I need not go

I need not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;
She will wait me there
Till I find it fair,
And have time to spare
From company.

When I've overgot
The world somewhat,
When things cost not
Such stress and strain,
Is soon enough
By cypress sough
To tell my Love
I am come again.

And if some day,
When none cries nay,
I still delay
To seek her side,
(Though ample measure
Of fitting leisure
Await my pleasure)
She will riot chide.

What--not upbraid me
That I delayed me,
Nor ask what stayed me
So long? Ah, no! -
New cares may claim me,
New loves inflame me,
She will not blame me,
But suffer it so.

The Whitewashed Wall

Why does she turn in that shy soft way
   Whenever she stirs the fire,
And kiss to the chimney-corner wall,
   As if entranced to admire
Its whitewashed bareness more than the sight
   Of a rose in richest green?
I have known her long, but this raptured rite
   I never before have seen.

- Well, once when her son cast his shadow there,
   A friend took a pencil and drew him
Upon that flame-lit wall. And the lines
   Had a lifelike semblance to him.
And there long stayed his familiar look;
   But one day, ere she knew,
The whitener came to cleanse the nook,
   And covered the face from view.

"Yes," he said: "My brush goes on with a rush,
   And the draught is buried under;
When you have to whiten old cots and brighten,
   What else can you do, I wonder?"
But she knows he's there. And when she yearns
   For him, deep in the labouring night,
She sees him as close at hand, and turns
   To him under his sheet of white.

from "Her Death and After"

'Twas a death-bed summons, and forth I went
By the way of the Western Wall, so drear
On that winter night, and sought a gate -
         The home, by Fate,
   Of one I had long held dear.

And there, as I paused by her tenement,
And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar,
I thought of the man who had left her lone -
         Him who made her his own
   When I loved her, long before.

In a Museum

[Image: Stuffed Bird from the Royal Albert Memorial Museum, Exeter]

I
Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There's a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.

II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.

EXETER.

Postponement

Snow-bound in woodland, a mournful word,
Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird,
Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard,
     Wearily waiting:-

"I planned her a nest in a leafless tree,
But the passers eyed and twitted me,
And said: 'How reckless a bird is he,
     Cheerily mating!'

"Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide,
In lewth of leaves to throne her bride;
But alas! her love for me waned and died,
     Wearily waiting.

"Ah, had I been like some I see,
Born to an evergreen nesting-tree,
None had eyed and twitted me,
     Cheerily mating!"

1866.

from "To Meet, or Otherwise"

Whether to sally and see thee, girl of my dreams,
     Or whether to stay
And see thee not! How vast the difference seems
     Of Yea from Nay
Just now. Yet this same sun will slant its beams
     At no far day
On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh!

Yet I will see thee, maiden dear, and make
     The most I can
Of what remains to us amid this brake Cimmerian
Through which we grope, and from whose thorns we ache,
     While still we scan
Round our frail faltering progress for some path or plan.

A man was drawing near to me

On that gray night of mournful drone,
A part from aught to hear, to see,
I dreamt not that from shires unknown
   In gloom, alone,
   By Halworthy,
A man was drawing near to me.

I'd no concern at anything,
No sense of coming pull-heart play;
Yet, under the silent outspreading
   Of even's wing
   Where Otterham lay,
A man was riding up my way.

I thought of nobody--not of one,
But only of trifles--legends, ghosts--
Though, on the moorland dim and dun
   That travellers shun
   About these coasts,
The man had passed Tresparret Posts.

There was no light at all inland,
Only the seaward pharos-fire,
Nothing to let me understand
   That hard at hand
   By Hennett Byre
The man was getting nigh and nigher.

There was a rumble at the door,
A draught disturbed the drapery,
And but a minute passed before,
   With gaze that bore
   My destiny,
The man revealed himself to me.

To Life

   O life with the sad seared face,
       I weary of seeing thee,
And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace,
       And thy too-forced pleasantry!

   I know what thou would'st tell
       Of Death, Time, Destiny -
I have known it long, and know, too, well
       What it all means for me.

   But canst thou not array
       Thyself in rare disguise,
And feign like truth, for one mad day,
       That Earth is Paradise?

   I'll tune me to the mood,
       And mumm with thee till eve;
And maybe what as interlude
       I feign, I shall believe!

The House of Hospitalities

Here we broached the Christmas barrel,
   Pushed up the charred log-ends;
Here we sang the Christmas carol,
       And called in friends.

Time has tired me since we met here
   When the folk now dead were young,
Since the viands were outset here
       And quaint songs sung.

And the worm has bored the viol
   That used to lead the tune,
Rust eaten out the dial
       That struck night's noon.

Now no Christmas brings in neighbours,
   And the New Year comes unlit;
Where we sang the mole now labours,
       And spiders knit.

Yet at midnight if here walking,
   When the moon sheets wall and tree,
I see forms of old time talking,
       Who smile on me.

On the Doorstep

The rain imprinted the step's wet shine
With target-circles that quivered and crossed
As I was leaving this porch of mine;
When from within there swelled and paused
       A song's sweet note;
   And back I turned, and thought,
       "Here I'll abide."

The step shines wet beneath the rain,
Which prints its circles as heretofore;
I watch them from the porch again,
But no song-notes within the door
       Now call to me
   To shun the dripping lea
       And forth I stride.

Jan. 1914.

Amabel

I marked her ruined hues,
Her custom-straitened views,
And asked, "Can there indwell
     My Amabel?"

I looked upon her gown,
Once rose, now earthen brown;
The change was like the knell
     Of Amabel.

Her step's mechanic ways
Had lost the life of May's;
Her laugh, once sweet in swell,
     Spoilt Amabel.

I mused: "Who sings the strain
I sang ere warmth did wane?
Who thinks its numbers spell
     His Amabel?" -

Knowing that, though Love cease,
Love's race shows undecrease;
All find in dorp or dell
     An Amabel.

- I felt that I could creep
To some housetop, and weep,
That Time the tyrant fell
     Ruled Amabel!

I said (the while I sighed
That love like ours had died),
"Fond things I'll no more tell
     To Amabel,

"But leave her to her fate,
And fling across the gate,
'Till the Last Trump, farewell,
     O Amabel!'"

1865.

Moments of Vision

          That mirror
   Which makes of men a transparency,
       Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
       Of you and me?

       That mirror
   Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
       Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
       Until we start?

       That mirror
   Works well in these night hours of ache;
       Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
       When the world is awake?

       That mirror
   Can test each mortal when unaware;
       Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
       Glassing it--where?

Neutral Tones (excerpt)

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
- They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro -
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing ...

John and Jane

I
He sees the world as a boisterous place
Where all things bear a laughing face,
And humorous scenes go hourly on,
Does John.

II
They find the world a pleasant place
Where all is ecstasy and grace,
Where a light has risen that cannot wane,
Do John and Jane.

III
They see as a palace their cottage-place,
Containing a pearl of the human race,
A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,
Do John and Jane with a baby-child.

IV
They rate the world as a gruesome place,
Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, -
As a pilgrimage they would fain get done -
Do John and Jane with their worthless son.

The Problem

Shall we conceal the Case, or tell it -
     We who believe the evidence?
Here and there the watch-towers knell it
     With a sullen significance,
Heard of the few who hearken intently and carry an eagerly upstrained sense.

Hearts that are happiest hold not by it;
     Better we let, then, the old view reign;
Since there is peace in it, why decry it?
     Since there is comfort, why disdain?
Note not the pigment the while that the painting determines humanity's joy and pain!

To Lizbie Browne (excerpt)

I
Dear Lizbie Browne,
Where are you now?
In sun, in rain? -
Or is your brow
Past joy, past pain,
Dear Lizbie Browne?

II
Sweet Lizbie Browne
How you could smile,
How you could sing! -
How archly wile
In glance-giving,
Sweet Lizbie Browne!

III
And, Lizbie Browne,
Who else had hair
Bay-red as yours,
Or flesh so fair
Bred out of doors,
Sweet Lizbie Browne?

The Woman in the Rye

"Why do you stand in the dripping rye,
Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee,
When there are firesides near?" said I.
"I told him I wished him dead," said she.

"Yea, cried it in my haste to one
Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still;
And die he did. And I hate the sun,
And stand here lonely, aching, chill;

"Stand waiting, waiting under skies
That blow reproach, the while I see
The rooks sheer off to where he lies
Wrapt in a peace withheld from me."

To Carrey Clavel

You turn your back, you turn your back,
     And never your face to me,
Alone you take your homeward track,
     And scorn my company.

What will you do when Charley's seen
     Dewbeating down this way?
- You'll turn your back as now, you mean?
    Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!

You'll see none's looking; put your lip
     Up like a tulip, so;
And he will coll you, bend, and sip:
     Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!

Autumn in King's Hintock Park

Here by the baring bough
   Raking up leaves,
Often I ponder how
   Springtime deceives, -
I, an old woman now,
   Raking up leaves.

Here in the avenue
   Raking up leaves,
Lords' ladies pass in view,
   Until one heaves
Sighs at life's russet hue,
   Raking up leaves!

Just as my shape you see
   Raking up leaves,
I saw, when fresh and free,
   Those memory weaves
Into grey ghosts by me,
   Raking up leaves.

Yet, Dear, though one may sigh,
   Raking up leaves,
New leaves will dance on high -
   Earth never grieves! -
Will not, when missed am I
   Raking up leaves.

1901.

from "The Mother Mourns"

When mid-autumn's moan shook the night-time,
    And sedges were horny,
And summer's green wonderwork faltered
    On leaze and in lane,

I fared Yell'ham-Firs way, where dimly
    Came wheeling around me
Those phantoms obscure and insistent
    That shadows unchain.

Till airs from the needle-thicks brought me
    A low lamentation,
As 'twere of a tree-god disheartened,
    Perplexed, or in pain.

And, heeding, it awed me to gather
    That Nature herself there
Was breathing in aerie accents,
    With dirgeful refrain...