Eva Gore-Booth

I was the child that passed long hours away Chopping red beetroot in the hay-piled barn; Now must I spend the wind-blown April day Minding great looms and tying knots in yarn. Once long ago I tramped through rain and slush In brown waves breaking up the stubborn soil, I wove and wove the twilight’s purple hush To fold about the furrowed heart of toil. Strange fires and frosts burnt out the seasons’ dross, I watched slow Powers the woven cloth reveal, While God stood counting out His gain and loss, And Day and Night pushed on the heavy wheel. Held close against the breast of living Powers A little pulse, yet near the heart of strife, I followed the slow plough for hours and hours Minding through sun and shower the loom of life. The big winds, harsh and clear and strong and salt, Blew through my soul and all the world rang true, In all things born I knew no stain or fault, My heart was soft to every flower that grew. The cabbages in my small garden patch Were rooted in the earth’s heart; wings unseen Throbbed in the silence under the dark thatch, And brave birds sang long ere the boughs were green.

Amid the glare of light and song And talk that knows not when to cease, The sullen voices of the throng, My weary soul cries out for peace, Peace and the quietness of death; The wash of waters deep and cool, The wind too faint for any breath To stir oblivion’s silent pool, When all who swim against the stream, And they that laugh, and they that weep, Shall change like flowers in a dream That wither on the brows of sleep. For silence is the song sublime, And every voice at last must cease, And all the world at evening time Floats downwards through the gates of peace, Beyond the gloom of shadowy caves Where water washes on the stones, And breaks with quiet foamless waves The night’s persistent monotones; The stars are what the flowers seem, And where the sea of thought is deep, The moonlight glitters like a dream, On weary waters gone to sleep.

(A Reincarnation Phantasy) This was the story never told By one who cared not for the world’s gold. One of the idle and wise, A beggar with unfathomable eyes. One who had nothing but dreams to give To men who are eager to labour and live. For the world in its wisdom deep and dim Had taken all pleasure and treasure from him. This was the story his soul could tell, Immortal and unfathomable. There was no record in his brain, He did not know he should live again. But there was one who read the whole, Buried deep in a dead man’s soul. “In the days of Atlantis, under the wave, I was a slave, the child of a slave. When the towers of Atlantis fell, I died and was born again in hell. From that sorrowful prison I did escape And hid myself in a hero’s shape. But few years had I of love or joy, A Trojan I fell at the Siege of Troy. I came again in a little while, An Israelite slave on the banks of the Nile. Then did I comfort my grief-laden heart. With the magic lore and Egyptian art. Fain was I to become Osiris then, But soon I came back to the world of men. By the Ganges I was an outcast born, A wanderer and a child of scorn. By the Waters of Babylon I wept, My harp amongst the willows slept. In the land of Greece I opened my eyes, To reap the fields of Plotinus the Wise. When the great light shattered the world’s closed bars, I was a shepherd who gazed at the stars. For lives that were lonely, obscure, apart, I thank the Hidden One, in my heart, That always and always under the sun I went forth to battle and never won. A slayer of men, I was doomed to abide, For ever and aye, on the losing side. Whenever. I dream of the wonderful goal, I thank the hidden God in my soul That though I have always been meanly born, A tiller of earth and a reaper of corn, Whenever through ages past and gone The light divine for a moment shone, Whenever piercing laborious night A ray fell straight from the Light of Light, Whenever amid fierce, lightning and storm The divine moved in a human form, Whenever the earth in her cyclic course Shook at the touch of an unknown force, Whenever the cloud of dull years grew thin And a great star called to the light within, I have braved storm and labour and sun To stand at the side that Holy One. No matter how humble my birth has been, There are few who have seen what I have seen. Mine the shepherd’s star and the reaper’s reward, And the dream of him who fell by the sword. One thing I have learned the long years through, To know the false words from the true. The slave who toiled on the banks of the Nile With wisdom gladdened his long exile. From Buddha at eve by the Ganges’ side An outcast learnt the worth of the world’s pride. To the tired reaper, when day was done, Did Plotinus unveil the hidden sun. Amongst the stars, on a Syrian night, A ragged shepherd found the Light of Light. From dream to dream, o’er valley and hill, I followed the Lord Christ's wandering will. Kings there are who would barter a throne For the long day’s toil and the light unknown, The deed of the strong and the word of the wise, And the night under cold and starry skies— The white light of dawn on the hillside shed On Him who had nowhere to lay His head. Behold there are kings who would change with me, For the love of the ancient mystery. Shepherd and reaper and slave I have been, There are few who have seen what I have seen. I have been a gipsy since those days, And lived again in the wild wood ways. Wise with the lore of those hidden things, Learnt from Lord Christ in His wanderings, Beggar and reaper and shepherd and slave, I am one who rests not in any grave; I will follow each stormy light divine, And the secret of all things shall be mine. These things have I seen, would you bid me mourn That I was never an Emperor born?”

There is no age, this darkness and decay Is by a radiant spirit cast aside, Young with the ageless youth that yesterday Bent to the yoke of flesh immortal pride. What though in time of thunder and black cloud The Spirit of the Innermost recedes Into the depths of Being, stormy browed, Obscured by a long life of dreams and deeds— There is no age—the swiftly passing hour That measures out our days of pilgrimage And breaks the heart of every summer flower, Shall find again the child’s soul in the sage. There is no age, for youth is the divine; And the white radiance of the timeless soul Burns like a silver lamp in that dark shrine That is the tired pilgrim’s ultimate goal.

Lo, in my soul there lies a hidden lake, High in the mountains, fed by rain and snow, The sudden thundering avalanche divine, And the bright waters’ everlasting flow, Far from the highways’ dusty glare and heat. Dearer it is and holier, for Christ’s sake, Than his own windy lake in Palestine, For there the little boats put out to sea Without him, and no fisher hears his call, Yea, on the desolate shores of Galilee No man again shall see his shadow fall. Yet here the very voice of the one Light Haunts with sharp ecstasy each little wind That stirs still waters on a moonlit night, And sings through high trees growing in the mind, And makes a gentle rustling in the wheat. . . . Yea, in the white dawn on this happy shore, With the lake water washing at his feet, He stands alive and radiant evermore, Whose presence makes the very East wind kind, And turns to heaven the soul’s green-lit retreat.

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep Forlorn beyond receding rings of light, The torrents of the earth’s desires sweep My soul through twilight downward into night. Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades, Myself seems to myself a distant goal, I grope among the bodies’ drowsy shades, Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul. Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams Of falling waters murmurs in my ears, The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams That crowd the narrow pathway of the years. I go to seek the starshine on the,waves, To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill, I go to gather flowers that grow on graves, The world’s wall closes round my prisoned will. Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne, Because of primroses, time out of mind, The Lonely turns away from the Alone. Who once has loved the cornfield’s rustling sheaves, Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain Murmur low music in the growing leaves, Though he were god, comes back to earth again. Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break The tower of my soul’s initiate pride For a gray field and a star-haunted lake, And those wet winds that roam the country side. I who have seen am glad to close my eyes, I who have soared am weary of my wings, I seek no more the secret of the wise, Safe among shadowy, unreal human things. Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim, Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days, The sightless slave of Time’s imperious whim; Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine That surge outside the closed gates of birth, The rhythms of eternity, too fine To touch with music the dull ears of earth— I go to seek with humble care and toil The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone, To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil, Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun. Content in winter if the fire burns clear And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp, Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear, The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart, But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill, And there is glory in it and terror on the wind, But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal, But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

Deep in the soul there throbs the secret pain Of one homesick for dear familiar things, When Spring winds rock the waves of sunlit rain And on the grass there falls the shadow of wings. How should one bend one’s dreams to the dark clay Where carven beauty mixed with madness dwells? And men who fear to die fear not to slay, And Life has built herself ten thousand hells. No wave that breaks in music on the shore Can purify the tiger’s bloodstained den, The worms that crawl about the dark world’s core Cry out aloud against the deeds of men. Alas, the peace of these still hours and deep Is but a dream that wanders from afar, And the great Dreamer, turning in His sleep, Smothers in darkness all our little star. Yet in the gentle spirit of the wise Light flashes out through many a simple thing, The tired ploughman, with impassive eyes, Knows in his heart that he was once a king. He sees in dreams the crown long lost and dear, That glittered on a fallen spirit’s brow, A shattered gleam from some far shining sphere Has dazed the eyes of him who drives the plough. The long brown furrows of the broken soil Lead in straight lines unto the sunset's gates; On high green hills, beyond the reach of toil, The vision of the twilight broods and waits. The silence folded in about the heart Whispers strange longings to the broken soul, That lingers in a lonely place apart, Stretching vain hands to clasp the secret whole.

1914 The phantoms flit before our dazzled eyes, Glory and honour, wrath and righteousness, The agèd phantoms in their bloodstained dress, Vultures that fill the world with ravenous cries, Swarming about the rock where, chained apart, In age-long pain Prometheus finds no rest From the divine flame burning in his breast, And vultures tearing at a human heart. Not yet the blessed hours on golden wings Bring to the crucified their sure relief, Deeper and deeper grows the ancient grief, Blackest of all intolerable things. Eternal Rebel, sad, and old, and blind, Bound with a chain enslaved by every one Of the dark gods who hide the summer sun, Yet art thou still the saviour of mankind. Free soul of fire, break down their chains and bars, Drive out those unclean phantoms of the brain, Till every living thing be friends again, And our lost earth true comrade to the stars.

All night I stumble through the fields of light, And chase in dreams the starry rays divine That shine through soft folds of the robe of night, Hung like a curtain round a sacred shrine. When daylight dawns I leave the meadows sweet And come back to the dark house built of clay, Over the threshold pass with lagging feet, Open the shutters and let in the day. The gray lit day heavy with griefs and cares, And many a dull desire and foolish whim, Leans o’er my shoulder as I spread my wares On dusty counters and at windows dim. She gazes at me with her sunken eyes, That never yet have looked on moonlit flowers, And amid glaring deeds and noisy cries Counts out her golden tale of lagging hours. Over the shrine of life no curtain falls, All men may enter at the open gate, The very rats find refuge in her walls— Her tedious prison walls of love and hate. Yet when the twilight vails that dim abode I bar the door and make the shutters fast, And hurry down the shadowy western road, To seek in dreams my starlit home and vast.