I

N OW I who oft have carolled of the Spring,
Must chant of Autumn and the dirgeful days;
Of windless dawns enveiled in dewy haze,
Of cloistered evenings when no sweet birds sing,
But every note of joy hath trooped and taken wing.

II

But when I saw Her first, you scarce could say
If it were Summer still, or Autumn yet.
Rather it seemed as if the twain had met,
And, Summer being loth to go away,
Autumn retained its hand, and begged of it to stay.

III

The second bloom had come upon the rose,
Not, as in June, exultingly content
With its own loveliness, but meekly bent,
Pondering how beauty saddens to the close,
And fair decay consumes each hectic flower that blows.

IV

The traveller's-joy still journeyed in the hedge,
Nor yet to palsied gossamer had shrunk:
Green still the bracken round the beech-tree's trunk;
But loosestrife seeded by the river ledge,
And now and then a sigh came rippling through the sedge.

V

The white-cupped bindweed garlanded the lane,
Trying to make-believe the year was young.
Withal, hard-by, where it too clomb and clung,
The berried bryony began to wane,
And the wayfaring-tree showed many a russet stain.

VI

There was a pensive patience in the air,
As sweet as sad, when sadness doth but flow
From generous grief, and not for selfish woe:
Such as can make the wrinkled forehead fair,
And sheds a halo round love's slowly-silvering hair.

VII

And such She seemed. The summer in her mien
Had something too of autumn's mellower tone;
A something that was more surmised than shown,
As when, though distant woodlands still are green,
Embrowning shadows seem half stealing in between.

VIII

Then, in that season, She alone with me,
As when the world was virginal and young,
Went wandering slowly, pathlessly, among
Fair scenes it made you happy but to see,
And wish that as they were they ever still might be.

IX

Sometimes we lingered at a rustic seat,
To listen to the soothing music made
By uninstructed breezes as they played
Upon the mellow pipes of waving wheat,
Nor spake, but only smiled, the music was so sweet.

X

But when anew we thither came, we found
The swarthy reapers, like their sickles, bent
Among the stalks whose summer now was spent.
Soon the light swathes in heavy sheaves were bound,
And tawny tents of peace stood dotted o'er the ground.

XI

And when the hinds departed with their hooks,
And no rude voices hurt the silence there,
We to the spot together would repair,
And, carrying thither bread, and fruit, and books,
Make for ourselves a seat against the sheltering stooks.

XII

There would she read to me some simple tale
Of love and sorrow, which, being simply told,
And softly read, both saddened and consoled.
Whereat her voice would falter, cheek would pale,
And in her tender eyes the pity-drops prevail.

XIII

Oft would she bid me, when the light grew less,
Read or recite what poets weave in rhyme:
For verse, she said, doth not grow old with time,
And sheds a solemn glamour round distress,
Until grief almost seems akin to happiness.

XIV

When came the heavy slowly-creaking wain,
And, one by one the stooks being wheeled away,
There now seemed nothing there but yesterday,
Onward we wandered over stubbled plain
Till rows of ripened hop replaced the garnered grain.

XV

There for awhile it pleasant was to lean
Against some time-warped gate, and watch the folk,
Whose gay patched garb their lowliness bespoke,
Stripping the fruitage from the alleys green,
While children romped or slept amid the busy scene.

XVI

Then did the sickle of the harvest moon
Its curve complete, and round itself with light,
Rising at sunset to retard the night.
Thrice thus it came, nor later nor more soon,
And thrice I hailed its disc, and begged of it a boon.

XVII

" O mellow moon, moon of plump stacks, and boughs
Blooming with fruit more juicy than the Spring,
Thee will I worship, thee henceforth will sing,
If thou wilt only listen to my vows,
And grant my sobering heart a home and harvest spouse. "

XVIII

For, in those wanderings ne'er to be forgot,
My heart went out to her and came not back:
So that a something now I seemed to lack
Whene'er I wandered where she wandered not,
That wizarded away enchantment from the spot.

XIX

But I the ferment in my day-dream chid,
And brooded on it with a silent breast.
So quietly love sat upon its nest,
That, though she was so near to it, she did
Not see nor yet surmise where it lay hushed and hid.

XX

The cottage where she dwelt was long and low,
With sloping red-tiled roof and gabled front,
And timbered eaves that broke the weather's brunt
Ask you its age and date? None cared to know,
Save 'twas that goodly time which men call Long-ago.

XXI

And each new generation, as it chose,
Added a dormer there, a gable here,
So had it grown more human year by year.
It had a look of ripeness and repose,
And up its kindly walls there clambered many a rose.

XXII

And sooth a constant smile it well might wear,
For on a garden ever did it gaze,
That still decoyed the sunshine's shifting rays,
And bloomed with flowers which brightened so the air,
That folks who passed would halt and wish their home was there.

XXIII

Old-fashioned balsams, snapdragons red and white,
In which the sedulous bees all day were throng,
Hastening from each, too busy to stay long;
Wise evening-primroses, that shun strong light,
But kindle with the stars and commerce with the night

XXIV

Moon-daisies tall, and tufts of crimson phlox,
And dainty white anemones that bear
An eastern name, and eastern beauty wear;
Lithe haughty lilies, homely-smelling stocks,
And sunflowers green and gold, and gorgeous holly-hocks.

XXV

In truth there is no flower nor leaf that breathes,
But found a hospitable shelter there,
Being fondly fostered, so that it was fair.
Near proud gladioli with formal sheaths,
Loose woodbine clomb and fell in long unfettered wreaths.

XXVI

Full many a flower there was you had not found,
Save for the scent its modesty exhaled.
When noonday heat or gloaming dews prevailed,
A fragrant freshness floated from the ground,
And smell of mignonette was everywhere around.

XXVII

Behind it was a pleasance free from weeds,
Where every household herb and tuber grew:
Kale of all kinds, bediamonded with dew,
Each quick green crop that quick green crop succeeds,
And all nutritious plants that prosper for man's needs.

XXVIII

But here no less did flowers abound, with fruits
That in September are themselves like flowers:
Rows of sweet-pea and honeysuckle bowers;
Red rustic apples, pears in russet suits,
And china-asters prim, and medlar's trailing shoots.

XXIX

There too grew southernwood, for courtship's aid,
And faithful lavender, one happy May
Brought from the garden of Anne Hathaway.
For human wants can thus be comely made,
And use with beauty dwell, unshamed and unafraid.

XXX

Beyond it was an orchard thick with trees,
Whose branches now were bowed down to the ground
By clustering pippins, juicy, plump and sound,
Where it was sweet to saunter at one's ease,
Screened from too sultry rays, or sheltered from the breeze.

XXXI

Beside it ran a long straight alley green,
Paven with turf and vaulted in with leaves;
Whither, on idle mornings, restful eves,
You might repair, and, pacing all unseen,
Muse on twin life and death, and ponder what they mean.

XXXII

Now that with bulging sacks the farmer clomb
His oast-house steps, and corn-stacks clustered round,
And shrivelled bine lay twisted on the ground,
We less than hitherto were lured to roam,
But in that pleasance stayed, and lingered round her home:

XXXIII

Gathering the last ripe peaches on the wall,
Splitting the pears to see if they were fit
Yet to be stored; or haply we would sit,
Watch the slow team returning to the stall,
Feel the soft shadows float, and hear the acorns fall.

XXXIV

It happed, one day, as we sat silent there,
Since silence seemed still sweeter than discourse,
My welling heart upbubbled from its source,
And I besought if she with me would share
The sweet sad load of life we all of us must bear.

XXXV

A something slumbering deep in her, slowly woke,
Then tranquilly she laid her hand on mine,
As though to hush, yet heal, me by that sign.
And, as her quiet voice the quiet broke,
It seemed as though it was grave Autumn's self that spoke.

XXXVI

" Of gifts, Love is the fairest, rarest, best,
And what you proudly give I cannot choose
But humbly take: 'twere vileness to refuse.
Giving, you grow no poorer, I more blest,
And that which I accept, by you is still possessed.

XXXVII

" For love, true love, doth give not that it may
In turn receive, only that it may give,
And on its careless lavishness doth live;
Squandering itself, grows richer day by day,
Wealthiest in wealth when it hath given it all away.

XXXVIII

" And my, my love I carried not to mart,
In the fresh bloom and April of my days.
Rather the bloom was April's less than May's.
For though the Spring still carolled in my heart,
Summer's more steadfast thoughts had there begun to start.

XXXIX

" What then I gave I ne'er have taken back,
And so have not impoverishid my life,
Nor set my present with my past at strife.
However long or lonely be the track,
Love strays not from its road nor faints beneath its pack.

XL

" Dead? Is he dead? how could he die, or be
Other than living unto love whose breath
Defends whate'er it breathes upon from death?
Therefore so long as I live, so must he,
Warmed by my warmth and fed by it perpetually.

XLI

" Change? Did he change? How could he change, or lose
The glory love once rayed around his hair?
The years have gone, the halo still is there.
There is no art like Love's, for it imbues
Its form with lasting light and never-fading hues.

XLII

" Why doth he come not? Wherefore should he come,
Who never from my side can go away?
His is the first face seen when dawns the day,
His the voice heard when birds sing or bees hum,
And his the presence felt when night is dark and dumb.

XLIII

" As I have loved, so surely you will love,
Drawn hither oft, and never here denied;
Constant as, when all springtime hopes have died,
The low unanswered coo of woodland dove,
Though no thrush pipes below and no lark trills above.

XLIV

" And should you come, and should you care to hear,
I in some timely hour will tell you more
Of my Love's Widowhood, never told before.
The tale will fall upon a kindred ear,
And with its sadness suit the autumn of the year. "

XLV

So nowise less I thitherward was drawn,
Crossing at will her threshold late and soon,
But oftenest in the slanting afternoon,
When lay the long grave shadows on the lawn,
Lingering till gleamed the star that hails both dark and dawn.

XLVI

But since there something was to say, unsaid,
And time for saying it had come not yet,
We mostly now, as when we first had met,
Would saunter forth with desultory tread,
And roam where winding lane or alleyed coppice led.

XLVII

Sometimes we brought our simple childhood back
By gathering blackberries, now purpling fast;
Playing at which of us should show at last
The largest store, and ripest, and most black;
Then, serious grown once more, we took our homeward track.

XLVIII

Anon it pleased our fancy to explore
The hedgerow banks for some belated flower
That comes in flocks in April's magic hour;
Primrose, or vetch, or violet, that wore
The smile of bygone days, or omened those before.

XLIX

These having found, and with them one wild rose
That wafted back the scent of summer days,
And shamed the bramble with its lovelier gaze,
I made a posy fresh and young as those
That children carry home when ladysmocks unclose.

L

Protesting love and beauty grow not old,
And in November twilight throstles sing.
" 'Tis only Autumn dreaming of the Spring,
That soon must wake to Winter's clammy cold, "
She answered me, as one whom sadness best consoled.

LI

" Gather me seasonable blooms, " she said,
" For autumn flowers befit an autumn heart.
They do not mean to linger, but depart.
See! the bur-marigold now droops its head,
And scabious withered stoops, slow tottering towards its bed.

LII

" Gather me these: I love each waning bloom;
The berried bryony's discoloured bine,
The scarlet hips of scentless eglantine;
The intrepid bramble, conscious of its doom,
That blends with fruit late flowers, to decorate its tomb.

LIII

" These to the tender heart are not less dear,
Because they mind of life's maturing debt.
Look where the honeysuckle lingers yet,
Curving an arm about the agid year,
That gazes back its thanks through an autumnal tear. "

LIV

When, on the morrow of that day, I went
Again to listen to her voice, she drew
Slowly my footsteps where no rude wind blew,
And, in the shelter of a leafy tent,
Her promised tale began, nor paused till it was spent.

LV

" It was the season when the bluebell takes
The place the waning primrose vacant leaves,
When whistling starlings build behind the eaves,
When in the drowsy hive the bee awakes,
When daisies fleck the meads and blackbirds throng the brakes:

LVI

" When wails the nightingale lest we be made,
Hearing the cuckoo's jocund note, too glad,
But even sadness is not wholly sad;
When Hope shoots fresh to cover hopes decayed,
And young Love walks abroad, alone and unafraid:

LVII

" When dykes are silvery runnels that skip and sing
To flowers that lean and listen the whole day long,
And life is nourished but on scent and song.
Then was it that He came, and seemed to fling
A superadded spell and splendour round the Spring.

LVIII

" I loved him as one loves the music brought
By sylvan streams where other sound is none;
I loved him as one loves the lavish sun,
That scatters itself unbidden and unbought,
Or as one loves some great unmercenary thought.

LIX

" I was too buoyed on bliss that was, to deem
Of bane that might be; for the present gave
More than the past had ever dared to crave.
Onward I floated in a trustful dream,
Like one that sails adown some music-murmuring stream.

LX

" But it was in no noonday dream I saw
A woman stand before me, calm and cold,
Like to those statues that men carved of old,
Majestic, abstract, without fleck or flaw,
That turn away from love, and dominate by awe.

LXI

" Her marble womb conceived him, and she claimed
His breath, and pulse, and will, as still her own;
A being for her purpose got and grown,
As she wished wishing, aiming as she aimed,
And whom none else must touch, that wished to live unblamed.

LXII

" And when I pleaded vow, and faith, and trust,
She girded I had filched his troth by stealth,
And that I prized him, not for worth, but wealth:
With every cruel stroke and cynic thrust
Maiming Love's heavenward wing, to trail it in the dust.

LXIII

" Thereat I did not lower but raised my head,
And high my scorn towered up above her scorn.
" O woman surely not of woman born,
A woman shall redress this wrong," I said:
" Keep what you claim as yours; your son I will not wed."

LXIV

" And I have kept my pledge alike to both;
Gave what he asked, and what she banned withheld,
Love unrecanted, but my pride unquelled.
I scorned all bond save love's unwritten troth,
Trusting the living link engrafted on its growth.

LXV

" Nay, do not pity, or with pity blend
The frown that like a shadow still follows wrong.
Brief was the rapture, the repentance long.
When pride that soars hath towered but to descend,
Then humble duty proves life's only lasting friend.

LXVI

" But, while you blame, yet blame not overmuch,
Since 'twas not baseness which begot that fault.
Where prudence hesitates, I did not halt:
What marriage deems its own, I scorned to clutch,
And virgin kept my heart from every venal touch.

LXVII

" At least I loved: not loved as women do,
Who weigh their hearts in nicely-balanced scale,
Careful lest gift should over gain prevail;
But no more dreaming those should bribe who woo,
Than ringdove in the copse that answers coo with coo.

LXVIII

" Nor did I mete out love as though it be
A thing to bear division, and to dole
In labelled fragments, body, heart, and soul;
Withholding any of that triune three,
Yielding this one in full, and that but grudgingly.

LXIX

" Soul, heart, and body, we thus singly name,
Are not, in love, divisible and distinct,
But each with each inseparably linked.
One is not honour, and the other shame,
But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.

LXX

" They do not love who give the body and keep
The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul,
And guard the body. Love doth give the whole;
Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep,
Wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.

LXXI

" And thus it was I loved; reserving not
One element of all Self has to give,
And in another's happiness did live;
Like to a flower that, rooted to one spot,
Yields sun and dew the scent that dew and sun begot.

LXXII

" Mourn not that love is blind. If love could see,
Love then would scarce be love. Its bandaged eyes
Gaze inward, and behold in clearest guise
The object of its thought, which, since they be
Seen thus, appear more real than blurred reality.

LXXIII

" And Love surrenders not its dream even when
Life draws the curtain of its sleep, and cries,
" Awake! behold the day with dreamless eyes!"
But wanders mournful 'mid the ways of men,
Missing the thing it seeks, nor hopes to find again.

LXXIV

" Thus can I never make a pact with life,
That strove to break my pact with love and death.
Nor shall I blame him ever with my breath,
And thus with blame set self with self at strife.
Enough, that he is wed, and I am not his wife.

LXXV

" There is an island off the Breton shore,
Small, and as simple as the lowly folk
From whose rude roofs up-curls the turf-fed smoke.
Sometimes the waves against it rage and roar,
Sometimes they kiss its feet, and woo it, and adore.

LXXVI

" Upon it is a little church-like shed,
Girt with a cluster of green nameless graves,
Green, but withal as billowy as the waves,
Yet just as motionless as those whose bed
Lies deep within, secure from trouble overhead.

LXXVII

" But one grave is there, shaped and smoothed with care,
That bears a name, engraven deep and plain,
On a small granite slab without a stain;
A name — no more — if fanciful, yet fair,
That looks up to the stars, and claimeth kindred there.

LXXVIII

" And in it do I often creep, and lie
Warm by my blossom that is cold within,
And faded ere it sorrow knew or sin.
Six summers did it gladden earth and sky
With carol and with song, — a bird, a butterfly.

LXXIX

" Then ceased both song and flight their brief sweet span,
And all my prayers, and tears, and kisses, then,
Could coax it not to kiss me back again,
Nor call life's hues to temples white and wan:
And from that hour it was Love's Widowhood began.

LXXX

" For while it frolicked in and out the door,
Or nestled in my lap, outworn with play,
I somehow felt He was not far away,
But might at any moment come once more,
And love and all things be as they had been before.

LXXXI

" Fondling its curls, I used to close mine eyes,
And dimly fancy I was fondling his;
And when its little lips my lips did kiss,
My heart would swell, and then subside, with sighs,
And soul and senses float on murmured lullabies.

LXXXII

" But when its fairy form no more was blown
Along the wind, nor gleamed athwart the grass,
Nor longer in its little crib, alas!
Glowed like a moist musk-rosebud newly blown,
Then knew I, night and day would find me still alone.

LXXXIII

" There was a gentle venerable priest,
Who had loved it with a yearning ofttimes shown
By those that have no kindred of their own;
A love that is by sense of want increased,
And felt the most by hearts that taste of it the least.

LXXXIV

" And piously he wept, and soothed my hand,
And oft besought, and aided, me to pray.
But since his sole joy now was ta'en away,
Shortly he followed it to death's dim land,
And he too sleeps in peace beside the Breton strand.

LXXXV

" None then were left who loved my blossom save
Two snowy-wimpled nuns, that, tender-eyed,
Smiled while it lived and sorrowed when it died.
But they were bidden elsewhere, and one lone grave
My sole companion now, with wailings of the wave.

LXXXVI

" Then with tears bitter as the salt sea-brine,
And which, like sea-mist, blotted out my gaze,
I came back to these quiet woodland ways,
Where, in my youth, I dreamed my dream divine,
And which must still remain for ever his and mine. "

LXXXVII

She ceased: and I could hear a chestnut fall
From branch to branch, then drop upon the ground,
And in the slowly purpling air the sound
Of the first rooks returning to the Hall
From seaward marshy lands, and answering call with call.

LXXXVIII

Thuswise we listened; neither having speech
To mate the silence. But she knew my heart
Was nearer to her now, not more apart,
Since that sad story of the Breton beach,
And yearned still more toward hers, which still it could not reach.

LXXXIX

When next I thither bent my steps, I found
A something, heretofore I had not seen,
Almost akin to sunshine in her mien;
A cheerful gravity that hovered round
The face of things, and drank content from sight and sound.

XC

" Welcome! " she said, " and welcome more to-day
Than yet, though welcome always here.
For must do the service of the Year,
That kind taskmaster whom we both obey,
And whom we serve for love, whom others serve for pay.

XCI

" His need is very pressing, for behold!
The ruddy apples bend the branches down,
Like children tugging at their mother's gown.
There are all colours, russet, red, and gold,
Pippins of every sort, and codlins manifold.

XCII

" On their sweet pulp the thievish jackdaws browse,
And leave the half-pecked fruit upon the ground,
To nibble at the others plump and sound.
The wasps fall drowsy-drunk from off the boughs,
Or zigzag to their nests, to sleep off their carouse.

XCIII

" Look! I have donned my apron with the hem
Of primrose tint to please your April taste,
And primrose-purfled basket. Now, make haste,
And let us to the orchard, — branch and stem
Will soon be thick with thieves, — and be before with them.

XCIV

" Bring you the ladder from the lodge; the crates
Are ranged already round the oldest trees.
Shall we not be as busy as the bees,
And gather yet more honey? Harvest waits,
And we, since hired, must stand not idle at the gates. "

XCV

Thereon I did her errand, and we went
With faces eager as our feet, to where
The juicy apples flavoured all the air;
And, on a trunk the ladder having leant,
I swarmed into the boughs, contenting and content.

XCVI

And all the afternoon there did I pluck
The ripe and rounded fruit, and when mayhap
I found one lustrous fair, into her lap
I flung it down, exclaiming, " Bite and suck
Its sweetness with your own, and leave me half for luck. "

XCVII

And so she did, not making kind unkind,
Or natural strange, by being grossly coy.
In all my life I never had such joy.
Like water wimpled by a sunlit wind,
I plain could see her face smile-dimpled by her mind.

XCVIII

Nor till the crimson-flushing sky o'erhead
Seemed to have caught the colour of the fruit
That lay in circles round each gnarlid root,
Stayed we our task; and then we turned our tread
Back to the porch, since there her homeward fancy led.

XCIX

She passed within, but I remained without;
And slowly felt, as there I sat apart,
The pain that sometimes comes about the heart
When we have been too happy, and the doubt
If joy like that can last puts timid hope to rout.

C

Shortly I heard her voice, " Are you there? " she said,
And came and sat beside me. From her face,
As from the sky the sunset light, all trace
Of late reflected happiness had fled,
And with a muffled voice she murmured, " He is dead. "

CI

A letter lay upon her lap, but I
Looked not at it, nor her, but fixed my gaze,
As hers I knew was fixed, on far-off days,
When she was in her girlhood; and the sky
Darkened, and one bright star beheld us from on high.

CII

I took her hand: she took it not away:
And in the twilight, which, when day is done,
Can make the past and present feel like one,
I found a free unfaltering voice to say
All that had filled my heart, full many an autumn day.

CIII

" He is not dead; he lives; he never died,
And never did desert you. For you clung
Fast to his image, listened for his tongue,
Never a moment drifted from his side,
But shrined him in your heart, haloed and glorified.

CIV

" Thus he you loved was loyal, trustful, true,
As man tenacious, tender as a maid,
And of no fate save infamy afraid.
Nay, he was leal and loving even as you,
And what in you were base, that baseness could not do.

CV

" Loving him, yet you thought of him as one
Who still would love you though you loved him not,
And would remember even if you forgot;
To be your shadow, needed not the sun,
But straight would hold his course, though hope of bourne was none.

CVI

" And such a one there is who loves you now,
And who will always love you, come what may.
Was it not therefore he you loved alway?
No new love this, only an ancient vow,
Mellowed to fruit which then was blossom on the bough.

CVII

" Sweet, dear! is youth, and sweet the days that bring
The wildwood's smile and cuckoo's wandering voice,
And all that bids us revel and rejoice.
But Autumn fosters, 'neath its folded wing,
A deeper love and joy than glimmer round the Spring. "

CVIII

The silence moved not. In the dewy air
The twilight deepened, and the stars came down,
And clustered round and round us like a crown.
I knew not if they circled here or there,
For Earth and Heaven were one, revolving everywhere.

CIX

I could not tell the sweetness from the smart,
Nor if the warm mist on my cheek were tears
From her loved lids or dewdrops from the Spheres.
There was no space for thought of things apart,
As her surrendered heart lay havened on my heart.

CX

And never again did gloom or cloud appear
While Autumn lingered in that happy land,
Where we still wandered, but now hand in hand;
Watching the woodmen in the copses clear
Broad rings of space and close the cycle of the year.

CXI

But long before the ringing of the axe
Was hushed by silences of silvery frost,
The threshold of the village church we crossed,
And stood, with downcast eyes and bending backs,
Before a scroll that bore the twin words, Lux et Pax .

CXII

And children's hands had tenderly arrayed
Harvest Thanksgiving, that auspicious morn,
Round rail, and arch, and column; blades of corn,
Garlands of rustic fruit, with leaves decayed,
And here and there a flower found in some sheltered glade.

CXIII

And children's voices shepherded the rite
That sanctified love's birth, and children strewed
Sweet-smelling herbs, thyme, box, and southernwood,
Under our feet, to augur us delight;
And children's eyes they were that watched us fade from sight.

CXIV

And we are going to the Breton shore,
Together by a little grave to weep,
And place fresh flowers around an angel's sleep.
For I am living in her life before,
And She, she lives in mine, both now and evermore.

CXV

So I who oft have carolled of the Spring,
Now chant of Autumn and the fruitful days;
Of windless dawns enveiled in dewy haze,
Of cloistered evenings when no loud birds sing,
But Love in silence broods, with fondly-folded wing.