Fragments Pts 1, 11, 111

These broken lines for pardon crave; I cannot end the song with art: My grief is gray and old—her grave Is dug so deep within my heart. I.—Her Last Day IT was a day of sombre heat: The still, dense air was void of sound And life; no wing of bird did beat A little breeze through it—the ground Was like live ashes to the feet. From the black hills that loomed around The valley many a sudden spire Of flame shot up, and writhed, and curled, And sank again for heaviness: And heavy seemed to men that day The burden of the weary world. For evermore the sky did press Closer upon the earth that lay Fainting beneath, as one in dire Dreams of the night, upon whose breast Sits a black phantom of unrest That holds him down. The earth and sky Appeared unto the troubled eye A roof of smoke, a floor of fire. There was no water in the land. Deep in the night of each ravine Men, vainly searching for it, found Dry hollows in the gaping ground, Like sockets where clear eyes had been, Now burnt out with a burning brand. There was no water in the land But the salt sea tide, that did roll Far past the places where, till then, The sweet streams met and flung it back; The beds of little brooks, that stole In spring-time down each ferny glen, And rippled over rock and sand, Were drier than a cattle-track. A dull, strange languor of disease, That ever with the heat increased, Fell upon man, and bird, and beast; The thin-flanked cattle gasped for breath; The birds dropped dead from drooping trees; And men, who drank the muddy lees From each near-dry though deep-dug well, Grew faint; and over all things fell A heavy stupor, dank as Death. Fierce Nature, glaring with a face Of savage scorn at my despair, Withered my heart. From cone to base The hills were full of hollow eyes That rayed out darkness, dead and dull; Gray rocks grinned under ridges bare, Like dry teeth in a mouldered skull; And ghastly gum-tree trunks did loom Out of black clefts and rifts of gloom, As sheeted spectres that arise From yawning graves at dead of night To fill the living with affright; And, like to witches foul that bare Their withered arms, and bend, and cast Dread curses on the sleeping lands In awful legends of the past, Red gums, with outstretched bloody hands, Shook maledictions in the air. Fear was around me everywhere: The wrinkled foreheads of the rocks Frowned on me, and methought I saw— Deep down in dismal gulfs of awe, Where gray death-adders have their lair, With the fiend-bat, the flying-fox, And dim sun-rays, down-groping far, Pale as a dead man’s fingers are— The grisly image of Decay, That at the root of Life doth gnaw, Sitting alone upon a throne Of rotting skull and bleaching bone. “There is an end to all our griefs: Little the red worm of the grave Will vex us when our days are done.” So changed my thought: up-gazing then On gray-piled stones that seemed the cairns Of dead and long-forgotten chiefs— The men of old, the poor wild men Who, under dim lights, fought a brave, Sad fight of Life, where hope was none, In the vague, voiceless, far-off years— It changed again to present pain, And I saw Sorrow everywhere: In blackened trees and rust-red ferns, Blasted by bush-fires and the sun; And by the salt-flood—salt as tears— Where the wild apple-trees hung low, And evermore stooped down to stare At their drowned shadows in the wave, Wringing their knotted hands of woe; And the dark swamp-oaks, row on row, Lined either bank—a sombre train Of mourners with down-streaming hair. II.—Sunset THE DAY and its delights are done; So all delights and days expire: Down in the dim, sad West the sun Is dying like a dying fire. The fiercest lances of his light Are spent; I watch him droop and die Like a great king who falls in fight; None dared the duel of his eye Living, but, now his eye is dim, The eyes of all may stare at him. How lovely in his strength at morn He orbed along the burning blue! The blown gold of his flying hair Was tangled in green-tressèd trees, And netted in the river sand In gleaming links of amber clear; But all his shining locks are shorn, His brow of its bright crown is bare, The golden sceptre leaves his hand, And deeper, darker, grows the hue Of the dim purple draperies And cloudy banners round his bier. O beautiful, rose-hearted dawn!— O splendid noon of gold and blue!— Is this wan glimmer all of you? Where are the blush and bloom ye gave To laughing land and smiling sea?— The swift lights that did flash and shiver In diamond rain upon the river, And set a star in each blue wave? Where are the merry lights and shadows That danced through wood and over lawn, And flew across the dewy meadows Like white nymphs chased by satyr lovers? Faded and perished utterly. All delicate and all rich colour In flower and cloud, on lawn and lea, On butterfly, and bird, and bee, A little space and all are gone— And darkness, like a raven, hovers Above the death-bed of the day. So, when the long, last night draws on, And all the world grows ghastly gray, We see our beautiful and brave Wither, and watch with heavy sighs The life-light dying in their eyes, The love-light slowly fading out, Leaving no faint hope in their place, But only on each dear wan face The shadow of a weary doubt, The ashen pallor of the grave. O gracious morn and golden noon! With what fair dreams did ye depart— Beloved so well and lost so soon! I could not fold you to my breast: I could not hide you in my heart; I saw the watchers in the West— Sad, shrouded shapes, with hands that wring And phantom fingers beckoning! III.—Years After Fade off the ridges, rosy light, Fade slowly from the last gray height, And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve The heart of this enchanted eve! All things beneath the still sky seem Bound by the spell of a sweet dream; In the dusk forest, dreamingly, Droops slowly down each plumèd head; The river flowing softly by Dreams of the sea; the quiet sea Dreams of the unseen stars; and I Am dreaming of the dreamless dead. The river has a silken sheen, But red rays of the sunset stain Its pictures, from the steep shore caught, Till shades of rock, and fern, and tree Glow like the figures on a pane Of some old church by twilight seen, Or like the rich devices wrought In mediaeval tapestry. All lonely in a drifting boat Through shine and shade I float and float, Dreaming and dreaming, till I seem Part of the picture and the dream. There is no sound to break the spell, No voice of bird or stir of bough; Only the lisp of waters wreathing In little ripples round the prow, And a low air, like Silence breathing, That hardly dusks the sleepy swell Whereon I float to that strange deep That sighs upon the shores of Sleep. But in the silent heaven blooming Behold the wondrous sunset flower That blooms and fades within the hour— The flower of fantasy, perfuming With subtle melody of scent The blue aisles of the firmament! For colour, music, scent, are one; From deeps of air to airless heights, Lo! how he sweeps, the splendid sun, His burning lyre of many lights! See the clear golden lily blowing! It shines as shone thy gentle soul, O my most sweet, when from the goal Of life, far-gazing, thou didst see— While Death still feared to touch thine eyes, Where such immortal light was glowing— The vision of eternity, The pearly gates of Paradise! Now richer hues the skies illume: The pale gold blushes into bloom, Delicate as the flowering Of first love in the tender spring Of Life, when love is wizardry That over narrow days can throw A glamour and a glory! so Did thine, my Beautiful, for me So long ago; so long ago. So long ago! so long ago! Ah, who can Love and Grief estrange? Or Memory and Sorrow part? Lo, in the West another change— A deeper glow: a rose of fire: A rose of passionate desire Lone burning in a lonely heart. A lonely heart; a lonely flood. The wave that glassed her gleaming head And smiling passed, it does not know That gleaming head lies dark and low; The myrtle-tree that bends above, I pray that it may early bud, For under its green boughs sat we— We twain, we only, hand in hand, When Love was lord of all the land— It does not know that she is dead And all is over now with Love, Is over now with Love and me. Once more, once more, O shining years Gone by; once more, O vanished days Whose hours flew by on iris-wings, Come back and bring my love to me! My voice faints down the wooded ways And dies along the darkling flood. The past is past; I cry in vain, For when did Death an answer deign To Love’s heart-broken questionings? The dead are deaf; dust chokes their ears; Only the rolling river hears Far off the calling of the sea— A shiver strikes through all my blood, Mine eyes are full of sudden tears. . . . . . The shadows gather over all, The valley, and the mountains old; Shadow on shadow fast they fall On glooming green and waning gold; And on my heart they gather drear, Damp as with grave-damps, dark with fear. O Sorrow, Sorrow, couldst thou leave me Not one brief hour to dream alone? Hast thou not all my days to grieve me? My nights, are they not all thine own? Thou hauntest me at morning light, Thou blackenest the white moonbeams; A hollow voice at noon; at night A crowned ghost, sitting on a throne, Ruling the kingdom of my dreams. Maker of men, Thou gavest breath, Thou gavest love to all that live, Thou rendest loves and lives apart; Allwise art Thou; who questioneth Thy will, or who can read Thy heart? But couldst Thou not in mercy give A sign to us—one little spark Of sure hope that the end of all Is not concealed beneath the pall, Or wound up with the winding-sheet? Who heedeth aught the preacher saith When eyes wax dim, and limbs grow stark, And fear sits on the darkened bed? The dying man turns to the wall. What hope have we above our dead?— Tense fingers clutching at the dark, And hopeless hands that vainly beat Against the iron doors of Death!