Read Ebook: The Old Way by Marlowe Stephen

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Ebook has 126 lines and 5650 words, and 3 pages

ENVOY

PRAELUDIUM

In sumptuous chords, and strange, Through rich yet poignant harmonies: Subtle and strong browns, reds Magnificent with death and the pride of death, Thin, clamant greens And delicate yellows that exhaust The exquisite chromatics of decay: From ruining gardens, from reluctant woods-- Dear, multitudinously reluctant woods!-- And sering margents, forced To be lean and bare and perished grace by grace, And flower by flower discharmed, Comes, to a purpose none, Not even the Scorner, which is the Fool, can blink, The dead-march of the year.

Dead things and dying! Now the long-laboured soul Listens, and pines. But never a note of hope Sounds: whether in those high, Transcending unisons of resignation That speed the sovran sun, As he goes southing, weakening, minishing, Almighty in obedience; or in those Small, sorrowful colloquies Of bronze and russet and gold, Colour with colour, dying things with dead, That break along this visual orchestra: As in that other one, the audible, Horn answers horn, hautboy and violin Talk, and the 'cello calls the clarionet And flute, and the poor heart is glad. There is no hope in these--only despair.

Then, destiny in act, ensues That most tremendous passage in the score: When hangman rains and winds have wrought Their worst, and, the brave lights gone down, The low strings, the brute brass, the sullen drums Sob, grovel, and curse themselves Silent. . . . But on the spirit of Man And on the heart of the World there falls A strange, half-desperate peace: A war-worn, militant, gray jubilance In the unkind, implacable tyranny Of Winter, the obscene, Old, crapulous Regent, who in his loins-- O, who but feels he carries in his loins The wild, sweet-blooded, wonderful harlot, Spring?

Low--low Over a perishing after-glow, A thin, red shred of moon Trailed. In the windless air The poplars all ranked lean and chill. The smell of winter loitered there, And the Year's heart felt still. Yet not so far away Seemed the mad Spring, But that, as lovers will, I let my laughing heart go play, As it had been a fond maid's frolicking; And, turning thrice the gold I'd got, In the good gloom Solemnly wished me--what? What, and with whom?

Moon of half-candied meres And flurrying, fading snows; Moon of unkindly rains, Wild skies, and troubled vanes; When the Norther snarls and bites, And the lone moon walks a-cold, And the lawns grizzle o' nights, And wet fogs search the fold: Here in this heart of mine A dream that warms like wine, A dream one other knows, Moon of the roaring weirs And the sip-sopping close, February Fill-Dyke, Shapes like a royal rose-- A red, red rose!

O, but the distance clears! O, but the daylight grows! Soon shall the pied wind-flowers Babble of greening hours, Primrose and daffodil Yearn to a fathering sun, The lark have all his will, The thrush be never done, And April, May, and June Go to the same blythe tune As this blythe dream of mine! Moon when the crocus peers, Moon when the violet blows, February Fair-Maid, Haste, and let come the rose-- Let come the rose!

The night dislimns, and breaks Like snows slow thawn; An evil wind awakes On lea and lawn; The low East quakes; and hark! Out of the kindless dark, A fierce, protesting lark, High in the horror of dawn!

A shivering streak of light, A scurry of rain: Bleak day from bleaker night Creeps pinched and fain; The old gloom thins and dies, And in the wretched skies A new gloom, sick to rise, Sprawls, like a thing in pain.

And yet, what matter--say!-- The shuddering trees, The Easter-stricken day, The sodden leas? The good bird, wing and wing With Time, finds heart to sing, As he were hastening The swallow o'er the seas.

It came with the year's first crocus In a world of winds and snows-- Because it would, because it must, Because of life and time and lust; And a year's first crocus served my turn As well as the year's first rose.

The March rack hurries and hectors, The March dust heaps and blows; But the primrose flouts the daffodil, And here's the patient violet still; And the year's first crocus brought me luck, So hey for the year's first rose!

The good South-West on sea-worn wings Comes shepherding the good rain; The brave Sea breaks, and glooms, and swings, A weltering, glittering plain.

Sound, Sea of England, sound and shine, Blow, English Wind, amain, Till in this old, gray heart of mine The Spring need wake again!

In the red April dawn, In the wild April weather, From brake and thicket and lawn The birds sing all together.

The look of the hoyden Spring Is pinched and shrewish and cold; But all together they sing Of a world that can never be old:

Of a world still young--still young!-- Whose last word won't be said, Nor her last song dreamed and sung, Till her last true lover's dead!

The April sky sags low and drear, The April winds blow cold, The April rains fall gray and sheer, And yeanlings keep the fold.

But the rook has built, and the song-birds quire, And over the faded lea The lark soars glorying, gyre on gyre, And he is the bird for me!

For he sings as if from his watchman's height He saw, this blighting day, The far vales break into colour and light From the banners and arms of May.

Shadow and gleam on the Downland Under the low Spring sky, Shadow and gleam in my spirit-- Why?

A bird, in his nest rejoicing, Cheers and flatters and woos: A fresh voice flutters my fancy-- Whose?

And the humour of April frolics And bickers in blade and bough-- O, to meet for the primal kindness Now!

The wind on the wold, With sea-scents and sea-dreams attended, Is wine! The air is as gold In elixir--it takes so the splendid Sunshine!

O, the larks in the blue! How the song of them glitters, and glances, And gleams! The old music sounds new-- And it's O, the wild Spring, and his chances And dreams!

There's a lift in the blood-- O, this gracious, and thirsting, and aching Unrest! All life's at the bud, And my heart, full of April, is breaking My breast.

Deep in my gathering garden A gallant thrush has built; And his quaverings on the stillness Like light made song are spilt.

They gleam, they glint, they sparkle, They glitter along the air, Like the song of a sunbeam netted In a tangle of red-gold hair.

And I long, as I laugh and listen, For the angel-hour that shall bring My part, pre-ordained and appointed, In the miracle of Spring.

What doth the blackbird in the boughs Sing all day to his nested spouse? What but the song of his old Mother-Earth, In her mighty humour of lust and mirth? 'Love and God's will go wing and wing, And as for death, is there any such thing?'-- In the shadow of death, So, at the beck of the wizard Spring The dear bird saith-- So the bird saith!

Caught with us all in the nets of fate, So the sweet wretch sings early and late; And, O my fairest, after all, The heart of the World's in his innocent call. The will of the World's with him wing and wing:-- 'Life--life--life! 'Tis the sole great thing This side of death, Heart on heart in the wonder of Spring!' So the bird saith-- The wise bird saith!

This world, all hoary With song and story, Rolls in a glory Of youth and mirth; Above and under Clothed on with wonder. Sunrise and thunder, And death and birth. His broods befriending With grace unending And gifts transcending A god's at play, Yet do his meetness And sovran sweetness Hold in the jocund purpose of May.

So take your pleasure, And in full measure Use of your treasure, When birds sing best! For when heaven's bluest, And earth feels newest, And love longs truest, And takes not rest: When winds blow cleanest, And seas roll sheenest, And lawns lie greenest: Then, night and day, Dear life counts dearest, And God walks nearest To them that praise Him, praising His May.

All in a garden green Thrushes were singing; Red rose and white between, Lilies were springing; It was the merry May; Yet sang my Lady:-- 'Nay, Sweet, now nay, now nay! I am not ready.'

Then to a pleasant shade I did invite her: All things a concert made, For to delight her; Under, the grass was gay; Yet sang my Lady:-- 'Nay, Sweet, now nay, now nay! I am not ready.'

Why do you linger and loiter, O most sweet? Why do you falter and delay, Now that the insolent, high-blooded May Comes greeting and to greet? Comes with her instant summonings to stray Down the green, antient way-- The leafy, still, rose-haunted, eye-proof street!-- Where true lovers each other may entreat, Ere the gold hair turn gray? Entreat, and fleet Life gaudily, and so play out their play, Even with the triumphing May-- The young-eyed, smiling, irresistible May!

Why do you loiter and linger, O most dear? Why do you dream and palter and stay, When every dawn, that rushes up the bay, Brings nearer, and more near, The Terror, the Discomforter, whose prey, Beloved, we must be? Nor prayer, nor tear, Lets his arraignment; but we disappear, What time the gold turns gray, Into the sheer, Blind gulfs unglutted of mere Yesterday, With the unlingering May-- The good, fulfilling, irresponsible May!

The west a glory of green and red and gold, The magical drifts to north and eastward rolled, The shining sands, the still, transfigured sea, The wind so light it scarce begins to be, As these long days unfold a flower, unfold Life's rose in me.

Life's rose--life's rose! Red at my heart it glows-- Glows and is glad, as in some quiet close The sun's spoiled darlings their gay life renew! Only, the clement rain, the mothering dew, Daytide and night, all things that make the rose, Are you, dear--you!

Look down, dear eyes, look down, Lest you betray her gladness. Dear brows, do naught but frown, Lest men miscall my madness.

Come not, dear hands, so near, Lest all besides come nearer. Dear heart, hold me less dear, Lest time hold nothing dearer.

Keep me, dear lips, O, keep The great last word unspoken, Lest other eyes go weep, And other lives lie broken!

Poplar and lime and chestnut Meet in a living screen; And there the winds and the sunbeams keep A revel of gold and green.

O, the green dreams and the golden, The golden thoughts and green, This green and golden end of May My lover and me between!

Hither, this solemn eventide, All flushed and mystical and blue, When the late bird sings And sweet-breathed garden-ghosts walk sudden and wide, Hesper, that bringeth all good things, Brings me a dream of you. And in my heart, dear heart, it comes and goes, Even as the south wind lingers and falls and blows, Even as the south wind sighs and tarries and streams, Among the living leaves about and round; With a still, soothing sound, As of a multitude of dreams Of love, and the longing of love, and love's delight, Thronging, ten thousand deep, Into the uncreating Night, With semblances and shadows to fulfil, Amaze, and thrill The strange, dispeopled silences of Sleep.

After the grim daylight, Night-- Night and the stars and the sea! Only the sea, and the stars And the star-shown sails and spars-- Naught else in the night for me!

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