Grass From The Battle-Field

Small sheaf Of withered grass, that hast not yet revealed Thy story, lo! I see thee once more green And growing on the battle-field, On that last day that ever thou didst grow! I look down thro' thy blades and see between A little lifted clover leaf Stand like a cresset: and I know If this were morn there should be seen In its chalice such a gem As decks no mortal diadem Poised with a lapidary skill Which merely living doth fulfil And pass the exquisite strain of subtlest human will. But in the sun it lifteth up A dry unjewelled cup, Therefore I see that day doth not begin; And yet I know its beaming lord Hath not yet passed the hill of noon, Or thy lush blades Would be more dry and thin, And every blade a thirsty sword Edged with the sharp desire that soon Should draw the silver blood of all the shades. I feel 't is summer. This whereon I stand Is not a hill, nor, as I think, a vale; The soil is soft upon the generous land, Yet not as where the meeting streams take hand Under the mossy mantle of the dale. Such grass is for the meadow. If I try To lift my heavy eyelids, as in dreams A power is on them, and I know not why. Thou art but part; the whole is unconfest: Beholding thee I long to know the rest. As one expands the bosom with a sigh, I stretch my sight's horizon; but it seems, Ere it can widen round the mystery, To close in swift contraction, like the breast. The air is held, as by a charm, In an enforcèd silence, as like sound As the dead man the living. 'T is so still, I listen for it loud. And when I force my eyes from thy sole place And see a wider space, Above, around, In ragged glory like a torn And golden-natured cloud, O'er the dim field a living smoke is warm; As in a city on a sabbath morn The hot and summer sunshine goes abroad Swathed in the murky air, As if a god Enrobed himself in common flesh and blood, Our heavy flesh and blood, And here and there As unaware Thro' the dull lagging limbs of mortal make, That keep unequal time, the swifter essence brake. But hark a bugle horn! And, ere it ceases, such a shock As if the plain were iron, and thereon An iron hammer, heavy as a hill, Swung by a monstrous force, in stroke came down And deafened Heaven. I feel a swound Of every sense bestunned. The rent ground seems to rock, And all the definite vision, in such wise As a dead giant borne on a swift river, Seems sliding off for ever, When my reviving eyes, As one that holds a spirit by his eye With set inexorable stare, Fix thee: and so I catch, as by the hair, The form of that great dream that else had drifted by. I know not what that form may be; The lock I hold is all I see, And thou, small sheaf! art all the battle-field to me. The wounded silence hath not time to heal When see! upon thy sod The round stroke of a charger's heel With echoing thunder shod! As the night-lightning shows A mole upon a momentary face, So, as that gnarled hoof strikes the indented place, I see it, and it goes! And I hear the squadrons trot thro' the heavy shell and shot, And wheugh! but the grass is gory! Forward ho! blow to blow, at the foe in they go, And 'tis hieover heigho for glory! The rushing storm is past, But hark! upon its track the far drums beat, And all the earth that at thy roots thou hast Stirs, shakes, shocks, sounds, with quick strong tramp of feet In time unlike the last. Footing to tap of drum The charging columns come; And as they come their mighty martial sound Blows on before them as a flaming fire Blows in the wind; for, as old Mars in ire Strode o'er the world encompassed in a cloud, So the swift legion, o'er the quaking ground, Strode in a noise of battle. Nigh and nigher I heard it, like the long swell gathering loud What-time a land-wind blowing from the main Blows to the burst of fury and is o'er, As if an ocean on one fatal shore Fell in a moment whole, and threw its roar Whole to the further sea: and as the strain Of my strong sense cracked in the deafened ear, And all the rushing tumult of the plain Topped its great arch above me, a swift foot Was struck between thy blades to the struck root, And lifted: as into a sheath A sudden sword is thrust and drawn again Ere one can gasp a breath. I was so near, I saw the wrinkles of the leather grain, The very cobbler's stitches, and the wear By which I knew the wearer trod not straight; An honest shoe it seemed that had been good To mete the miles of any country lane, Nor did one sign explain 'T was made to wade thro' blood. My shoe, soft footstooled on this hearth, so far From strife, hath such a patch, and as he past His broken shoelace whipt his eager haste. An honest shoe, good faith! that might have stood Upon the threshold of a village inn And welcomed all the world: or by the byre And barn gone peaceful till the day closed in, And, scraped at eve upon some homely gate, Ah, Heaven! might sit beside a cottage fire And touch the lazy log to softer flames than war. Long, long, thou wert alone, I thought thy days were done, Flat as ignoble grass that lies out mown By peaceful hands in June, I saw thee lie. A worm crawled o'er thee, and the gossamer That telegraphs Queen Mab to Oberon, Lengthening his living message, passed thee by. But rain fell: and thy strawed blades one by one Began to stir and stir. And as some moorland bird Whom the still hunter's stalking steps have stirred, When he stands mute, and nothing more is heard, With slow succession and reluctant art Grows upward from her bed, Each move a muffled start, And thro' the silent autumn covert red Uplifts a throbbing head That times the ambushed hunter's thudding heart; Or as a snow-drop bending low Beneath a flake of other snow Thaws to its height when spring winds melt the skies, And drip by drip doth mete a measured rise; Or as the eyelids of a child's fair eyes Lift from her lower lashes slow and pale To arch the wonder of a fairy tale; So thro' the western light I saw thee slowly rearing to thy height. Then when thou hadst regained thy state, And while a meadow-spider with three lines Enschemed thy three tall pillars green, And made the enchanted air between Mortal with shining signs, (For the loud carrion-flies were many and late), Betwixt thy blades and stems There fell a hand, Soft, small and white, and ringed with gold and gems; And on those stones of price I saw a proud device, And words I could not understand. Idly, one by one, The knots of anguish came undone, The fingers stretched as from a cramp of woe, And sweet and slow Moved to gracious shapes of rest, Like a curl of soft pale hair Drying in the sun. And then they spread, And sought a wonted greeting in the air, And strayed Between thy blades, and with each blade As with meeting fingers played And tresses long and fair. Then again at placid length it lay, Stretched as to kisses of accustomed lips; And again in sudden strain Sprang, falling clenched with pain, Till the knuckles white, Thro' the evening gray, Whitened and whitened as the snowy tips Of far hills glimmer thro' the night. But who shall tell that agony That beat thee, beat thee into bloody clay Red as the sards and rubies of the rings; As when a bird, fast by the fowler's net, A moment doth forget His fetters, and with desperate wings A-sudden springs and falls, And (while from happy clouds the skylark calls) Still feebler springs And fainter falls, And still untamed upon the gory ground With failing strength renews his deadly wound? At length the struggle ceased; and my fixed eye Perceived that every finger wan Did quiver like the quivering fan Of a dying butterfly, Nor long I watched until Even the humming in the air was still. Then I gazed and gazed, Nor once my aching eyeballs raised Till a poor bird that had a meadow nest Came down, and like a shadow ran Among the shadowy grass. I followed with mine eyes; and with a strain Pursued her, till six cubits' length beyond Thy central sheaf, I found A sight I could not pass. The hacked and haggard head Of a huge war-horse dead. The evening haze hung o'er him like a breath, And still in death He stretched drawn lips of rage that grinned in vain; A sparrow chirped upon His wound, and in his dying slaver fed, Or picked those teeth of stone That bit with lifeless jaws the purple tongue of pain. But I remembered that dead hand I left to trace the childless lark, And back o'er those six cubits of grass-land, Blade by blade, and stalk by stalk, As one doth walk Who, mindful, counts by dark Along the garden palings to the gate, I felt along the vision to where late There lay that dead hand white; But now methought that there was something more Than when I looked before, And what was more was sweeter than the rest; As when upon the moony half of night Aurora lays a living light, Softer than moonshine, yet more bright. And as I looked I was aware Another hand was on the hand, A smaller hand, more fair But not more white, as is the warm delight That curves and curls and coyly glows About the blushing heart of the white rose More fair but not more white Than those broad beauties that expand And fall, and falling blanch the morning air. Both hands lay motionless, The living on the dead. But by and by The living hand began to move and press The cold dead flesh, and took its silent way So often o'er the unrespective clay, In such long-drawn caress Of pleading passion, such an ecstacy Of supplicating touch, that as they lay So like, so unlike, twined with the fond art And all the dear delay And dreadful patience of a desperate heart, Methought that to the tenement From which it lately went, The naked life had come back, and did try By every gate to enter. While I thought, With sudden clutch of new intent The living grasp had caught The dead compliance. Slowly thro' The dusky air she raised it, and aloft, While all her fingers soft And every starting vein Tightened as in a rack of pain, Held it one straining moment fixed and mute, And let it go. And with a thud upon the sod, It fell like falling fruit. Then there came a cry, Tearless, bloodless, dry Of every sap of sorrow but its own- It had no likeness among living cries; And to my heart my streaming blood was blown As if before my eyes A dead man sprang up dead, and dead fell down. The carrion-hunting winds that prowl the wold, Frenzied for prey, sweep in and bear it on, Far, far and further thro' the shrieking cold, And still the yelling pack devour it as they run. And silence, like a want of air, Was round me, and my sense burned low, And darkness darkened; and the glow Of the living hand being gone, The dead hand showed like a pale stone Full fathom five Under a quiet bay. But still my sight did dive To reach it where it lay, And still the night grew dark, and by degrees The dead thing glimmered with a drownèd light, As faces seem and sink in depths of darkening seas. Then, while yet My set eyes saw it, as the sage doth set His glass to some dim glimpse afar That palpitates from mote to star, It was touched and hid; Touched and hid, as when a deep sea-weed Hides some white sea-sorrow. All My sight uprose, and all my soul (As one who presses at the pane When a city show goes by), Crowded into the fixed eye, And filled the starting ball. Nor filled in vain. I began to feel The air had something to reveal. Beyond the blank indifference Was underlined another sense, Was rained a gracious influence; And tho' the darkness was so deep, I knew it was not wholly dead, Nor empty, as we feel in sleep That some one standeth by the bed. I beheld, as who should look In trance upon a sealèd book. I perceived that in a place The night was lighter, as the face Of an Indian Queen when love Draws back the dark blood from her sick Pale cheek Behind the sable curtain that doth not move. No outer light was shed, But as the mystery Before my stronger will did slowly yield, I saw, as in that dark hour before morn When the shocks of harvest corn Exhale about the midnight field The wealth of yellow suns, and breathe a gentle day. I saw the shape of a fair bended head, And hair pale streaming long and low Veiling the face I might not know, And dabbling all the ground with sweet uncertain woe. Much I questioned in my mind Of her form and kind, But my stern compelling eye Brought no other answer from the air, Nor did my rude hand dare Profane that agony. I watched apart With such a sweet awe in my heart As looks up dumb into the sky When that goddess, lorn and lone, Who slew grim winter like a polar bear, And threw his immemorial white Upon her granite throne, Sits all unseen as Death, Save for the loss of many a hidden star And for the wintry mystery of her breath, And at a far-sight that she sees, Bowed by her great despair, Bendeth her awful head upon her knees, And all her wondrous hair Dishevels golden down the northern night. At length my weary gaze Rents: and, haze in haze Pervolving as in glad release, I saw each separate shade Slide from his place and fade, And all the flowering dark did winter back Into its undistinguished black. So the sculptor doth in fancy make His formèd image in the formless stone, And while his spells compel, Can see it there full well, The ivory kernel in the ivory shell, But shakes himself and all the god is gone. Alas! And have I seen thee but an hour? And shalt thou never tell Thy story, oh thou broken flower, Thou midnight asphodel Among the battle grass? Too soon! too soon! But while I bid thee stay, Night, like a cloud, dissolves into the day, And from the city clock I hear the stroke of noon.