The Wayfarers
I HELD my way along the years
With all that errant company.
The eyes of the untroubled spheres
Beheld us, cold with mystery:
We questioned each false guide of day
That lighted us upon the way,
And all our parley sunk like dew into the loud, unanswering sea.
But even while we all despaired
In desert places no man knew,
We spake of her to whom we fared,
That she might read our darkness through:
" Life, the Revealer, when we reach
Her mother knees, shall smile to teach
Her soul to us who name her now, as our poor dreams would have us do."
There were who journeyed swift at heart
And saw, with eyes unstung of tears,
The coiling sea that lurked apart,
The cold forgetfulness of spheres.
They hoarded not their hearts for gain,
But spent red joy and regal pain:
They wrought, from all their heritage, rich gifts for the unheeding years.
For some had learned the lore of springs
To wake new life within the throng.
With call of pipe and throb of strings,
They pricked the darkness all along.
With viol breath they cooled the sun,
As doves, alighting one by one,
Bring purple solace to the noon, like a dim water and its song.
And some were wise, with gracious hands
To shape us fair immortal things.
All the slow craft Time understands
They knew, save how to doom with wings
The creature clay, that answered naught
Alas, poor gods! For all they wrought
White oracles, yet none gave ear or answer to our questionings.
All these kept songful company,
With brother looks, in diverse tongue;
I wot that manna might not be
A largess sweeter to the throng.
Their speech was such a shadow as
Takes pity on the parching grass.
They would have cheered us, saying, " Life shall tell you that her name is Song."
There were who walked apart from these,
With eyes upon the way beneath;
They questioned not the wilderness,
Nor gladdened it with eager breath.
The one poor path they bent to see
Crept through the sand-dunes sullenly;
They girt their hearts up unto pain and said, " Her one true name is Death."
Some journeyed glad as men that fare
Through dreams; and of their dream they wove
A loneliness of light to wear
(Like those far-travellers above):
And bright outlooking, wrapt in this,
They saw no kindred chrysalis
Pent in dull patience, but they sang, " Life knoweth that her name is Love."
But myriads were there more than these,
Like rain, unnumbered and half-heard;
They murmured at the wilderness —
Poor rain, whose sorrow hath no word! —
Or plied the lowly tasks they found,
As unseen creatures of the ground,
The thousand-fold dim voice of noon that is but silence, to the bird.
Oh, years alone have songful lips
To tell you how we wandered on,
As far as all the sunken ships
That stirred a ripple, long agone.
And whether I took path away
Or wandered thence for blind dismay,
I know not, but a dusk came down and thrust me onward all alone.
The wistful even, like a moth,
Yearned upward to the only light;
And as a crafty taper doth
The moon did beckon, blithe and white.
The dusk reached blindly as a prayer
Unto the goodly promise there,
And withered: down, with blackened wings, the shadows swarmed into the night.
There was no path to point the way
Where Life abode; no mark was set.
The fields were weary of the day
And seemed to muse and to forget.
The shadows beckoned all in turn,
But when I followed them, to learn,
They shook dull locks, and all the night fell round about me like a net.
And there the torpid marsh lay prone
Its dappled length, in mockery;
And there the sea kept watch alone,
A live, bright coil that hissed at me.
Not to the stars I looked for ruth:
Like vestals high and far, in sooth,
With silver looks of laughter all, they leaned from out the dark to see.
The branches heard their far-off mirth
And swayed with laughter to and fro:
The servile shadows on the earth
Made sudden mimicry below.
The gray winds waited everywhere
To peer and lurk, and in despair
Go by — go by with aged cries of all the grief the world doth know.
And when at last no bitter strait
Could bring me any wonderment,
They left the thousand ways of hate,
And all the grievous phantoms went
As a dark dream of long ago.
I saw the simple stars burn low,
Like tapers, held of weary folk that slumber when their watch is spent.
A red, red rose, the early sun
Came up, as glad as any guest;
A white, white rose whose bloom was done,
The moon did wane unto the west.
The waking fields breathed warm and stirred
Small presences of song, half heard;
The wan stars closed against the day like flowers that fold them for their rest.
And suddenly the way was clear
As any song for them that hark;
And One sat, like the singer, there
Where every wayfarer must mark.
A moment all my soul stood dumb;
And then, because the time was come,
I knew her, by her eyes that held one perfect day, from dawn to dark.
She sat where all the high-roads meet
And all the striving ways are one.
The dumb sea crept unto her feet
With lowered mane, his wrath undone.
The voice of all the worlds astir
Sunk to the past at sight of her.
There was naught left but her blind eyes that gazed into the climbing sun.
Surely no least created thing
Was mean, to her, that came her way;
She turned her from the worshipping
Of prostrate earth, of seas that pray.
She turned her living eyes on me —
Well knew I then she might not see,
And yet their wide-enfolding look was all about me, like the day.
She spake: " I am that One ye sought
Through years that fade, through ways that wind.
I am that One for whom ye wrought
The lovely names ye thought to find:
" Life, the Revealer, when we reach
Her mother knees, shall smile to teach
Her soul to us ." And would I not, if I but knew! But I am blind.
" Yet by the stranger gifts ye bring,
And by your alien prayers that throng,
I know I am not that ye sing,
The little dream that does me wrong.
Ye pray me that I shew you what
My one name is: I know it not;
Only I know I am not Death, I am not Love, I am not Song.
" The nations come to me from far
That love me by a name alone;
And the dream fails them, and they are
Stricken with famine, dream-undone.
Ever my heart cried out to bless,
To shelter all their loneliness;
They dreamed, awakened, went their ways, — oh, years and lonely years agone!
" They dream I sit on high, afar,
A light to pierce all mystery;
Untroubled as a fixed star
That heeds no sorrow of the sea.
Yet stars make patient pilgrimage
Across the dark, from age to age;
And who would know me that I am, must take my hand and go with me."
Oh, if I thought to answer nay,
Her dear eyes did not understand;
Wayfarers two, we went our way
From hour to day, across the land!
Her blindness hid the dark from her;
She led me, leal through joy and fear;
From little day to little day she led me child-like, hand in hand.
And like the sweet of rain, upheld
All tremulous in rose half curled,
The brimming song of things out-welled
Promise of morrows still unfurled.
Ever the wind before us sped
Some mystery, interpreted,
And lifted faces of the hills did beckon us across the world.
Oh, step by step, the troubled wood
Spake all its shadow clear to us;
And, hand in hand, the lowlihood
Of wayside weeds grew dear to us.
The shy trees leaned to us, abloom,
A nest called soft from leafy gloom,
And all the hidden heart of things beat sudden, warm, and near to us.
And day by day, grown deep apace,
The song welled over to our need,
And all that mystic heart of grace
Enfolded us as kin indeed.
The simple-spoken weeds, that sing
So wisely, taught us everything
Full soft, as aged stars may sing low to the childhood of the weed.
Sometimes there hovers down to her,
Portent of what her name may be,
Like any humming-bird, a blur
Of music and of glamourie —
Awing, away! Sometimes she seems
Houseless, and poor of all but dreams,
Save that her looks are crowned with all the patience of a sovereignty.
Sometimes a passing cloud may keep
The secret white and unrevealed;
Sometimes it haunts the wavering sleep
Of a forgetful summer field.
Sometimes the lordly winds are bold
To sing of godhead lost of old:
And I would think her Builder of the world, save that her eyes are sealed.
I know not if the years be years,
As, great and small, we journey on,
Nor if the service of the spheres
And of the friendly weeds be one . . . .
Like singing harvesters, that fare
Weary and glad, we go where'er
She leads the way, with strong, blind eyes, that dare to gaze into the sun.
With all that errant company.
The eyes of the untroubled spheres
Beheld us, cold with mystery:
We questioned each false guide of day
That lighted us upon the way,
And all our parley sunk like dew into the loud, unanswering sea.
But even while we all despaired
In desert places no man knew,
We spake of her to whom we fared,
That she might read our darkness through:
" Life, the Revealer, when we reach
Her mother knees, shall smile to teach
Her soul to us who name her now, as our poor dreams would have us do."
There were who journeyed swift at heart
And saw, with eyes unstung of tears,
The coiling sea that lurked apart,
The cold forgetfulness of spheres.
They hoarded not their hearts for gain,
But spent red joy and regal pain:
They wrought, from all their heritage, rich gifts for the unheeding years.
For some had learned the lore of springs
To wake new life within the throng.
With call of pipe and throb of strings,
They pricked the darkness all along.
With viol breath they cooled the sun,
As doves, alighting one by one,
Bring purple solace to the noon, like a dim water and its song.
And some were wise, with gracious hands
To shape us fair immortal things.
All the slow craft Time understands
They knew, save how to doom with wings
The creature clay, that answered naught
Alas, poor gods! For all they wrought
White oracles, yet none gave ear or answer to our questionings.
All these kept songful company,
With brother looks, in diverse tongue;
I wot that manna might not be
A largess sweeter to the throng.
Their speech was such a shadow as
Takes pity on the parching grass.
They would have cheered us, saying, " Life shall tell you that her name is Song."
There were who walked apart from these,
With eyes upon the way beneath;
They questioned not the wilderness,
Nor gladdened it with eager breath.
The one poor path they bent to see
Crept through the sand-dunes sullenly;
They girt their hearts up unto pain and said, " Her one true name is Death."
Some journeyed glad as men that fare
Through dreams; and of their dream they wove
A loneliness of light to wear
(Like those far-travellers above):
And bright outlooking, wrapt in this,
They saw no kindred chrysalis
Pent in dull patience, but they sang, " Life knoweth that her name is Love."
But myriads were there more than these,
Like rain, unnumbered and half-heard;
They murmured at the wilderness —
Poor rain, whose sorrow hath no word! —
Or plied the lowly tasks they found,
As unseen creatures of the ground,
The thousand-fold dim voice of noon that is but silence, to the bird.
Oh, years alone have songful lips
To tell you how we wandered on,
As far as all the sunken ships
That stirred a ripple, long agone.
And whether I took path away
Or wandered thence for blind dismay,
I know not, but a dusk came down and thrust me onward all alone.
The wistful even, like a moth,
Yearned upward to the only light;
And as a crafty taper doth
The moon did beckon, blithe and white.
The dusk reached blindly as a prayer
Unto the goodly promise there,
And withered: down, with blackened wings, the shadows swarmed into the night.
There was no path to point the way
Where Life abode; no mark was set.
The fields were weary of the day
And seemed to muse and to forget.
The shadows beckoned all in turn,
But when I followed them, to learn,
They shook dull locks, and all the night fell round about me like a net.
And there the torpid marsh lay prone
Its dappled length, in mockery;
And there the sea kept watch alone,
A live, bright coil that hissed at me.
Not to the stars I looked for ruth:
Like vestals high and far, in sooth,
With silver looks of laughter all, they leaned from out the dark to see.
The branches heard their far-off mirth
And swayed with laughter to and fro:
The servile shadows on the earth
Made sudden mimicry below.
The gray winds waited everywhere
To peer and lurk, and in despair
Go by — go by with aged cries of all the grief the world doth know.
And when at last no bitter strait
Could bring me any wonderment,
They left the thousand ways of hate,
And all the grievous phantoms went
As a dark dream of long ago.
I saw the simple stars burn low,
Like tapers, held of weary folk that slumber when their watch is spent.
A red, red rose, the early sun
Came up, as glad as any guest;
A white, white rose whose bloom was done,
The moon did wane unto the west.
The waking fields breathed warm and stirred
Small presences of song, half heard;
The wan stars closed against the day like flowers that fold them for their rest.
And suddenly the way was clear
As any song for them that hark;
And One sat, like the singer, there
Where every wayfarer must mark.
A moment all my soul stood dumb;
And then, because the time was come,
I knew her, by her eyes that held one perfect day, from dawn to dark.
She sat where all the high-roads meet
And all the striving ways are one.
The dumb sea crept unto her feet
With lowered mane, his wrath undone.
The voice of all the worlds astir
Sunk to the past at sight of her.
There was naught left but her blind eyes that gazed into the climbing sun.
Surely no least created thing
Was mean, to her, that came her way;
She turned her from the worshipping
Of prostrate earth, of seas that pray.
She turned her living eyes on me —
Well knew I then she might not see,
And yet their wide-enfolding look was all about me, like the day.
She spake: " I am that One ye sought
Through years that fade, through ways that wind.
I am that One for whom ye wrought
The lovely names ye thought to find:
" Life, the Revealer, when we reach
Her mother knees, shall smile to teach
Her soul to us ." And would I not, if I but knew! But I am blind.
" Yet by the stranger gifts ye bring,
And by your alien prayers that throng,
I know I am not that ye sing,
The little dream that does me wrong.
Ye pray me that I shew you what
My one name is: I know it not;
Only I know I am not Death, I am not Love, I am not Song.
" The nations come to me from far
That love me by a name alone;
And the dream fails them, and they are
Stricken with famine, dream-undone.
Ever my heart cried out to bless,
To shelter all their loneliness;
They dreamed, awakened, went their ways, — oh, years and lonely years agone!
" They dream I sit on high, afar,
A light to pierce all mystery;
Untroubled as a fixed star
That heeds no sorrow of the sea.
Yet stars make patient pilgrimage
Across the dark, from age to age;
And who would know me that I am, must take my hand and go with me."
Oh, if I thought to answer nay,
Her dear eyes did not understand;
Wayfarers two, we went our way
From hour to day, across the land!
Her blindness hid the dark from her;
She led me, leal through joy and fear;
From little day to little day she led me child-like, hand in hand.
And like the sweet of rain, upheld
All tremulous in rose half curled,
The brimming song of things out-welled
Promise of morrows still unfurled.
Ever the wind before us sped
Some mystery, interpreted,
And lifted faces of the hills did beckon us across the world.
Oh, step by step, the troubled wood
Spake all its shadow clear to us;
And, hand in hand, the lowlihood
Of wayside weeds grew dear to us.
The shy trees leaned to us, abloom,
A nest called soft from leafy gloom,
And all the hidden heart of things beat sudden, warm, and near to us.
And day by day, grown deep apace,
The song welled over to our need,
And all that mystic heart of grace
Enfolded us as kin indeed.
The simple-spoken weeds, that sing
So wisely, taught us everything
Full soft, as aged stars may sing low to the childhood of the weed.
Sometimes there hovers down to her,
Portent of what her name may be,
Like any humming-bird, a blur
Of music and of glamourie —
Awing, away! Sometimes she seems
Houseless, and poor of all but dreams,
Save that her looks are crowned with all the patience of a sovereignty.
Sometimes a passing cloud may keep
The secret white and unrevealed;
Sometimes it haunts the wavering sleep
Of a forgetful summer field.
Sometimes the lordly winds are bold
To sing of godhead lost of old:
And I would think her Builder of the world, save that her eyes are sealed.
I know not if the years be years,
As, great and small, we journey on,
Nor if the service of the spheres
And of the friendly weeds be one . . . .
Like singing harvesters, that fare
Weary and glad, we go where'er
She leads the way, with strong, blind eyes, that dare to gaze into the sun.
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