| |
| O MY heart is sick awishing and awaiting: | |
| The lad took up his knapsack, he went, he went his way; | |
| And I looked on for his coming, as a prisoner through the grating | |
| Looks and longs and longs and wishes for its opening day. | |
| |
| On the wild purple mountains, all alone with no other, | 5 |
| The strong terrible mountains, he longed, he longed to be; | |
| And he stooped to kiss his father, and he stooped to kiss his mother, | |
| And till I said ‘Adieu, sweet Sir,’ he quite forgot me. | |
| |
| He wrote of their white raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them, | |
| Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder-rents and scars, | 10 |
| And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them, | |
| And fields, where grow God’s gentian bells and His crocus stars. | |
| |
| He wrote of frail gauzy clouds, that drop on them like fleeces, | |
| And make green their fir forests, and feed their mosses hoar; | |
| Or come sailing up the valleys, and get wrecked and go to pieces, | 15 |
| Like sloops against their cruel strength: then he wrote no more. | |
| |
| O the silence that came next, the patience and long aching! | |
| They never said so much as ‘He was a dear-loved son;’ | |
| Not the father to the mother moaned, that dreary stillness breaking: | |
| ‘Ah! wherefore did he leave us so—this, our only one?’ | 20 |
| From the tall white ruined lighthouse: ‘If it be the old man’s daughter | |
| That we wot of,’ ran the answer, ‘what then—who’s to blame?’ | |
| |
| I looked up at the lighthouse all roofless and storm-broken: | |
| A great white bird sat on it, with neck stretched out to sea; | |
| Unto somewhat which was sailing in a skiff the bird had spoken, | 25 |
| And a trembling seized my spirit, for they talked of me. | |
| |
| I was the old man’s daughter, the bird went on to name him; | |
| ‘He loved to count the starlings as he sat in the sun; | |
| Long ago he served with Nelson, and his story did not shame him; | |
| Ay, the old man was a good man—and his work was done.’ | 30 |
| |
| The skiff was like a crescent, ghost of some moon departed, | |
| Frail, white, she rocked and curtseyed as the red wave she crossed, | |
| And the thing within sat paddling, and the crescent dipped and darted, | |
| Flying on, again was shouting, but the words were lost. | |
| |
| I said, ‘That thing is hooded; I could hear but that floweth | 35 |
| The great hood below its mouth:’ then the bird made reply, | |
| ‘If they know not, more’s the pity, for the little shrew-mouse knoweth, | |
| And the kite knows, and the eagle, and the glead and pye.’ | |
| |
| And he stooped to whet his beak on the stones of the coping; | |
| And when once more the shout came, in querulous tones he spake, | 40 |
| ‘What I said was “more’s the pity;” if the heart be long past hoping, | |
| Let it say of death, “I know it,” or doubt on and break. | |
| |
| ‘Men must die—one dies by day, and near him moans his mother; | |
| They dig his grave, tread it down, and go from it full loth: | |
| And one dies about the midnight, and the wind moans, and no other, | 45 |
| And the snows give him a burial—and God loves them both. | |
| |
| ‘The first hath no advantage—it shall not soothe his slumber | |
| That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep; | |
| For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall nought his quiet cumber | |
| That in a golden mesh of his callow eaglets sleep. | 50 |
| |
| ‘Men must die when all is said, e’en the kite and glead know it, | |
| And the lad’s father knew it, and the lad, the lad too; | |
| It was never kept a secret, waters bring it and winds blow it, | |
| And he met it on the mountain—why then make ado?’ | |
| |
| With that he spread his white wings, and swept across the water, | 55 |
| Lit upon the hooded head, and it and all went down; | |
| And they laughed as they went under, and I woke ‘the old man’s daughter,’ | |
| And looked across the slope of grass, and at Cromer town. | |
| |
| And I said, ‘Is that the sky, all grey and silver suited?’ | |
| And I thought, ‘Is that the sea that lies so white and wan? | 60 |
| I have dreamed as I remember: give me time—I was reputed | |
| Once to have a steady courage—O, I fear ’tis gone!’ | |
| |
| And I said, ‘Is this my heart?’ if it be, low ’tis beating, | |
| So he lies on the mountain, hard by the eagle’s brood; | |
| I have had a dream this evening, while the white and gold were fleeting, | 65 |
| But I need not, need not tell it—where would be the good? | |
| |
| ‘Where would be the good to them, his father and his mother? | |
| For the ghost of their dead hope appeareth to them still. | |
| While a lonely watchfire smoulders, who its dying red would smother, | |
| That gives what little light there is to a darksome hill?’ | 70 |
| |
| I rose up, I made no moan, I did not cry nor falter, | |
| But slowly in the twilight I came to Cromer town. | |
| What can wringing of the hands do that which is ordained to alter? | |
| He had climbed, had climbed the mountain, he would ne’er come down. | |
| |
| But, O my first, O my best, I could not choose but love thee: | 75 |
| O, to be a wild white bird, and seek thy rocky bed! | |
| From my breast I’d give thee burial, pluck the down and spread above thee; | |
| I would sit and sing thy requiem on the mountain head. | |
| |
| Fare thee well, my love of loves! would I had died before thee; | |
| O, to be at least a cloud, that near thee I might flow, | 80 |
| Solemnly approach the mountain, weep away my being, o’er thee, | |
| And veil thy breast with icicles, and thy brow with snow! | |
| |
