddenly, and stood before\n The musing, downcast man, and laid\n A hand upon his breast, and said,\n In a low smothered voice:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Wait now,\n And tell me straightly what didst thou\n To call me love, and then to cry\n Thy love came not? I am anigh,\n What wouldst thou have, did I not move\n Thy cold heart? am I not thy love?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then, trembling as those words she spoke,\n She cast to earth her heavy cloak;\n From head to foot clad daintily,\n Meet for that merry tide was she;\n A silver girdle clasped around\n Her well-wrought loins, her fair hair crowned\n With silver, and her gown enwrought\n With flowers whereof that tide knows nought;\n Nor needed she that rich attire\n To set a young man's heart afire,\n For she was delicately made\n As is the lily; there she swayed, p. 102\n Leaned forward to the strenuous wind\n That her gay raiment intertwined\n About her light limbs. Gazing there,\n Bewildered with a strange despair,\n John saw her beauty, yet in sooth\n Something within him slew all ruth\n If for a moment:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ah, what love,\n What love,\" he cried, \"my heart should move,\n But mine own love, my worshipped sweet?\n Would God that her beloved feet\n Would bless our threshold this same night!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then, even as a sudden light\n Shows to some wretch the murderer's knife\n Drawing anear his outworn life,\n Knowledge rushed o\u2019er him, and too late\n Did he bethink him of the fate\n That threatened, and, grown wild and blind,\n He turned to meet the western wind\n That hurried past him, thinking, \"Now\n At least the formless sky will show\n Some sign of my undoing swift;\n Surely the sightless rack will lift\n To show some dreadful misery,\n Some image of the summer sky\n Defaced by the red lightning's sword.\"\n So spake he, and the fierce wind roared\n Amid the firs in sullen wise, p. 103\n But nothing met his fearful eyes\n Save the grey waste of night. Withal\n He turned round slowly to the hall,\n Trembling, yet doubtful of his heart,\n Doubtful of love. But for her part\n Thorgerd, half mad with love, had turned\n And fled from him; a red spot burned\n Amidst each smooth cheek, and her eyes\n Afire with furious jealousies,\n Followed him down the hall, as he\n Went toward the dais listlessly,\n And the loud horns blew up to meat,\n And restless were her fevered feet\n Throughout the feast that now befell.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now thereat men were served right well,\n And most were merry, and the horn\n Full oft from board to beard was borne;\n But no mead brewed of mortal man\n Could make John's face less wild and wan;\n For a long while he trembled sore\n Whene\u2019er the west-wind shook the door\n More than its wont; nor heeded he\n The curse of Thorgerd's misery\n Wild-gleaming from her eyes; and when\n She fell to talk with the young men\n With hapless, haggard merriment,\n No pang throughout his heart there went:\n For clear across it were there borne p. 104\n Pictures of all the life forlorn\n That should be, yea, his life he saw,\n Unhelped and heavy-burdened, draw\n Through the dull joyless years, until\n The bitter measure they should fill,\n And he, unloved, unsatisfied,\n Unkissed, from foolish hope should hide\n In some dark corner of death's house.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet, as the feast grew clamorous\n About him, and the night went past,\n The respite wrought on him at last,\n And from its midst did he begin\n A little rest from fear to win,\n And in the feast he joined and seemed\n No more as in their midst he dreamed.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So passed a space, till presently\n As with a beaker raised on high\n He stood, and called on some great name\n Writ in the book of northern fame,\n Across the wind there came a sound\n As though afar a horn were wound,\n A dreadful sound to him; the men\n Sat hearkening, till it came again\n Nigher and sharper now, and John,\n Grown white, laid his left hand upon\n His beating heart; and then once more\n Loud rang the horn close by the door, p. 105\n And men began in haste to take\n Their weapons for their safety's sake;\n But John, the cup in his right hand,\n His left upon his heart, did stand,\n And might not either move nor speak.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then cried the goodman, \"Not so weak\n Are we, but these may well come in\n Unmet with weapons; they shall win\n All good things on this stormy night;\n Go welcome them to our delight;\n For on this merry tide of Yule\n Shall Christ the Lord all matters rule.\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then opened they the door, and strong\n The wild wind swept the hall along,\n Driving the hangings here and there,\n Making the torches ruddier,\n Darkening the fires. But therewithal\n An utter hush came o\u2019er the hall,\n And no man spake of bad or good;\n For in the midst of them there stood\n A white-clad woman, white as though\n A piece of fair moonlitten snow\n Had entered the red smoky hall.\n Then sweet speech on their ears did fall\n Thrilling all hearts through:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Joy and peace\n Be on this house, and all increase p. 106\n Of all good things! and thou, my love,\n I knew how sore desire must move\n Thy longing heart, and I am come\n To look upon thee in thy home:\n Come to me, give me welcome here!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He stepped adown, and shame and fear\n Mixed with the joyful agony\n Of love and longing, as anigh\n He drew unto her loveliness.\n A moment, and his arms did press\n His own love to his heaving breast,\n And for an instant of sweet rest\n Midst clinging hands and trembling kiss\n Did he forget all things but bliss;\n And still she murmured:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Now rejoice\n That far away I heard thy voice\n And came! rejoice this night at least,\n And make good ending to the feast!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith from out his arms she drew,\n Yet held his hand still; scarce he knew\n Of where he was, and who were round,\n And strange and flat his voice did sound\n Unto himself, as now he spake:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Kinsmen, see her, who for my sake\n Has left her mighty state and home, p. 107\n Fair beyond words, that she might come\n With you a little to abide!\n How say ye, are ye satisfied\n Her sweet face in your midst to see?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith, though somewhat timidly,\n Folk shouted; sooth, they deemed her such\n As mortal man might scarcely touch\n Or dare to love; with fear fulfilled,\n With shame of their rough joyance chilled,\n They sat, scarce moving: but to John\n Some sweet familiar thing seemed won\n Despite his fear, as down the hall\n He led her: if his eyes did fall\n On Thorgerd's face, how might he heed\n The anguish of unholpen need,\n That filled her heart with all despair,\n As on the twain her eyes did glare?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now softly to the fair high-seat\n With trembling hand he led his sweet,\n Who kissed the goodman and goodwife,\n And wished them fair and happy life,\n Then like the earth's and heaven's queen,\n She sat there beauteous and serene,\n Till, as men gazed upon her there,\n Joy of her beauty slew their fear;\n Hot grew their hearts now, as they turned\n Eyes on her that with strange light burned: p. 108\n And wild and eager grew the speech\n Wherewith they praised her each to each,\n As \u2019neath her eyes they sat.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0If he\n Who knew the full felicity\n Of all they longed for, hushed at whiles,\n Might answer not her healing smiles\n With aught but sad imploring eyes,\n When he bethought him in what wise\n She there was come\u2014yet none the less\n Amid bewildered happiness\n The time went by; until at last\n Night waned, and slowly all folk passed\n From out the hall, and the soft sleep\n O\u2019er all the marvelling house did creep,\n Bearing to folk that night such dreams,\n As showed, through wild things, very gleams\n Of heaven and perfect love, to last\n Till grey light o\u2019er the world was cast.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But, midst the other folk, she too\n His mazed and doubtful footsteps drew\n Unto the chamber; when alone\n They were, and his warm heart seemed one\n With her and bliss, without a word\n She gazed on him, and like a sword,\n Cleaving the very heart atwain\n That look was, laden with all pain,\n All love and ruth that she might feel. p. 109\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So through the dark the hours did steal\n Slow toward the rising of the sun;\n But long or ere the night was done\n He slept within her arms, nor heard\n The sobs wherewith her breast was stirred,\n Nor felt the tears and kisses sweet\n That round his set calm face did beat,\n As round its dead mate beats a bird\n With useless flutter no more heard:\n Nor did he move when she unwound\n The arms that clasped her breast around,\n And, weeping sore, the gold ring drew\n From off his hand: and nought he knew\n When from the bed at last she slid,\n And, with her body all unhid,\n Stood gazing on him till a sigh\n Burst from her heart; and wearily\n From her sad tear-stained troubled face\n She swept her hair back:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"O the days,\n Thy weary days, love! Dream not then\n Of named lands, and abodes of men!\n Alas, alas, the loneliest\n Of all such were a land of rest\n When set against the land where I\n Unhelped must note the hours go by!\n Ah, that my hope thy dream might pierce!\n That mid the dreadful grief and tears,\n Which presently shall rend thine heart, p. 110\n This word the cloud might draw apart\u2014\n My feet, lost Love, shall wander soon\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon!\n Tell not old tales of love, so strong,\n That all the world with all its wrong\n And heedlessness was weak to part\n The loving heart from loving heart?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Therewith she turned about, and now\n She wept no more; her cheeks \u2019gan glow,\n And her eyes glittered, and no more\n Sorrow her kind mouth brooded o\u2019er,\n And strange, unearthly beauty shone\n O\u2019er all her face, whence ruth was gone,\n Till the dim-litten place was glad\n That in the midst thereof it had\n Her loveliness grown dangerous;\n Softly she gat her through the house\n Where here and there a dying light\n Shone on her wondrous limbs and white\n As through the rough place dreamily\n She moved: yet was the night wind high\n And its rude hand, as it did shake\n Window and door, served but to make\n The inner stillness yet more still.\n The clouds were riven; o\u2019er the hill\n The white moon shone out, yet its light\n Made the deep night so much more night,\n That now it seemed as ne\u2019er again p. 111\n The sun would bless the eyes of men;\n That all the world had fallen to death.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So on she passed, her odorous breath\n Seen now amidst the moonlit hall,\n Her unshod foot's light steady fall,\n The waving of her gust-moved hair,\n Well-nigh the lonely place might hear\n Despite the rush and stir without,\n As, slowly, yet all void of doubt\n She raised the latchet of the door,\n And let the wind and moonlight pour\n Wild clamour and strange light therethrough.\n She paused not; the wild west wind blew\n Her hair straight out from her; her feet\n The bitter, beaten snow did meet\n And shrank not; slowly forth she passed\n Nor backward any look she cast,\n Nor gazed to right or left, but went\n With eyes on the far sky intent\n Into the howling, doubtful night,\n Until at last her body white\n And its black shadow on the snow,\n No more the drift-edged way did know.\nAGAIN the thread snapped; Gregory lay\n Awake; nor what had passed away\n Of the short night could tell, till he\n Through the tent's opening seemed to see\n A change creep o\u2019er the moonlit sky;\n So there a short while did he lie\n Striving to think what he had dreamed,\n Till utterly awake he seemed;\n And then, since no more on that night\n He thought to sleep, and lost delight\n Of the past dream grown more than dim,\n With causeless longing wearied him,\n He rose and left the tent once more,\n And passed down slowly toward the shore\n Until the boat he came unto:\n And there he set himself to do\n What things were needed to the gear,\n Until he saw the dawn draw near\n Across the sea: then, e\u2019en as one\n Who through a marvellous land hath gone\n In sleep, and knowing nought thereof\n To tell, yet knows strange things did move\n About his sightless journeying,\n So felt he; and yet seemed to bring,\n Now and again, some things anigh\n Unto the wavering boundary\n \u2019Twixt sight and blindness that awhile\n Our troubled waking will beguile p. 113\n When happy dreams have just gone by,\n And left us without remedy\n Within the unpitying hands of life.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At last, amid perplexing strife\n With things half seen, drowsy he grew\n Once more, and ever slower drew\n The tough brown lines from hand to hand,\n Until he sank upon the sand\n Beside the boat, and, staring out\n O\u2019er the grey sea, lost hope and doubt\n In little while, nor noted now\n The dawn's line wide and wider grow,\n Nor waning of the shadow deep\n The moon cast from the boat; till sleep\n Had closed his eyes, and in the cold\n Of the first dawn the ending told\n \u00a0that sweet tale. Yet so it was,\n That the King's hall and feast did pass\n Clean from his mind; and now it seemed\n That of no tale-telling he dreamed,\n But of his own life grown to be\n A new and marvellous history.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Midst hope and fear and wretchedness,\n And Love, that all things doth redress,\n Adown the stream of fate he moved\n As the carle's son, the well-beloved,\n The fool of longing; in such wise\n He dealt with his own miseries. p. 114\nTHE winter night was on the wane\n When the poor wretch woke up again;\n The lone strange sound of cock-crow moved\n His heart to dream of his beloved\n \u2019Twixt sleep and waking, and he turned\n A face with utmost love that yearned\n And sighed, as his hot hand stole forth\n To touch a body of more worth\n To him than Heaven's unmeasured years;\n Upon his face were undried tears\n Left by some dream, and yet he smiled\n To think of deep joy so beguiled\n By sadness dreamed; his lips began\n To speak a name unknown to man.\n A little while in bliss he lay\n And gathered thoughts of day on day\n More joyful each than each, until\n Sweet thankful love his soul did fill\n With utter ecstasy of bliss,\n And low he murmured:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Kind she is\n Beyond all kindness ever told!\n Thou wilt not leave me more, a-cold\n In the rough world; thou knowest how\n My weak and clinging heart will grow\n Unto the strength of thy great heart.\n O surely no more shall we part, p. 115\n And never canst thou hurt me more\n Till all the world and time is o\u2019er!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The moonlight waned, on drew the morn,\n The lessened west wind moaned forlorn\n In the garth nooks; the eaves dripped now\n Beneath the thaw, the faint cock-crow\n Through the dull dawn, and no sound more\n He heard. Awake, and yearning sore,\n He turned about and cried:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Wake, wake!\n Day cometh, and my heart doth ache\n To think how sleep still takes from me\n Some minutes of felicity,\n From me and thee, my love, my sweet!\n O think of Death's forgotten feet,\n That somewhere surely drawn anigh,\n And let no minute more pass by\n With our lips parted each from each!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Wildly the ending of his speech\n Rang from his lips, all strange, as though\n The thought once thought needs thence must go\n In words, though all the world were changed.\n Wildly his opened eyes now ranged\n The twilight chamber void of her,\n And through his heart shot such a fear\n As words may tell not\u2014nay indeed\n No fear\u2014for now he knew the meed p. 116\n Of his fool's word, and for a while\n No hope was left that might beguile\n His misery and his loneliness,\n No eager sight, born of distress,\n Might pierce the cloud that o\u2019er him spread.\n Such wild thoughts filled his 'wildered head,\n As once or twice may men endure\n Yet live; for the earth seemed not sure,\n Or the air fleeting; fire burned not,\n Nor water moyed; the snow was hot,\n The dark hid nought; the coming day\n No longer sober seemed and grey,\n But full of flashing light and blue.\n Yet all things round him well he knew,\n More real they seemed than e\u2019er before,\n They would not change, nor would pass o\u2019er\n One instant of his agony.\n It was as he had seen time die,\n And good turn evil \u2019neath his eyes,\n And God live to forge miseries\n For him alone, for him alone,\n For all the world beside seemed gone.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A short while, risen in his bed,\n He hung his wretched brooding head\n Above the place her limbs had warmed,\n And shrieked not, though strange curses swarmed\n About his heart, and wild and fierce\n Strove hard his dead despair to pierce, p. 117\n And might not: nought his heart might ease\n Or for a moment gain him peace.\n Yet in that time of utter ill,\n Some reflex of the guiding will\n That moved his limbs in happier days\n Still wrought in him; round did he gaze\n With set eyes, and arose withal;\n And e\u2019en therewith a thought did fall\n Upon him that some succour brought,\n \"How can I meet their eyes?\" he thought,\n \"How can I bear to hear again\n The voices of the sons of men?\"\nAnd, nigh unwitting, at that word,\n Hearkening the while if any stirred,\n He clad himself and gazed around\n The place once more, and on the ground\n There lay her raiment: then he turned\n His head away, for wild-fire burned\n Within it, and he strove to speak;\n But, lest his wretched heart should break\n And torment end on that first day\n A new pain did his pain allay,\n And bitter tears and wailing came\n To dull the fierceness of the flame\n That so consumed him; and withal\n Desire of wandering forth \u2019gan fall\n Upon him, though he knew not where\n In all the world to seek for her. p. 118\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So, ere his burning tears were spent,\n Through the unwakened hall he went,\n And kissed the threshold of the door\n Her well-loved feet had touched before,\n Yet saw no signs upon the snow\n Of those departing feet to show.\n Cold blew the wind upon his face,\n As now he left behind the place\n Where he was born, nor turned again\n To look farewell; for nought and vain\n Seemed all things but his misery,\n That now had grown his life to be,\n Not to be given away for aught\n That earth might hold; nor had he thought\n That anything his lot could change,\n That anything could more be strange,\n Lovesome or fearful to his heart,\n Or in his life have any part.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So he went on from that abode,\n Along a well-known, oft-trod road,\n He knew not why or where, until\n Clean hidden by a bare waste hill,\n Were the snow-covered roofs wherein\n His outward life did first begin.\n Then as he wandered on forlorn,\n From out his unrest was there born\n Some faint half-memory, that did seem\n To be the remnant of a dream; p. 119\n Some image to his mind there clung,\n Some speech upon his lips yet hung\n He might not utter.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now he\n Had gone so long that the wide sea\n He saw afar, when the dull day\n Toward eve again had passed away,\n Amidst the utter solitude\n Of his time-slaying weary mood.\n But weak and way-worn was he now,\n Though greater did his longing grow\n To wander ever on and on,\n Until the unknown rest were won.\n And when he gazed from the hill-side,\n And saw the great sea spreading wide,\n All black and empty from the shore,\n So sharp a longing then came o\u2019er\n His dull despair, such wild desire,\n That stung, as when a coal of fire\n Is laid upon an aching wound,\n He cast himself upon the ground,\n And in the cold snow writhed and wailed,\n While over him the sea-mew sailed,\n Not silent, and the wind wailed too,\n As though his bitter grief they knew,\n And mocked him.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Yet or fell the night\n He rose, and on the waste of white\n Stood a black speck, then went until p. 120\n The black night mingled sea and hill\n And hurrying rack in nothingness.\n Yet, kept alive by his distress,\n He fainted not, nor went astray,\n For as in dreams he knew the way\n At last, and whitherward he went,\n Since round the heart of strong intent\n His woe was wrapped.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So o\u2019er the down\n He went, until a haven-town\n Shone like a patch of stars on earth,\n And something like a hope had birth\n Within him, and somewhat he knew\n His will, now that his body grew\n Well-nigh too weak to bear him on.\n Yet to the town at last he won,\n So heartened now unto the task\n That he for food and rest might ask;\n And, since no lack of wealth he had,\n Soon did he make a goodman glad\n With gift of gold, and, all outworn,\n Forgot his grief, and life forlorn\n In long deep sleep most like to death.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now at that town, my story saith,\n Long must he bide, for so it was\n That then no good ship well might pass\n From land to land, for winter-tide\n Still made the narrow seas full wide. p. 121\n Each morn did John wake there, to gaze\n With dead eyes on the waste of days,\n Each eve he laid him down to sleep,\n Much marvelling what his life did keep\n From passing: still the memory\n Of some faint, dreamlike thing gone by\n Perplexed his heart, and still he strove,\n Amid the anguish of his love,\n To speak that half-remembered word,\n Amidst a dream, belike, once heard.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This helped him through his dull-eyed woe,\n That the time passed, and he should go\n To other lands ere many days,\n Seeming to seek for that lost face.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At last the day desired came\n When o\u2019er the land the Spring did flame\n With love and flowers; and on an eve\n John's good ship did the haven leave,\n And pale he stood upon the prow,\n And to the weary place, left now\n Behind with all its patience dead,\n No more had will to turn his head,\n But thinking of the future still,\n Amid the shipman's tangled skill,\n Stood looking toward the flaming West,\n With eyes made strange by love's unrest.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Upon the deck that night he lay, p. 122\n And nought he slept until the day\n Began to dawn, and woke again\n In short space, feeling little pain,\n And with his pale lips murmuring\n Some word half-dreamed, some fleeting thing.\n Then on his arm he rose, and saw\n The waste of waters seem to draw\n Unto him as the black prow clave\n With steady heart green wave on wave;\n None save the watch were on the deck,\n Who, sleepy-eyed, no whit did reck\n Of him and all his woe and love,\n But \u2019twixt the bulwarks slow did move,\n With little purpose, as it seemed;\n The helmsman steered as though he dreamed,\n Of seafolk's marvels vaguely told\n By firesides in the days of old;\n The light wind waxed and waned; the ship\n Still through the babbling waves did slip\n As though their talk she hearkened to:\n And \u2019midst it all John scarcely knew\n Whether he lived still, or was dead:\n Well-nigh it came into his head,\n That he by ghosts of men was borne\n From out his wasted life forlorn\n O\u2019er a strange sea to some strange place\n Of unknown punishment or grace.\n Skyward he looked, and o\u2019er the mast\n He saw the moon with all light passed p. 123\n From out of her, and as he gazed\n The great sun o\u2019er the green sea blazed,\n And smote his head with sudden light.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then in his heart the flame burned bright\n That long had smouldered there, he cried;\n \"Ah, woe betide, ah, woe betide,\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon!\n A land that no man findeth soon,\n The grave of greedy love that cries\n To all folk of its agonies:\n The prison of untrustful love,\n That thinketh a light word can move\n The heart of kindness, deep and wise.\n \u2014O love, love, would thy once-kissed eyes\n Were glad to-day, that thy sweet smile\n Forgat a wretch so base and vile,\n That he but lived to make thee sad,\n To weep the days that once were glad!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But now the dreamlike sight that wrapped\n His soul all suddenly was snapped.\n He heard the watch cry out their cry,\n The helmsman answer cheerily,\n And mid the homely noise of these\n Freshened awhile the morning breeze,\n The ship leaned o\u2019er the highway green,\n That led to England's meads unseen.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At Dunwich, in the east country, p. 124\n John landed from the weary sea,\n Not recking where on earth he was;\n But quickly therefrom did he pass,\n Driven by growing hope; that word\n In some old dream belike half heard,\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon,\n Seemed unto him a heaven-sent boon,\n Yet made the merry world around\n A dreary cage, a narrow round\n Of dreamlike pain, a hollow place,\n Filled with a blind and dying race.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That town and country-side, indeed,\n Seemed all the less to help his need,\n Whereas for common homely things\n That well he knew, with Easterlings\n And his own country-folk they dealt,\n And scarce knew aught of what folk dwelt\n Southward beyond the narrow seas;\n So giving few farewells to these,\n Towards London did he take his way,\n And, journeying on, at hostels lay\n Benights, or whiles at abbeys fair;\n And as his hope grew, would he dare,\n In manner of a tale, to tell\n In what wise woe upon him fell;\n And most men praised the tale enow,\n And said no minstrel-wight might show\n A merrier tale to feasting hall. p. 125\n And so at last it did befall\n That at a holy house he lay,\n A noble house, forsooth, to-day,\n Men call St. Alban's; there he told\n Once more, as a thing known of old,\n The story of his hapless love:\n Such passion there his tongue did move,\n That in that Abbey's guest-chamber\n It was a better thing to hear\n Than many a history nobly writ,\n And much were all folk moved by it.\n But when his speech was fully done,\n From the board's end there rose up one,\n A little dry old monk, right wise\n Of semblance, with small glittering eyes,\n Who came to John, and said:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Thy tale,\n Fair son, shall much my need avail,\n For I have many such-like things\n Writ out for sport of lords and kings;\n Bide thou with us to-morn, I pray,\n And hearken some for half a day;\n For certes shall their memory\n Help thee to pass the dull days by,\n When thou growest old.\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Wide-eyed John stared,\n For scarce the old man's speech he heard,\n Or any speech of men, for still\n One thought his whole sad heart did fill. p. 126\n Howbeit constrained, he knew not why,\n He heard full many a history\n Like to his own next morn, and went\n Yet more upon his love intent;\n Yet more the world seemed nought but this,\n Longing for bliss and losing bliss.\n And yet, of those fresh tales withal\n Some endings on his heart did fall\n As scarcely new; he \u2019gan to make\n Tales to himself, how for his sake\n She wept and waited; how some way\n To Love fulfilled yet open lay;\n The grey morn often would beguile\n With dreams his sad lips to a smile,\n While still his shut eyes did behold\n Once more her sweetness manifold;\n And if the waking from delight\n Unto the real day void and white,\n Were well-nigh more than man could bear,\n Yet his own sad voice would he hear\n Muttering as o\u2019erword to the tune,\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now come to London at the last,\n Among the chapmen there he passed,\n And many a tale of them he had\n Concerning outlands good and bad\n That they had journeyed through, but still\n He heard none speak for good or ill p. 127\n Of any way unto the place\n Whereto for him still led all ways.\n But his hope lived, nor might his heart\n In any life of man have part,\n And forth he wandered once again\n As merchant among chaffering men,\n And strange he seemed among them all;\n His face changed not, whate\u2019er might fall\n Of good or ill; he won, he lost,\n He gave, as counting not the cost;\n Fell sick, grew well, and heeded nought\n What the days took or what they brought;\n Nowhere he strove great deeds to do,\n Scarce spoke he save when spoken to;\n Hither and thither still he went\n As the winds blow, never content,\n Never complaining; resting nought,\n And yet scarce asking what he sought.\n A strange waif in the tide of life,\n With nought he seemed to be at strife,\n To nothing earthly to belong.\n Still burned his longing bright and strong,\n As when upon that bitter morn\n He hung with his white face forlorn,\n Over the bed yet scarcely cold,\n That erst her loveliness did hold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So chasing dreams, so dreamlike chased,\n Through lapse of years his life did waste; p. 128\n His body changed, and old he grew\n Before his time: his face none knew,\n When, on a time, from journeyings vain\n In southlands, wandering back again,\n He heard his father welcome call\n Across the smoke-wreaths of his hall.\n O lonely heart! the yearning shame\n That erst, when back thereto he came,\n He felt at being so all alone\n Among his own folk, was clean gone;\n No lingering kindness of old days\n Clung now to the familiar place;\n With unmoved mouth he wandered there,\n And saw his mother's empty chair,\n For she was dead: with unchanged eyes\n Thorgerd he saw from spinning rise,\n Fair still and young, though he was old.\n His father's face he did behold\n With no faint smile of memory,\n No pang for wasted youth gone by;\n Betwixt his brethren twain he sat,\n And heard them talk of this and that\n Mid stories of a bygone day,\n Scarce thinking how they used to play\n Fair children once, and innocent,\n With the next minute well content.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0No goodwill from his kith and kin,\n And things kind once, he now might win p. 129\n From out the well-loved wasting fire\n Of unfulfilled scarce-touched desire.\n One place was as another place,\n Haunted by memories of one face,\n Vocal with one remembered voice,\n Sad with one time's swift fleeting joys.\n Yet as he passed the time-worn door\n The last time, said farewell once more,\n Scarce mid his outward calm could he\n Stay quivering lip and trembling knee,\n That on the threshold longed to lie,\n Where surely had her feet gone by.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Through what wild lands he wandered wide,\n Among what folk he did abide\n Thereafter, nought my story saith.\n Suffice it, that no outbraved death\n Might end him; no chain of delay\n His feet from his wild wanderings stay;\n That every help he strove to gain\n From wise or fools was still but vain;\n Until, my story saith, at last\n The second time in ship he passed\n The wild waves of the Indian Sea,\n And with a chaffering company\n Long time abode, and ever heard\n And saw great marvels, but no word,\n No sight of what alone might give\n A heart unto the dead-alive. p. 130\n At last from the strange city there\n He set sail in a dromond fair,\n With chapmen for his fellows, bound\n To such a land, that there the ground\n Bears gems and gold, but nourisheth\n Little besides save fear and death.\n So long they sailed, that at the last\n The skipper's face grew overcast,\n And the stout chapmen \u2019gan to fear,\n Because no signs of land drew near,\n And all the days were fully done\n When with fair wind they should have won\n Unto the shore for which they made;\n But of no death was John afraid\n While o\u2019er some space as yet untried\n He bore his love unsatisfied;\n With hate they eyed his calm face now,\n For greater still their fear did grow.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Anigh the prow one eve he stood,\n And something new so stirred his blood\n With hope, that he at last might say,\n A thing unsaid for many a day,\n That he was happy; round about\n The shipmen stood, and gazed in doubt\n ' Upon a long grey bank of cloud\n The eastern sky-line that did shroud.\n He saw it not, grown soft with rest\n His face was turned unto the west; p. 131\n The low sun lit his golden hair\n Changed now with years of toil and care,\n The light wind stirred it as the prow\n The babbling ripple soft did throw\n From its black shining side; the sail\n Flapped o\u2019erhead as the wind did fail\n Fitful that eve; the western sky\n Was bright and clear as night drew nigh\n Beyond all words to tell; at last\n He shivered; to the tall white mast\n He raised his eyes just as the sun\n Blazed at his lowest: day was done,\n But yet night lingered, as o\u2019erhead,\n With a new-kindled hope and dread,\n The thin-curved moon, all white and cold,\n \u2019Twixt day and night did he behold.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0No need now of that word to think,\n Or where he heard it; he did shrink\n Back mid his fellows, for he strove\n This first time to forget his love\n Lest hope should slay him; therewith now\n He heard the shipmen speaking low\n With anxious puckered brows, and saw\n The merchants each to other draw\n As men who feared to be alone;\n And knew that a fresh fear had grown\n Beside their old fear, nathless nought\n To such things might he turn his thought. p. 132\n All watched that night but he, who slept\n While lovesome visions o\u2019er him crept,\n Making night happy with the sight\n Of kind hands, and soft eyes and bright.\n At last within a flowery mead\n He seemed to be, clad in such weed\n As fellows of the angels wear:\n Alone a while he wandered there\n Right glad at heart, until at last\n By a fair-blossomed brake he passed,\n And o\u2019er his shoulder gazed as he\n Went by it; and lo, suddenly,\n The odorous boughs were thrust apart,\n And with all heaven within his heart\n He turned, and saw his love, his sweet,\n Clad in green raiment to the feet,\n Her feet upon the blossoms bare,\n A rose-wreath round her golden hair;\n Her arms reached out to him, her mouth\n Trembling to quench his life-long drouth,\n Yet smiling \u2019neath her deep kind eyes\n Upon his trembling glad surprise.\n But when he would have gone to her\n Him seemed a cry of deadly fear\n Rang through the fair and lonely close,\n A cold thick mist betwixt them rose,\n And then all sight from him did pass,\n And darkness a long while there was. p. 133\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then all at once he woke up, cast\n With mighty force against the mast,\n Whereto with desperate hands he clung\n Unwitting, while the storm-wind sung\n Its song of death about his ears.\n But he, though grief had long slain fears,\n Shouted midst clash of wind and sea,\n Unheard shrieks, unseen misery\n Of the black night:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"All come to nought!\n Yestreen I deemed that rest was brought\n Anigh me, and I thought I knew\n That toward my Love at last I drew.\n The loveless rest comes, all deceit\n Death treads to nothing with his feet!\n O idle Maker of the world,\n Art thou content to see me hurled\n To nought, from longing and from tears,\n When thou through all these weary years\n With love my helpless soul hast bound,\n And fed me in that narrow round\n With no delight thy fair world knows?\n Come close, my love, come close, come close,\n Why wilt thou let me die alone?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Howso he deemed his days were done,\n Yet there still clung he desperately,\n Mid wash of the in-rushing sea,\n Mid the storm's night, for no least whit p. 134\n Might he see through the rage of it,\n Nor know which unseen hill of wave\n The rash frail wooden toy would stave,\n Or if another man did cling\n Unto the hopeless shivering thing;\n Yea, or if day had dawned, and light\n High up serene now mocked the night\n Of waves and winds. How long he drave\n From windless trough to wind-sheared wave,\n No whit he knew, although it seemed\n So long, that all before was dreamed,\n That there was neither heaven nor earth\n Before that turmoil had its birth.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And yet at last, as on and on\n He swept, and still death was not won;\n A pleasure in his heart \u2019gan rise;\n Love blossomed fresh mid fantasies,\n Mid dreams born of the overthrow\n Of sense and sight; he did not know\n If yet he lived, yet wrong and pain\n Were words, that hindered not the gain,\n Of sweet peace, whatso wild unrest\n Were round about; and all the best\n Seemed won, nor was one day of bliss\n Forgotten; all was once more his,\n That while agone he deemed so lost.\n How long in sooth the ship was tost\n From hill to hill of unseen sea p. 135\n The tale tells not; but suddenly,\n Amid the sweetest dream of all,\n A long way down John seemed to fall,\n Losing all sense of sight and sound;\n Then brake a sudden light around,\n Wherethrough he none the less saw nought,\n And as it waned, waned sense and thought,\n The peace of dull unconsciousness\n His wild torn heart at last did bless.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He woke again upon the sand\n Of a wide bay's curved shell-strewn strand,\n And long belike had he lain there;\n For morn it was, and fresh and fair,\n And no least sign was on the sea\n Of storm or wrack, but peacefully\n On the low strand its last wave broke.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Scarce might John dream when thus he woke\n Of what had happed or where he was;\n Soft thoughts of bygone days did pass\n Across his mind at first, and when\n His later memory came again,\n It was but with great toil that he\n Could think about his misery\n And all his latter wretched years;\n And if the thought to unused tears\n Did move him now, yet none the less\n A strange content and happiness\n Wrapped him around. p. 136\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So to his feet\n He rose now, and most fresh and sweet\n The air was round him, and the sun\n As of the time when morn begun\n In early summer of the north,\n Maketh the world seem wondrous worth,\n And death and pain awhile doth hide.\n He gazed across the ocean wide\n With puzzled look; then up and down\n Sought curiously the sea-sand brown\n And at the last \u2019gan marvel how\n No sign the smooth sea-strand might show\n Of his lost ship and company;\n Then closer to that summer sea\n He went, and surely now it seemed\n That he of India had but dreamed,\n Because the sand beneath his feet\n Washed smooth and flat by the sea's beat,\n Or wrinkled by the ripple low,\n Such shells and creeping things did show\n As in the northland well he knew,\n And round about o\u2019erhead there flew\n Such sea-fowl as in days of old;\n Their unknown tales unto him told.\n He gave a deep sigh, yet his heart\n From that new bliss would nowise part,\n Or battle with its strange content;\n And no more midst his wonderment,\n Rather for more of pain, he yearned, p. 137\n Than any rest save one: he turned\n From the green sea his dreamy eyes,\n And saw soft slopes and lowly, rise\n Green and unburnt from the smooth strand,\n And further in, the rising land,\n Besprent with trees of no such clime\n As he had known for weary time;\n From slope and thicket then there grew\n High grassy, treeless hillsides, blue\n With the light haze of that fair tide.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A little while did he abide\n Gazing upon that pleasant place,\n Then o\u2019er his shoulder turned his face\n Seaward, yet once more \u2019gan to go\n Unto the hills, and felt as though\n He bade unto the weltering flood\n A last farewell; and sweet and good\n His life seemed grown, e\u2019en when he said,\n \"It may be that my love is dead;\n Or living, still more like that I\n Shall see her not before I die;\n Fool am I then to feel my feet\n Drawn on some happiness to meet!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So went his words, but e\u2019en as erst\n When most he felt forlorn and cursed,\n The words of hope seemed words and air,\n So now seemed all his words of care p. 138\n Empty of meaning. Forth he went\n Light-hearted, till his firm feet bent\n The daisies of the flowery grass,\n And swiftly onward did he pass\n From slope to slope: the land was fair,\n Yet saw he no house anywhere,\n No hedge or garden-close or corn;\n Nor heard he halloo there or horn,\n To make the dappled deer afraid,\n That here and there about him strayed\n Scarce heeding him: no arms he bare,\n His raiment that had once been fair,\n Was sorely stained, and worn, and rent,\n And thirst and hunger as he went\n Pressed on him; till he came at last\n To where a spreading fruit-tree cast\n Its shadows round deliciously;\n John stayed there, for that friendly tree\n Had load of apples; so he ate\n And found them sweet and delicate,\n As ever monk in garden grew,\n Though little care belike they knew.\n But now, when he had had his fill\n Thereof, there marvelling stood he still,\n Because to one bough blossoms clung\n As it were May, but ripe fruit hung\n Upon the other: then he smiled,\n As one by a strange dream beguiled,\n Then slowly on the grass sank down, p. 139\n For sorely sweet had longing grown\n With gathering languor of the day.\n But looking round, as there he lay,\n Upon the flowers besprent about,\n Still more was love confused with doubt\n If still he lived:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Red roses fair\n To wreathe my love that wanders here,\n Gold-hearted lilies for her hand!\n And yet withal that she may stand\n On something other folk think sweet,\n March violets for her rosy feet;\n The black-heart amorous poppy, fain\n Death from her passing knee to gain,\n Bows to the gilliflower there:\n The fiery tulip stands to stare\n Upon her perfect loveliness,\n That \u2019gainst the corn-cockle will press\n Its fainting leaves: further afield\n The untended vine black fruit doth yield,\n That bore long torment of the heat,\n At last in bliss her lips to meet;\u2014\n The wind-flowers wotting of the thing\n Must gather round there in the Spring,\n And live and die and live again,\n That they might feel the joyous pain\n At last, of lying crushed and rent\n Beneath her feet, while well content\n Above their soft leaves she doth sing. p. 140\n What marvel, love, that everything\n That far apart the troubled year,\n Midst toil and doubt, gives otherwhere,\n Must gather in this land round thee,\n Living and dying, still to see\n A wonder God shall not make twice.\n Come swiftly, love, because mine eyes\n Grow dim with love; a little while\n Shall hope my fainting heart beguile\n To think me strong; yet well I know\n That nought of strength is in me now,\n Save wasting fire of love alone\u2014\n Come to me then, ere all is gone!\n And let it not be all for nought\n That ever one heart have I sought\n Of all the world, and cast aside\n All thought that any bliss might hide\n In aught save in thy love; thy love\n That even yet perchance might move\n The Great God not all utterly\n To slay me, casting my soul by\n As void henceforth for evermore,\n What love soever once it bore,\n That nothing mortal satisfied!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He sprang up, o\u2019er the countryside\n He gazed long, and down ran the tears,\n At thought of all the pain of years,\n When he beheld its emptiness; p. 141\n Yet presently on did he press,\n With longing grown not all a pain.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The higher slopes now did he gain,\n Through flowers and blooming trees, until\n He \u2019gan to breast a steeper hill,\n And coming out of a close wood,\n High up above the lowlands stood,\n And far away beheld the sea\n Guarding the sweet land patiently,\n Then turning, clomb on, till the sun\n Sank low adown and day was done,\n Before the hill's top he might gain;\n Then e\u2019en his restlessness was fain\n There to abide the next day's light.\n So down he lay, aid the short night\n Went by in dreams of that past day\n When in the hawthorn-brake he lay;\n How many lifetimes now agone\n That day seemed, when once more alone\n In the dawn's shiver he awoke!\n Nathless with sturdy heart he broke\n Through the morn's hopelessness, and still\n Pressed up the last steep of the hill,\n Until together with the sun\n Its grey and rugged brow he won.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then down into the vale he gazed,\n And held his breath, as if amazed p. 142\n By all its wondrous loveliness;\n For as the sun its depths did bless,\n It lighted up from side to side,\n A close-shut valley, nothing wide,\n But ever full of all things fair.\n A little way the hill was bare,\n Then clung to it a deep green wood\n That guarded many a fertile rood\n Of terraced vine and slopes of wheat;\n A white way wound about its feet,\n Beset with heavy-fruited trees\n And cleaving orchards through; midst these,\n Each hemmed round with its flowery close,\n The cottages and homesteads rose;\n But the hill-side sprang suddenly\n From level meadows that did lie\n On either side a noble stream,\n O\u2019er which the morning haze did steam,\n Made golden now; then rose again\n The further hill-sides, bright with grain,\n And fair with orchard and close wood,\n From whence at last the scarped cliffs stood,\n And clear now, golden in the morn,\n Against the western sky upborne,\n Seemed like a guarded wall, lest care\n Or unrest yet should creep in there.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At John's back now bright the sun shone\n Once more, once more with all light gone, p. 143\n Above the further hills hung high,\n The pale thin moon was in the sky;\n Then he cried out:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Ah, end the strife\n Twin lights of God; give death or life!\n Surely shall I be lying soon\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon;\n What matter if alive or dead,\n If so once more our lips are wed!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0And now he \u2019gan to look around,\n To see how he the lower ground\n Might gain, for there the hill had end\n In shear rocks, so he needs must wend\n Along its rugged brow; at last,\n When he a little way had passed,\n The hill's crest lowered, and \u2019gan draw\n Back from the vale, and then he saw\n How it grew wide, and \u2019neath his eyes\n The river wound now circle-wise,\n And at the furthest curve thereof\n There lay, half hid by close and grove,\n A marvellous house, that jewel-like\n Gleamed, where the sun its roofs did strike,\n Or strange-wrought walls; down-gazing now\n With fluttering heart, he wondered how\n Its white walls, and its roofs that burned,\n Should seem e\u2019en like a dream returned\n From the forgotten land; then down p. 144\n The hill-side, soft and easy grown,\n He slipped, and when he reached the way\n Folk stirred about the morn of day\n In field and house: fair folk were all\n He saw, and yet a chill did fall\n Upon him when he noted them;\n White linen, well-embroidered hem,\n Round clean-made limbs he saw, above\n Were faces sweet, well wrought for love;\n Yet man and maid, young folk and old,\n With sad eyes, lonely, strange, and cold,\n Still seemed to go upon their ways.\n Moreover, none on him did gaze;\n And if their eyes met his, as though\n They saw him not, past did they go;\n Nor heard he any spoken word\n Amongst them, nor saw any stirred\n To laugh or smile by anything.\n But fearful, yet his hope did cling\n Unto his heart, nay more, he thought\n Once more that surely not for nought\n Among such marvels he was come.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So forth he passed by house and home\n E\u2019en like a ghost; the open door\n Of one fair house he stood before,\n Where folk got ready for their meal,\n With little sign of woe or weal;\n And as he stood before their eyes, p. 145\n They looked his way with no surprise,\n Nor seemed to see him: nought they spake,\n Neither durst he the silence break,\n But went his ways.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A tall man stood\n By the wayside a-hewing wood,\n And close by was a fair-haired child,\n Who watched him, but spake not nor smiled,\n Nor looked up at the wayfarer;\n John strove to make this goodman hear,\n Crying out to him cheerily\n What land of all lands this might be;\n But nowise did he turn him round,\n Nor did the youngling heed the sound.\n Next, as he turned therefrom, there came\n Along the road an ancient dame,\n High-perched upon a mule, a lad\n Of fifteen springs his left hand had\n Upon the bell-hung bridle-rein\u2014\n \u2014And still with these were all words vain.\n So on he went, and no more speech\n Had heart to try till he did reach\n The delicate house; and in the square\n Before it was a conduit fair,\n Where to and fro the girls did pass,\n Bearing their jars of earth or brass;\n Shrill sounded there the grey doves\u2019 wings,\n The steep roof knew their murmurings,\n The sparrows chirped, the brass did clash, p. 146\n The water on the stones did plash,\n The damsels\u2019 wind-blown raiment fair\n And tinkling gold toys sounded there,\n But not their voices: unto one\n Who stood and watched the water run\n Over her jar's lip pensively\n John turned, for kind she seemed to be:\n But when with soft beseeching eyes\n He spake, still in no other wise\n She dealt with him than had the rest;\n So when with growing fear oppressed\n He spake more earnestly, and she\n Still answered nought, then timidly\n Upon her hand his hand he laid;\n Warm was it, but no heed she paid\n Unto the touch, and he fell back,\n Wondering what thing those folk did lack\n That yet they died not: but still burned\n Hope amid great fear, and he turned\n Unto the palace door, wherethrough\n Passed fair-clad people to and fro.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0When he essayed to enter in\n None stayed or heeded; he did win\n Into a fair porch, set around\n With images of maidens crowned\n And kings all-armed; through this he gained\n A pillared court, where waxed and waned\n A babbling fountain, maidens fair p. 147\n And slim youths saw he loitering there\n As lovers loiter; but their eyes,\n Listless and sad, changed in nowise\n As past he brushed with hurrying feet\n And glittering eyes: then did he meet\n The all-armed clashing guard, and then\n The long line of the serving-men\n Bearing up victuals to the hall,\n And, without bell or trumpet-call,\n Thither folk streamed. He went with them,\n And many a wrought cloak and rich hem\n Brushed past him, many a jewelled sword\n Clinked at the side of knight or lord,\n And no word spoken yet\u2014at last\n Into the mighty hall he passed,\n And thought no greatest king on earth,\n E\u2019en were it he of Micklegarth,\n Or the great lord of Babylon,\n So fair a place as that had won.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Now there he stood, till every place\n Was filled, save midmost of the dais\n The high-seat lacked a man; so then\n He laughed loud mid those silent men,\n Grown reckless in that kingdom cold,\n And clad in rags mid silk and gold,\n Barefooted in that dainty hall,\n He strode up to the ivory stall,\n And sat him down, and laughed once more p. 148\n Unheeded, while the servers bore\n Unto the guests rich meats and drink;\n Nor from the victuals did he shrink,\n But well his hunger satisfied\n Though not long there might he abide,\n For still his lovesome restlessness\n Midst all upon his heart did press.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So rising ere the feast was done,\n He paced the echoing hall alone,\n And passed the door, and wandered now,\n Unchecked by any, high and low,\n And saw strange things and fair; at last\n A silent maid his side brushed past,\n And to a carven door did wend,\n At a long cloister's nether end,\n Passed in and shut it to again.\n Then John stood still and strove in vain,\n With a new hope and gathering fear,\n And weakly drew the door anear,\n And laid his hand upon the latch,\n And with a sob his breath must catch\n Because of thronging memories.\n He opened the door now, with eyes\n Cast down for fear, and therewith heard,\n As heretofore, no spoken word;\n But rustling as of women's gear\n And gentle breathing did he hear\n And the dull noise upon the ground p. 149\n Of restless spindles; all around\n Floated a delicate sweet scent,\n As though the wind o\u2019er blossoms went.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0His breath came fast, his fevered blood\n Tingled and changed, as there he stood,\n And each \u2019gainst each now smote his knees;\n E\u2019en as a world of images\n The past was grown to him; he knew\n What in those days he used to do,\n But knew not what it meant; and yet\n Would she the past days quite forget,\n And was she like these dead-alive?\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0None came, sore trembling did he strive\n To search the strange place through, but still\n His hope, fear-tangled, and the ill\n That might be, bound his eyes full fast\n A long while\u2014crying out at last\n E\u2019en ere his eyes had left the ground,\n As one who some lost thing has found,\n He stepped forth, and with all surprise\n Made nought by love, his mortal eyes,\n His weary eyes, beheld indeed,\n His heart's desire, his life, his need,\n Still on the earth, still there for him;\n And as he gazed, most weak and dim,\n Seemed all the visions wherewith he\n Was wont to feed his misery, p. 150\n To dull the pain unsatisfied,\n That still for death or presence cried.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Round the World's Love, the glorious one,\n My tale says, many maidens spun,\n Howso John's eyes beheld them not,\n And she upon her knees had got\n Some broidery fair, and whiles her hand\n Moved by her half-dead will's command\n Would raise it up, and whiles again,\n As too much all in all grew pain,\n Would let it fall adown: her face\n Was altered nothing from the grace\n That he remembered, save that erst\n A sad smile even at the worst\n Would gleam across her pity, but now\n Betwixt her round chin and smooth brow\n Lay bound the sorrow of the years,\n Too sharp for smiles, too hard for tears:\n Sometimes as some sweet memory\n Pierced the dull present, wearily\n She writhed her neck, and raised her head;\n Sometimes her hands, as feebly led\n By ghosts of her old longings, moved\n As though toward some one long time loved,\n And long time lost; then from her seat\n Whiles she half rose as if to meet\n Loved footfalls half-remembered; then\n The dull pain swallowed all again, p. 151\n Its child, dull patience, death-in-life,\n Choked down the rising rest of strife.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Scarcely his feet might bear him o\u2019er\n The smoothness of the marble floor\n Unto her feet; scarce might he raise\n His wild eyes to her weary face,\n Scarcely his hand had strength to touch\n The open hand he loved so much;\n And yet his thirsting lips love drew\n Unto dear eyes that nothing knew\n What closed their lids, to lips still warm,\n But all forgetful of the harm\n Their fruitful sweetness erst had wrought,\n To feet desired, that erewhile brought\n Love's grief on the sad moaning man,\n Who fawned on them with lips grown wan,\n And cheeks grown thin for lack of love.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0How might he tell if aught could move\n Her grief-chilled heart; yet love slew fear,\n Lulled speech to sleep\u2014sweet to be near;\n Yea, even if all were changed, if all\n Into this dumb, strange life must fall,\n And all the longing and the pain\n For signs of love were spent in vain;\n If, in strange wise together brought,\n They were apart still, and still nought\n Might tell of better hope! O sweet p. 152\n Beyond all words, there at her feet\n To lie and watch her! By what word\n Might his deep love be better heard\n Than by that silence.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Nought he said\n A long while, and her weary head\n Hung low, and still she saw him not.\n At last the heart in him waxed hot,\n And he cried out:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"Time long ago,\n How long, how long, I know not now,\n I sinned and lost thee: scarce a hope\n Was left with the dull years to cope;\n Yet this my hand now touches thee,\n My cheek is laid upon thy knee;\n I am thy love, beloved, come,\n I know not how, to thy new home!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0She moved not, but a rush of tears\n Blinded his eyes, as all the years\n With all their pain rose up to him;\n Her head moved then, through foot and limb\n A tremor ran, as the tears fell.\n Upon her hands:\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"O Love, scarce well,\"\n He sobbed, \"that we should be apart,\n My sorrow laid upon thy heart,\n And my heart worn with thine, my love\u2014\n No word \u2019twixt lips and lips, to move p. 153\n The double burden\u2014found at last,\n What chain is it that binds thee fast?\n Was my great grief so hard to bear\n That thou art grown cold? Sweet and dear\n I bore thy grief yet love and live!\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He trembled, for she seemed to strive\n To grasp strange thoughts that flitted round,\n She clenched her delicate hands, and frowned,\n And her feet moved uncertainly,\n The while the maidens sitting by\n Spun and spun on, nor changed at all.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then a strange thought on him did fall,\n To choke his tears back and tell o\u2019er\n The story of his longing sore,\n E\u2019en from that well-remembered day\n When in the hawthorn-brake he lay.\n God wot, if his hand trembled oft\n As he recalled words sweet and soft,\n And tender touches, all the bliss\n Of clinging hand and lingering kiss!\n God wot if he stayed tremblingly\n As from her breast brake forth a sigh\n And she fell trembling! And at last,\n Amid his tale of how she passed\n Away from him, and left him bare\n In the rough world of hate and care,\n Her fingers tightened round his own, p. 154\n And a sound like a tender moan\n Parted her lips; he stayed awhile,\n And on his face a quivering smile\n Masked the unshed tears, as he told\n How in that morning drear and cold\n He found her gone: and therewith she\n Raised up her head, and eagerly\n Gazed round, and yet looked not on him:\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\"No hope,\" he said, \"however dim,\n At first, sweet love, abode with me;\n I know not how I lived; the sea,\n The earth, and sky, that day had grown\n A heavy burden all mine own;\n As if mine hand all things had wrought\n To find their strength come all to nought,\n Their beauty perished, all made vain,\n Unnoticed parts of the huge pain\n That filled the world and crushed my heart.\n Then first, the heavy veil to part,\n Came memory of thy mouth divine,\n Some image of a word of thine\u2014\n \u2014Is it not so that thou saidst this,\n That morn that parted me and bliss,\n 'Ah, couldst thou know, I go too soon\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon?'\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0With a great sigh, as one who throws\n A burden off, that sweet arose, p. 155\n And stood before him, trembling sore\n With love and joy; ah, me! once more\n Fulfilled of love their kind eyes met,\n Although apart they stood as yet,\n Helpless with pain of ecstasy;\n Till from her lips a joyful cry,\n Ringing and sweet, burst forth, and he,\n Strong no more with love's misery,\n Faint, changed with this new joyful love,\n His wandering hands toward her did move\n E\u2019en but a little way. But round\n His fluttering heart her arms she wound,\n And kissed his pale cheeks red again,\n And hung above his lovesome pain,\n Desiring him as the spring yearns\n For the young summer sun, that burns\n His soft heart into fruitful death.\n His parched mouth felt her odorous breath,\n His weary burning head did rest\n Upon the heaven of her sweet breast,\n His mazed ears heard her tender speech;\n His eyes, his silence did beseech\n For more and more and more of love.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0How this their joy fulfilled might move\n The world around I know not well;\n But yet this idle dream doth tell\n That no more silent was the place,\n That new joy lit up every face, p. 156\n That joyous lovers kissed and clung,\n E\u2019en as these twain, that songs were sung\n From mouth to mouth in rose-bowers,\n Where, hand in hand and crowned with flowers,\n Folk praised the Lover and Beloved\n That such long years, such pain had proved.\n But soft, they say, their joyance was\n When midst them soon the twain did pass,\n Hand locked in hand, heart kissing heart,\n No more this side of death to part\u2014\n \u2014No more, no more\u2014Full soft I say\n Their greetings were that happy day,\n As though in pensive semblance clad;\n For fear their faces over-glad\n This certain thing should seem to hide,\n That love can ne\u2019er be satisfied.\nO\u2019ER Gregory's eyes the pain of morn\n Flashed suddenly, and all forlorn\n Of late-gained clean forgot delight,\n He sat up, scowling on the bright\n Broad day that lit the hurrying crowd\n Of white-head waves, while shrill and loud\n About him cried the gulls; but he\n Lay still with eyes turned toward the sea,\n And yet beholding nought at all, p. 157\n Till into ill thoughts did he fall,\n Of what a rude and friendless place\n The world was, through what empty days\n Men were pushed slowly down to death.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Then o\u2019er the fresh morn's breezy breath\n Was borne his fellows\u2019 cheery cry;\n He rose up, sighing heavily,\n And turned round to the steep grey bent,\n Whereunder had been pitched their tent\n Upon the odorous thymy grass.\n And down the slope he saw them pass,\n And heard their voices blithe enough:\n But loathsome unto him, and rough\n Must all men seem urn that morn,\n Their speech a hard thing to be borne.\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He stood by as they launched the boat,\n And little did their labour note.\n And set no hand thereto at all;\n Until an awe on these did fall;\n They muttered, \"Ah, the Stargazer\n Beholdeth strange things drawing near!\"\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0So somewhat silently they sailed\n In up the firth, till the wind failed,\n Betwixt the high cliffs, and with oars\n They swept midmost the rocky shores\n And spake few words.\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But smoother now\n Was grown the worn Stargazer's brow, p. 158\n And his thin lips were less close-set,\n For well-nigh now did he forget\n Fellows and boat and land and sea,\n And, waking, seemed no less to be\n East of the Sun, West of the Moon,\n And when they landed at high-noon,\n From all men would he go apart\n In woods and meads, and deal by art\n With his returning memory;\n And, some things gained, and some slipped by,\n His weary heart a while to soothe,\n He wove all into verses smooth,\n As tells the tale: that wotteth not\n Hoer much within it\u00a0it hath got\n That his hand writ: for soothly he\n Was deemed a craftsmaster to be\n In those most noble days of old,\n Whose words were e\u2019en as kingly gold\n To our thin brass, or drossy lead:\n \u2014Well, e\u2019en so all the tale is said\n How twain grew one and came to bliss\u2014\n Woe's me an idle dream it is!\u00a0\nTHE autumn day, the strange and dreamy tale\n Were soft as far-off bells adown a vale,\n Borne to the hill-top on the fitful wind;\n And like their music past, they left behind\n Sad thoughts of old desires unsatisfied,\n And pain and joy that long ago had died,\n Yea, long been buried \u2019neath the strife of days,\n Too hard and hapless any woe to raise\n And crown it with the flowery, fleeting crown\n Of that strange rest, whose seed is all unknown,\n That withereth while reproachfully we say;\n \"Why grow\u2019st thou unsought \u2019neath my hand to-day,\n Whose longed-for scent through many an ill day sought,\n Swift healing to my sickening soul had brought\n And kept me young. Fair rest, what dost thou here?\"\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The wind dealt with the autumn haze, and clear\n The afternoon was, though the great clouds drew\n In piled-up hills across the faint-streaked blue,\n And \u2019gainst them showed the wind-hover's dark spot,\n Nor yet midst trembling peace was change forgot.","title":"The Earthly Paradise (September-November): September: The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon","type":"page"}