Sophie Jewett

Prone on the northern water, That laps him about the breast, Like the Sphinx in the sand, forever The giant lies in rest. The sails drive swift before him, And the surf beats at his lip, But the gray eyes look out seaward Noting nor wave nor ship. The centuries drift over, He marks not with smile nor frown, Drift over him cloud and sea-gull, Swallow and thistledown. I, of the race that passes, Quick with its hope and its fear, Lean on his brow and question, Plead at his senseless ear: “What of thy past unmeasured? And what of the peoples gone? What of the sea’s first singing? What of the primal dawn? “What was the weird that bowed thee? How did the struggle cease? Out of what Titan anguish Issued thy hopeless peace?” Nothing the pale lips utter, What hath been, nor what shall be; Under the brow’s stern shadow, The gray eyes look to sea. The blue glows round and over, Thin-veiled, as it were God’s face; I feel the breath, the spirit, That knows nor time nor space. And my heart grieves for the giant In his pitiful repose, Mocked by the vagrant gladness Of a laggard brier-rose; Mocked to his face from seaward By the flash and whirl of wings; Mocked from the grass above him, By life that creeps and sings. I care not for his wisdom, His secret unconfessed; I yearn toward rose and cricket, Ephemeral and blest. Ah! if he might, how would he Quicken to love and to tears; For my immortal minute Barter his endless years! He rests on the restless water, And I on the grasses brown, Drift over us cloud and sea-gull, Swallow and thistledown.

The leaves talked in the twilight, dear; Hearken the tale they told: How in some far-off place and year, Before the world grew old, I was a dreaming forest tree, You were a wild, sweet bird Who sheltered at the heart of me Because the north wind stirred; How, when the chiding gale was still, When peace fell soft on fear, You stayed one golden hour to fill My dream with singing, dear. To-night the self-same songs are sung The first green forest heard; My heart and the gray world grow young— To shelter you, my bird.

“O Love, thou art winged and swift, Yet stay with me evermore!” And I guarded my house with bolt and bar Lest Love fly forth at the door. Without, in the world, ’t was cold, While Love and I together Laughed and sang by my red hearth-fire, Nor knew it was winter weather. Sweet Love would lull me to sleep, In his tireless arm caressed; His shadowing wings and burning eyes Like night and stars wrought rest. And ever the beat of Love’s heart As a chime rang at my ear; And ever Love’s bending, beautiful face Covered me close from fear. Was it long ere I waked alone? A snow-drift whitened the floor; I saw spent ashes upon my hearth And Death in my open door.

"Such a palmer ne'er was seene, Lesse Love himselfe had palmer beene." Never too late. Pilgrim feet, pray whither bound? Pilgrim eyes, pray whither bent? Sandal-shod and travel-gowned, Lo, I seek the way they went Late who passed toward Holy Land. Pilgrim, it was long ago; None remains who saw that band; Grass and forest overgrow Every path their footing wore. Men are wise; they seek no more Roads that lead to Holy Land. Proud his look, as who should say: I shall find where lies the way. Pilgrim, thou art fair of face, Staff and scrip are not for thee; Gentle pilgrim, of thy grace, Leave thy quest, and bide with me. Love shall serve thee, joy shall bless; Thou wert made for tenderness: God's green world is fair and sweet; Not o'er sea and Eastern strand, But where friend and lover meet Lies the way to Holy Land. Low his voice, his lashes wet: One day if God will—not yet. Pilgrim, pardon me and heed. Men of old who took that way Went for fame of goodly deed, Or, if sooth the stories say, Sandalled priest, or knight in selle, Flying each in pain and hate, Harassed by stout fiends of hell, Sought his crime to expiate. Prithee, Pilgrim, go not hence; Clear thy brow, and white thy hand, What shouldst thou with penitence? Wherefore seek to Holy Land? Stern the whisper on his lip: Sin and shame are in my scrip. Pilgrim, pass, since it must be; Take thy staff, and have thy will; Prayer and love shall follow thee; I will watch thee o'er the hill. What thy fortune God doth know; By what paths thy feet must go. Far and dim the distance lies, Yet my spirit prophesies: Not in vigil lone and late, Bowed upon the tropic sand, But within the city gate, In the struggle of the street, Suddenly thine eyes shall meet His whose look is Holy Land. Smiled the pilgrim, sad and sage: Long must be my pilgrimage.

All night I dreamed of roses, Wild tangle by the sea, And shadowy garden closes. Dream-led I met with thee. Around thee swayed the roses, Beyond thee sang the sea; The shadowy garden closes Were Paradise to me. O Love, ’mid the dream-roses Abide to heal, to save! The world that day discloses Narrows to one white grave.

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat; I linger, for the hay is sweet, New-cut and curing in the sun. Like furrows, straight, the windrows run, Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent When, yesterday, the west wind went A-rioting through grass and grain. To-day no least breath stirs the plain; Only the hot air, quivering, yields Illusive motion to the fields Where not the slenderest tassel swings. Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings; A goldfinch dangles from a tall, Full-flowered yellow mullein; all The world seems turning blue and gold. Unstartled, since, even from of old, Beauty has brought keen sense of her, I feel the withering grasses stir; Along the edges of the wheat, I hear the rustle of her feet: And yet I know the whole sea lies, And half the earth, between our eyes.

“I have heard (but not believed) the spirits of the dead May walk again.” Winter’s Tale If spirits walk, Love, when the night climbs slow The slant footpath where we were wont to go, Be sure that I shall take the self-same way To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches straggling grow. Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, If spirits walk. But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so As some one's fingers once were used to play— That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know If spirits walk.

A noisome thing that crawls by covert path, For glad, unfearing feet to lie in wait; No part in summer’s fellowship it hath, From mirth and love and music alienate. Yet once it flashed across the close, brown grass In the noon sun, and, as it quivered there, The spell of beauty over it did pass, Making it kin with earth and light and air. I knew that Life’s imperial self decrees That this, the loathliest of living things, By patient ways of cycled centuries, Slow creeping, shall at last attain to wings.

When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken; The last call sounded, the last order spoken; When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping, Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping, With not one waving shred of palm to bring you, With not one splendid battle-song to sing you, O Love, in my dishonor and defeat, Your measureless compassion will be sweet.

The water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday. We watch the swallow skim and dip; Some magic bids the world be still; Life stands with finger upon lip; Love hath his gentle will; Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned, The river floweth unconcerned. We pray the fickle flag of truce Still float deceitfully and fair; Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; This hour we will not care, Though just beyond to-morrow's gate, Arrayed and strong, the battle wait.