Lo from our loitering ship a new land at last to be seen;

Toothed rocks down the side of the firth

on the east guard a weary wide lea, And black slope the hill-sides above, striped adown with their desolate green:

And a peak rises up on the west from the meeting of cloud and of sea, Foursquare from base unto point like the building of Gods that have been, The last of that waste of the mountains all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and gray,

And bright with the dawn that began just now at the ending of day.

Ah! what came we forth for to see that our hearts are so hot with desire?

Is it enough for our rest the sight of this desolate strand,

And the mountain-waste voiceless as death but for winds that may sleep not nor tire?

Why do we long to wend forth through

the length and breadth of a land, Dreadful with grinding of ice, and record of scarce hidden fire,

But that there 'mid the gray grassy dales sore scarred by the ruining streams Lives the tale of the Northland of old and the undying glory of dreams?

O land, as some cave by the sea where the treasures of old have been laid, The sword it may be of a king whose name was the turning of fight; Or the staff of some wise of the world that many things made and unmade. Or the ring of a woman maybe whose woe is grown wealth and delight. No wheat and no wine grows above it, no orchard for blossom and shade; The few ships that sail by its blackness but deem it the mouth of a grave; Yet sure when the world shall awaken, this too shall be mighty to save.

Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth that men ever sought

Thy wastes for a field and a garden fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,

And feasted amidst of the winter when the fight of the year had been fought, Whose plunder all gathered together was little to babble about:

Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land, "Not for this nor for that was I wrought

Amid waning of realms and of riches and death of things worshipped and

sure,

I abide here the spouse of a God, and I made and I make and endure."

O Queen of the grief without knowledge, of the courage that may not avail,

Of the longing that may not attain, of the love that shall never forget, More joy than the gladness of laughter thy voice hath amidst of its wail: More hope than of pleasure fulfilled amidst of thy blindness is set ; More glorious than gaining of all, thine unfaltering hand that shall fail: For what is the mark on thy brow but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?

Lone once, and loved and undone by a love that no ages outwear.

Ah! when thy Balder comes back, and bears from the heart of the Sun, Peace and the healing of pain, and the wisdom that waiteth no more; And the lilies are laid on thy brow

In that great sorrow of thy children dead

That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,

Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,

And death the murmur of a restful stream,

But left no stain upon those souls of thine

Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.

O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one,

Come thou; for sure I am enough alone That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,

And wrap me in the grief of long ago.

1891.

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,
In haste and hurry to be there,
Nought seem its leaves and blossoms
good,

For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see
The glimmer of the open light,
From o'er the place where we would be;
Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife,
With many a matter glad we play,
When once we see the light of life
Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

1891.

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER 1852

PUSH hard across the sand,

For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand,

Push hard as the push of death.

The wind is as iron that rings,

The foam-heads loosen and flee; It swells and welters and swings,

The pulse of the tide of the sea. And up on the yellow cliff

The long corn flickers and shakes; Push, for the wind holds stiff,

And the gunwale dips and rakes. Good hap to the fresh fierce weather,

The quiver and beat of the sea! While three men hold together

The kingdoms are less by three.

Out to the sea with her there,

Out with her over the sand,

Let the kings keep the earth for their share!

We have done with the sharers of land.

They have tied the world in a tether,

They have bought over God with a fee;

While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

We have done with the kisses that sting, The thief's mouth red from the feast, The blood on the hands of the king,

And the lie at the lips of the priest.

Will they tie the winds in a tether,

Put a bit in the jaws of the sea? While three men hold together,

The kingdoms are less by three.

Let our flag run out straight in the wind! The old red shall be floated again

And the brown bright nightingale amor

ous

Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with

might;

Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,

Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling

to her,

And the southwest-wind and the westwind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;

And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut

root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mænad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

Her bright breast shortening into sighs;

The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that

scare

The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

THE LIFE OF MAN

Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after

And death beneath and above,
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a
span

With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south

They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life;