 A selection from many voices by E. Nesbitt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in a public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Return The grass was grey with the moonlit dew. The stones were white as I came through. I came down the path by the thirteen ews, through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hues. And when I came to the high litchgate, I waited a while where the corpses wait. Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay, like the fallen ghost of the light of day. The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight. The owl's spread wings were quiet and white. The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh. And all about were the rustling, shy, little live creatures that loved the night. Little wild creatures timid and free. I passed, and they were not afraid of me. It was over the meadow and down the lane. The way to come to my house again. Through the wood where the lovers talk. And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk. I wore the clothes that we all must wear, and no one saw me walking there. No one saw my pale feet pass by my garden path to my garden grass. My garden was hung with the veil of spring, plum tree and pear tree blossoming. It lay in the moon's cold sheet of light, in garlands and silence, wondrous and white as a dead bride decked for her burying. Then I saw the face of my house, held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs. I leaned my face to the window bright to feel if the heart of my house beat right. The firelight hung it with fitful gold. It was warm as the house of the dead is cold. I saw the settles, the candles tall, the black-faced presses against the wall. Polished beech wood and shining brass, the gleam of china, the glitter of glass, all the little things that were home to me, everything as it used to be. Then I said, the fire of life still burns, and I have returned whence none returns. I will warm my hands where the fire is lit. I will warm my heart in the heart of it. So I called aloud to the one within, open, open, and let me in. Let me in to the fire and the light. It is very cold out here in the night. There was never a stir or an answering breath, only a silence as deep as death. Then I beat on the window and called and cried. No one heard me, and none replied. The golden silence lay warm and deep, and I wept as the dead forgotten weep. And there was no one to hear or see, to comfort me, to have pity on me. But deep in the silence something stirred, something that had not seen or heard, and two drew near to the window-pane, kissed in the moonlight, and kissed again, and looked through my face to the moon shroud, spread over the garlanded garden bed. And, how ghostly the moonlight is, she said, back through the garden, the wood, the lane. I came to my own place again. I wore the garments we all must wear, and no one saw me walking there. No one heard my thin feet pass through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass, along the path where the moonlight hues slabs of shadow for thirteen years. In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep, it is good to sleep. It was good to sleep. But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew, and I cannot sleep as I used to do. For Dolly, who does not learn her lessons, you see the fairies dancing in the fountain, laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray. You see the gnomes at work beneath the mountain, make gold and silver and diamonds every day. You see the angels sliding down the moonbeams, bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair. You see the imps scarce against the moonbeams, rise from the bonfires blue and liquid air. All the enchantment, all the magic there is, hidden trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true. Dewdrops in looping leaves are jewels for the fairies. Every flower that blows is a miracle for you. Air, earth, water, fire spread their splendid wares for you. Millions of magics beseech your little looks. Every soul, your winged soul, meets, loves you and cares for you. Ah, why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books? Soon, soon enough, the magic lights grow dimmer. Marshmists arise to cloud the radiant sky. Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer. Tired hands will lay the folded magic by. Stormwinds will blow through those enchanted closes. Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong. Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses. Leave her her kingdom. She will not keep it long. Questions. What do the roses do, mother, now that the summer's done? They lie in the bed that is hung with red and dream about the sun. What do the lilies do, mother, now that there's no more dune? Each one lies down in her white nightgown and dreams about the moon. What can I dream of, mother, with the moon and the sun away? Of a rose unborn of an untried thorn in a lily that lives a day. The daisies. In the great green park, with the wooden palings, the wooden palings so hard to climb, there are fern and fox-glove, primrose and violet, and green things growing all the time. And out in the open the daisies grow, pretty and proud in their proper places. Millions of white-friiled daisy faces. Millions and millions, not one or two. And they called the bluebells down in the wood. Are you out? Are you in? We have been so good all the school time winter through. But now it's play time, the gay time, the may time. We are out and at play. Where are you? In the gritty garden, inside the railings, the spiky railings, all painted green, there are neat beds of geraniums and fuchsia, with never a happy weed in between. There's a neat little grass plot, bald in places, and very dusty to touch. A respectable man comes once a week, to keep the garden weeded and swept, to keep it as we don't want it kept. He cuts the grass with his mowing machine, and we think he cuts it too much. But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty, the daisies play about. They are so brave, as well as so pretty, you cannot keep them out. I love them, I want to let them grow. But that respectable man says no. He cuts off their heads with his mowing machine, like the French Revolution guillotine. He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces. The dear little white-friiled daisy faces. Says things must be kept in their proper places. He has no frill round his ugly face. I wish I could find his proper place. The touchstone. There was a garden, very strange and fair, with all the roses summer never brings. The snowy blossom of immortal springs lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there. There were new heavens, and the earth was new, and still I told my heart the dream was true. But when the sun stood still, and time went out like a blown candle, when she came to me under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree, chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt, and when with starry eyes and lips too near, she leans to me, my heart knew what to fear. It is no dream, she said. What dream had stayed so long. It is the blessed isle that lies between the tides of twin eternities. It is our island. Do not be afraid. Then, then at last, my heart was well deceived. I hid my eyes, I trembled and believed. Her real presence sanctified my faith, her very voice my restless tears beguiled, and it was life that clasped me when she smiled, but when she said, I love you, it was death. That, that at least, could neither be nor seem, and then, indeed, I knew it was a dream. The December rose. Here's a rose that blows for Chloe, fair as ever a rose in June was, now the garden's silent, snowy, where the burning summer noon was. In your garden's summer glory, one poor corner, shelved and shady, told no rosy radiant story, grew no rose to grace its lady. What shuts sun out shuts out snow, too. From his nook your secret lover shows what slighted roses grow to when the rose you chose is over. Song. Now the spring is waking, very shy as yet, busy mending, making, grass and violet. Frowsy winter's over, see the budding lane. Go and meet your lover, spring is here again. Every day is longer than the day before. Lambs are whiter, stronger, birds sing more and more. Woods are less than shady, griefs are more than vain. Go and kiss your lady, spring is here again. The fire. I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes, and he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains. Says he. You take it easy, that ain't the way to do, I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too. So won't you name the day? But I said, that I will not, and I pushed him away, out among the raspberries, all on a summer day. And I says, you ask in winter, if your love's so hot, for it's summer now and sunny and my hands is full, says I. With the fair by and by, and the village dance and all, and the turkey-pots is small, and so's the ducks and chicks, and the hay is not yet in ricks. And the flower shall be presently, and hot pickings to come, and the fruiting in the harvest-home, and my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done. Can't you leave a girl alone? Your love's too hot for me. Can't you leave a girl be, till the evenings do draw in, till the leaves be getting thin, till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea? That's the time to do your courting, if you come a courting me. And he took it as I said it, and not as it was meant, and he went. The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and brown, and everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down. And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit, and he'd never come an eye again, and all my life was sick, and I was cold alone, with not to do but sit. With my hands in my black clap, and hear the clock tick, for farther he lay dead, with the candles at his head. And his coffin was that black, I could see it through the wall. And I'd sent them all away, though they'd offered for to stay. I wanted to be cold alone, and to learn to bear it all. Then I heard him. I'd denote for his footstep, just as plain, if he'd brought his regiment with him, up the rutty frozen lane. And I hadn't drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane, and I jumped up in my blacks, and I threw the door back wide. I says, you come inside, for it's cold outside for you, and it's cold here too, and I haven't no more pride. It's too cold for that, I cried. Then I saw his face, the fear of death and desire, and oh, I took and kissed him again and again, and I clipped him close and all. In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house place, with the coffin lying black and full the other side of the wall. And you warm my heart, I told him, if there's any firing men. And he got his two arms around me, and I felt the fire then, and I warmed my heart at the fire. A parting. So, goodbye. This is where we end it, you and I. Life's to live, you know, and death's to die. So, goodbye. I was yours, for the love in life that loves while life endures. For the earth-path that the heaven-flight ensures, I was yours. You were mine. For the moment that a garland takes to twine, for the human hour that sorcery shows divine, you were mine. All is over. You and I know more, a love and lover. Noughts to seek now, gain, attain, discover. All is over. The gift of life. Life is a night all dark and wild, yet still stars shine. This moment is a star, my child, your star and mine. Life is a desert, dry and drear, undued, unblessed. This hour is an oasis, dear. Here, let us rest. Life is a sea of windy spray, cold, fierce, and free, and I'll enchant it is today for you and me. Forget night, sea, and desert. Take the gift supreme, and, of life's brief relenting, make a deathless dream. The stolen god, Lazarus, to dives. We do not clamour for vengeance. We do not whine for fear. We have cried in the outer darkness. Where was no man to hear? We cried to man, and he heard not. Yet we thought God heard us pray. But our God, who loved and was sorry, our God is taken away. Hours were the stream and the pasture. Forest and fen were hours. Hours were the wild wood creatures. The wild sweet berries and flowers. You have taken our heirlooms from us, and hardly you let us save. Enough of our woods for a cradle. Enough of our earth for a grave. You took the wood and the cornland. Where still we tilled and felled. You took the mine and quarry. And all you took, you held. The limbs of our weaning children. You crushed in your mills of power. And you made our bearing women toil. To the very bearing hour. You have taken our clean quick longings. Our joy in lover and wife. Our hope of the sunset quiet. At the evening end of life. You have taken the land that bore us. It's soil and stone and sod. You have taken our faith in each other. And now you have taken our God. When our God came down from heaven, he came among men a man. Eating and drinking and working, as common people can. And the common people received him, while the rich men turned away. But what have we to do with a God to whom the rich men pray? He hangs a dead God on your altars. Who lived a man among men. You have taken away our Lord. And we cannot find him again. You have not left us a handful. Of even the earth he trod. You have made him a rich man's idol. Who came as a poor man's God? He promised the poor his heaven. He loved and lived with the poor. He said that the rich man's shadow should never darken his door. But bishop some priests lie softly. Drink full and are fully fed. And the name of the Lord who had not. Where to lay his head? This is the God you have stolen. As you steal all else in his name. You have taken the ease and the honour. Left as the toil and the shame. You have chosen the seat of dives. We lie where Lazarus lay. But by God we will not yield you our God. You shall not take him away. All else we had you have taken. All else but not this, not this. The God of heaven is ours, is ours and the poor are his, are his. Is he ours? Is he yours? Give answer. For both he cannot be. And if he is ours, oh you rich men. Then whose in God's name are ye? Hold your hands to the blaze. Winter is here, with the short cold days. Bleak, keen and drear. Was there ever a day, with Hawthorne along the way, where you wandered in mid-May with your dear? That was when you were young and the world was gold. Now all the songs are sung, the tales all told. You shiver now by the fire, where the last red sparks expire. Dead are delight and desire. You are old. Sea shells. I gathered shells upon the sand. Each shell a little perfect thing, so frail yet potent to withstand the mountain waves wild buffeting. Through storms no ship could dare to brave the little shells float lightly, save all that they might have lost of fine shape and soft colour crystalline. Yet I, amid the world's wild surge, doubt if my soul can face the strife, the waves of circumstance that urge that slight ship on the rocks of life. O soul, be brave, for he who saves the frail shell in the giant waves will bring thy puny bark to land, safe in the hollow of his hand. Hope. O thrush, is it true? Your song tells of a world born anew, of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue, with hyacinth bells, of primroses deep, and the moss of the lane of a princess's sleep, and dear magic to do. Will the sun wake the princess, O thrush, is it true? Will spring come again now at last, with soft shine and rain? Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain? Will winter be past, and the brown of the cops? Will white-wind flowers star through, where the last oak leaf drops? Will the daisies come too, and the may and the lilac will spring come again? O thrush, is it true? The prodigal's return. I reach my hand to thee, stoop, take my hand in thine, lead me where I would be, Father Divine. I do not even know the way I want to go, the way that leads to rest, but thou who knowest me, lead where I cannot see, thou knowest best. Toys, worthless, yet desired, drew me afar to Rome. Father, I am so tired, I am come home. The love I held so cheap, I see so dear, so deep, so almost understood. Life is so cold and wild, I am thy little child, I will be good. Saturday song. They talk about gardens of roses, and moonlight over the sea, and mountains, and snow, and sun-setty glow. But I know what is best for me. The prettiest sight I know, worth all your roses and snow, is the blaze of light on a Saturday night, when the barrows are set in a row. I've heard of bazaars in India, all glitter and spices and smells. But they don't compare with the naphtha glare, and the herrings, the costa-cells, and the oranges powered like gold, the cucumbers, lean and cold, and the red and white block trimmings, and the strawberries fresh and ripe, and the peas and beans, and the sprouts and greens, and the taters and trotters and tripe, and the shops where they sell the chairs, the mangles and tables and bedding, and the lovers go by in pairs and look, and think of the wedding. And your girl has her arm in yours, and you whisper and make a blush. Oh, the snap in her eyes, and her smiles and her sighs as she fancies the purple plush. And you haven't a penny to spend, but you dream that you've pounds and pounds, and arm in arm with your only friend you make your Saturday rounds, and you see the cradle bright with ribbon, lace, pink and white. And she stops her laugh, and you drop your chaff in the lights of the Saturday night. And the world is new for her and you. A little bit of all right, the champion. Young and a conqueror once on a day, wild white winter rode out this way, with his sword of ice and his banner of snow vanquished the summer and laid her low. Winter was young then, young and strong. Now he is old. He has reigned too long. He shall be routed, he shall be slain. Summer shall come to her own again. See the champion of summer wake, little armies in field and break. Cruel and cold has King Winter been. Fight for the summer, fight for the queen. First the aconite dots the mould with little round cannonballs of gold. Then to help in the winter's rout regiments of crocs is march out. See the swords of the flag leaves shine. See the shield of the selendine and daffodil lances, green and keen, to fight for the summer, fight for the queen. Silver triumphant, the snow drop swings banners that mock at defeated kings. And whenever the green of the new grass peers, see the array of victorious spears. Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound over the garden's battleground, and lovely ladies crowd out to see the long procession of a victory. Little daisies with snowy frills, courtly tulips, and sweet Johnquills, primrose and cow slip, friends well met, with white wood sorrel and violet. Hundreds of milk-maids by field and fold, thousands of butter-cups licked with gold, budding hedges and woods and trees. Spring brings freedom and life to these. Then the triumphant spring shall ride over the happy countryside, deep in the woods the birds shall sing. The king is dead, long live the king. But spring is no king but a faithful night. He will ride on through the meadows bright, till at summer's feet he shall light him down, and lay at her feet the royal crown. She will lean down where the roses twine between the maitres silver shine, and look in the eyes of the dying knight who led his army and won her fight. She will stoop to his lips and say, Oh, live! Oh, love! Oh, my true love! Stay! While he smiles and sighs her arms between and dies for the summer, dies for the queen. The garden refused. There is a garden made for our delight, where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. I know it, but I do not know the way. We slip and tumble in the doubtful night, where everything is difficult and new, and clouds our breath has made obscure the day. The black and happy towns where sick men strive, still doing work that yet is never done. The hymns to gold that drown their desperate voice, the weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, the black injustice that puts out the sun, these are our portion, since they are our choice. Yet there the garden blows with rows on rows, the sunny shadow-dappled lawns are there, there the immortal lilies heavenly sweet. O roses that for us shall not enclose, O lilies that we shall not pluck or wear, O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet. These little ones, what of the garden I gave thee, God said to me, Has thou been diligent to foster and save the life of flower and tree? How have the roses thriven, the lilies I have given, the pretty scented miracles that spring and summer come to bring? My garden is fair and dear, I said to God, from thorns and nettles I have kept it clear, green trimmed its sod, the roses red and bright, the lily a live delight. I have not lost a flower of all the flowers that blessed my hours. What of the child I gave, God said to me, The little, little one I died to save and gave in trust to thee. How have the flowers grown that in its soul were sown, the lively, living miracles of youth and hope and joy and truth? The child's face is all white, I said to God, it cries for cold and hunger in the night. Its little feet have trod the pavement muddy and cold. It has no flowers to hold, and in its soul the flowers you set are dead. Thou full, God said. The despot. The garden mould was damp and chill. Winter had had his brutal will. Since all over the years' content his devastating legions went. The spring's bright banners came. Their woke millions of little growing folk, who thrilled to know the winter done, gave thanks and strove towards the sun. Not so the elect, reserved and slow, to trust a stranger, sun and grow. They hesitated, cowered and hid, waiting to see what others did. Yet even they, a little grew, put out prim leaves to-day and due, and lifted level formal heads in their appointed garden-beds. The gardener came. He coldly loved the flowers that lived as he approved, that duly, decorously grew, as he the despot meant them to. He saw the wildlings flower more brave, and bright than any cultured slave. Yet, since he had not set them there, he hated them for being fair. So he uprooted, one by one, the free things that had loved the sun, the happy, eager, fruitful seeds, who had not known that they were weeds. The magic ring. Your touch on my hand is fire. Your lips on my lips are flowers. My darling, my one desire. Dear crown of my days and hours, dear crown of each hour and day, since ever my life began. Ah, leave me, ah, go away. We too are woman and man, to lie in your arms and see the stars melt into the sun, till there is no you and me, since you and I are one. To lose my soul to your breath, to bear my heart to your life. It is death, it is death, it is death. I am not your wife. The hours will come and will go, but never again such an hour, where the tides immortal flow, and life is a flood and flower. Wait for the ring, it is strong. It has a magic of might, to make all that was splendid and wrong, sordid and right. Philosophy. The sulky sage scarce condescends to see, this pretty world of sun and grass and leaves. To him, tis all illusion, only he, is real amid the visions he perceives. No sage am I, and yet, by love's decree, to me the world's a mask of shadows, too. And I, a shadow also, since to me, the only real thing in life, is you. The whirly gig of time. Before your feet, my love, my sweet, behold, your slave bows down, and in his hands, from other lands, brings you another crown. For in far climbs, in bygones times, myself was royal, too. Oh, I have been a king, my queen, who am a slave for you. Magic. What was the spell she wove for me? Life was a common, useful thing, an eligible building-site, to hold a house to shelter me. There were no woodlands whispering. No unimagined dreams at night about that house had folded wing, disordering my life for me. I was so safe until she came, with starry secrets in her eyes, and on her lips the word of power. Like to the moon of May, she came, that makes men mad who were born wise. Within her hands the only flower men ever plucked from paradise. So to my half-built house, she came. She turned my useful plot of land into a garden, wild and fair, where stars in garlands hung like flowers. A moonlit, lonely, lovely land. Dim groves and glimmering fountains there embraced a secret bower of bowers, and in its rose-ringed heart we were alone in that enchanted land. What was the spell I wove for her? Her mad dear magic to undo. The red rose dies, the white rose dies. The garden spits me forth with her, on the old suburban road I knew. My house is gone, and by my side a stranger stands with angry eyes and lips that swear I ruined her. Windflowers When I was little and good I walked in the dappled wood, where light-white windflowers grew and hyacinths heavy and blue. The windflowers fluttered light, like butterflies white and bright. The blue-bells tremulous stood deep in the heart of the wood. I gathered the white and the blue, the wild, wet woodland through, with hands too silly and small to clasp and carry them all. Some dropped for my hands and died by the home-road's grassy side, and those that my fond hands pressed died even before the rest. As it is, if you and I had wings to fly, great wings like seagull's wings, how we would soar above the roar of loud and needed things. We too would rise through changing skies to blue and clouded space, and undismayed and unafraid meet the sun face to face. But wings we know not, the feathers grow not, to carry us so high, and low in the gloom of a little room we weep and say goodbye. Before winter the wind is crying in the night like a lost child. The waves break wonderful and white and wild. The drenched sea-poppy swoon along the drenched sea-wall, and there's an end of summer and of song, an end of all. The fingers of the tortured boughs gripped by the blast, clutch at the windows of your house closed fast, and the lost child of love despair cries in the night. Remembering how once those windows were open and bright. The vault after Sedgemore. You need not call at the inn. I have ordered my bed. Fair linen sheets therein, and a tester of lead. No musty, frosty scents such as inn chambers keep, but tapestried with content, and hung with sleep. My indoor bears no bar, set up against fear. The guests have journeyed far. They are glad to be here. Where the damp arch curves up grey, long, long shall we lie. Good kingsmen all are they, a kingsman I. Old Giles, in his stone asleep, fought at Poitiers. Piers, Ralph, and Roger Keep, the spoil of their fighting years. I shall lie with my folk at last, in a quiet bed. I shall dream of the sword held fast, in a round capped head. Good tale of men all told my inn affords, and their hands, peace shall hold, that once held swords. And we who rode and ran on many a loyal quest, shall find the goal of man, a bed, and rest. We shall not stand to the toast of love or king. We be all too tired to boast about anything. We be dumb, that did jest and sing. We rest, who laboured and ward. Shout once, shout once for the king. Shout once for the sword. Surrender. All the nights were dark and cold, when my love was gone. And life was hard to hold, when my love was gone. I was wise. I never gave what they teach a girl to save. But I wished myself as slave, when my love was gone. I was all alone at night, when my love came home. Oh, what thought of wrong or right, when my love came home? I flung the door back wide, and I pulled my love inside. There was no more shame or pride, when my love came home. Values. Did you deceive me? Did I trust? A heart of fire to a heart of dust. What matter? Since once the world was fair, and you gave me the rose of the world to wear. That was the time to live for. Flowers, sunshine, and starshine, at magic hours. Some were about me, heaven above, and all seemed immortal. Even love. Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth. The pains of death and the pains of birth. And the thorns may be sharper than death, who knows. That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose. In the people's park. Many's the time I've found your face fresh as a bunch of flowers in May. Waiting for me at our own old place at the end of the working day. Many's the time I've held your hand on the shady seat in the people's park. And blessed the blaring row of the band, and kissed you there in the dark. Many's the time you promised true swore it with kisses, swore it with tears. I'll marry no one without its you if we have to wait for years. And now it's another chap in the park that holds your hand like I used to do. And I kiss another girl in the dark, and try to fancy its you. Wedding day. The enchanted hour, the magic bower, where crowned with roses, love, love discloses. Kiss me, my lover. Doubting is over, over is waiting, love lights our mating. But roses wither, chill winds blow heather. One thing I'll say, dear, love lives a day, dear. Heed those old stories, new glowing glories. Blot out those lies, love. Look in my eyes, love. Ah, but the world knows, not of the true rose. Back the world slips, love. Give me your lips, love. Even were those lies true, yet were you wise too. Swear at love's portal. The gods immortal. The last defeat. Across the field of day, in sudden blaze on lay, The pallid bar of gold, born on the shield of day. Night had endured so long, and now the day grew strong, With lance of night to hold the night at bay. So are my life still night, the splendour of your light. Traversed the dusky shield, And shone forth golden bright, Your colours I have worn, through all the fight forlorn. And these with life I yield, tonight, tonight. Mayday. Will you go and maying, and maying, and maying? Come and be my queen of may, and pluck the may with me. The fields are full of daisy-bods, and new lambs playing. The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossoms on the tree. If I go with you, if I go and maying, To be your queen and wear my crown this mayday bright, Hand in hand, straying, it must be only playing, And playtime ends at sunset, and then good night. For I have heard of maidens who laughed and went to maying, Went out queens, and lost their crowns, and came back slaves. I will be no young man's slave, submitting and obeying, Bearing chains as those did, even to their graves. If you come and maying, and straying, and playing, We will pluck the little flowers enough for you and me, And when the day dies, end our one-day's playing. Give a kiss, and take a kiss, and go home free. Great ne'er-gray. Last night, when I kissed you, my soul caught a light, And, oh, how I missed you the rest of the night. To love Vindirigen, smoked sleep with his wings, And gave me in vision impossible things. A night that was clouded long windows asleep, Dark avenues crowded with secrets to keep, A terrace a lover, a foot on the stair, The waiting was over, the lady was there. What a flight, what a night, the hooves splashed and pounded, Dark fainted in light, and the first bird-note sounded, You slept on my shoulder, you shy night hid your face, But dawn, bolder, colder, beheld our embrace, Your lips of familian, your ravishing shape. The flogging postillian, the villager gape, The rattle and thunder of post-chaser speed, My woman, my wonder, my ultimate need. We too, much formating, came hand-clasped at last, Where the blacksmith was waiting to fetter as fast, At the touch of the fetter, the dream snapped and fell, And I worked to your letter that bade me farewell. The Eternal Your dear desired grace, your hands, your lips of red, The wonder of your perfect face will fade, Like sweet rose petals shed when you are dead. Your beautiful hair, dust in the dust, will lie. But not the light I worship there, The gold the sunshine crowns you by, this will not die. Your beautiful eyes will be closed up with clay, But all the magic they comprise, the hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies pass not away. All I desire and see will be a carrion thing, But all that you have been to me is, and can never cease to be. O grave, where is thy victory? Where death thy sting? The point of view, one. There was never winter, summer only, Roses pink and white and red, Shining down the warm rich garden-closes, Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow, Silver lilies whisper of Minionette. Cloth of gold, of butter-cups outspread, Good gold sun that kissed me when we met, Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow, In the hay-field, scented gray, Loving life and love I lay. By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep, Slept and dreamed there, winter was the dream, Summer never was, was always winter only, Cold and ice and frost only, Driven by the ice wind, lonely in a world of strangers, In the welter of the puddles, and the spiteful wind and sleet, Blinded by the spitting hail-stones. Lost in a bitter, unfamiliar street, I found a doorway, Crouched there for just shelter, Crouched and fought in vain for breath, Cursed the cold, and wished for death, Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep, Slept and dreamed there, Summer was the dream. The point of view, too, In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, Old hopes, like dead leaves, Choke the difficult way, Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, And it hears, It is night, it is night, It has never been day, Thou hast dreamed of the day Of the rose of delight, It was always dead leaves And the heart of the night, Drink deep then and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, For night, like a chalice, Holds sleep in her hands. Then you drain the dark cup, And half drugged, As you lie in the arms of despair That is masked as delight. You thrill to the rush of white wings, And you hear, It is day, it is day, It has never been night, Thou hast dreamed of the night And the wood of lost leaves, It was always noon, June, And red roses in sheaves, Unlock the blind lids, And behold the light-bearer, Who holds, like a monstrance, The sun in his hands. Mary of Magdala Mary of Magdala came to bed, There were no soft curtains round her head. She had no mother to hold of worth, The little baby she brought to birth. Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed, O God, I am very much afraid, For out of my body by sin defiled Thou bidest me make a little child. O God, I have turned my face from thee To that which the angels may not see. How can I make from my deep disgrace A child whose angel shall see thy face? O God, I have sinned, and I know well, That the pains I bear are the pains of hell, But the thought of the child that sin has given Is like the thoughts of the airs of heaven. Mary of Magdala held her breath In the clutch of pain like the pains of death, And threw her heart like the mortal knife, Went the pang of joy and the pang of life. We two are two alone, said she, And we are two who should be three. Now who will clothe my baby fair In the little garments that babies wear? There came two angels with quiet wings, And hands that were full of baby things, And the newborn child was bathed and dressed And laid again on his mother's breast. Now who will sign on his brother Mark To keep him safe from the powers of the dark? Who will my baby's sponsor be? I, the Lord God, who died for thee. Now who will comfort him if he cry, And who will suckle him by and by? For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry, And I think that my time has come to die. I will dandle thy son as a mother may, And his lips shall lie where my own sons lay. Come, dear little one, come to me. The mother of God shall suckle thee. Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed. I never deserved a child, she cried. Dear God, I am ready to go to hell, Since with my little one all is well. Then the son of Mary did o'er her lean, Poor mother thy tears have washed thee clean, Thy last poor pains thy will soon be done, And my mother shall give thee back thy son. Frozen grass for a bearing bed, A halo of frost round a woman's head, And pious folks who looked and said, A drab and her brat that are better dead. The Homecoming This was our house, to this we came, Lighted by love with torture flame. And in this chamber, door locked fast, I held you to my heart at last. This was our house, in this we knew, The worst that time and fate can do. You left the room bare, wide the door, You did not love me any more. Where once the kind warm curtain hung, The spider's ghostly cloth is flung, The beetle and the woodlouse creep, Where once I loved your lonely sleep. Yet so the vanished spell endures, That this, our house, still, still is yours. Here, spite of all these years apart, I still can hold you to my heart. White magic! This is the room to which she came, And spring itself came with her. She stirred the fire of life to flame, She called all music hither. Her glance upon the lean white walls, Hung them with cloth of splendour. And still the rose she dropped recalls, The grace as that, attend her. The same poor room so dull and bare, Before in consecration she breathed upon its common air, The true transfiguration. The room the same to which she came, For one immortal minute. How can it ever be the same, Since she has once been in it? The old magic! Gray is the sea, and the skies are gray. They are ghosts of our blue bright yesterday, And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream, Like tortured souls in an evil dream. There is white on the wings of the sea and sky, And white are the gulls' wings wheeling by, And white, like snow, is the pawl That lies where love weeps over his memories. For the dead is dead, And its shroud is wrought of good unfound, And of wrong unsought. Yet from God's good magic There ever springs the resurrection of holy things, See the gold and blue of our yesterday In the eyes and the hair of a child at play, And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled Is woven anew in the laugh of the child. Faith, a wall, gray and tall, And a sky of gray and a twilight cold, And that is all that my eyes behold. But I know that unseen beyond the wall, On a lawn of green, white blossoms fall in the waning light, And beyond the lawn, curtains are drawn from windows bright, And within she moves with her gracious hands And the hearts that loves and that understands, Waiting to suck her poor souls in need, And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed. I know it all, though I cannot see, But the tired-out tramp, dirty and ill, In the evening's damp, in the spring's clean chill, Knows not that there is the heart to care For such as I and for such as he. He slouches along, and sees alone The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone, Lord, when my eyes see nothing but gray In all thy world that is now so green, I will bethink me of this spring day And the house of welcome known yet unseen, The wall that conceals and the faith that reveals. The death of Agnes, now that the sunlight dies in my eyes, And the moonlight grows in my hair, I who was never very wise, never was very fair. Virgin and martyr all my life, What has life left to give, Me who was never mother nor wife, Never got leave to live? Nothing of life could I clasp or claim, Nothing could steal or save, So when you come to carve my name, Give me life in my grave, To keep me warm when I sleep alone, A lie is little to give, Call me a Magdalene on my stone, Though I died and did not live. In trouble. It's all for nothing, I've lost him now. I suppose it had to be, But oh, I never thought it of him, Nor he never thought it of me, And all for a kiss on your evening out, And a field where the grass was down, And he has gone to God knows where, And I may go on the town. The worst of all was the thing he said the night he went away. He said he'd amaried me right enough, If I hadn't had been so gay. Me, gay, when I'd cried and I'd asked him not, But he said he loved me so. And whatever he wanted seemed right to me. And how was a girl to know? Well, the river is deep, And drowned folks sleep sound. And it might be the best to do. But when he made me a lighter love, He made me a mother too. I've had enough sin to last my time, If it was sin as I got it by, But it ain't no sin to stand by his kid, And work for it till I die. But oh, the long days and the death-long nights, When I feel it move and turn, And cry alone in my single bed, And count what a girl can earn, To buy the baby the bits of things He ought to abort by rights, And wonder whether he thinks of us, And if he sleeps sound at nights. Gratitude. I found a starving cat in the street, It cried for food in a place by the fire. I carried it home and I strove to meet The claims of its desire. And since its desire was a little fish, A little hay, and a little milk, I gave it cream in a silver dish, And a basket lined with silk. And when we came to the grateful pause, When it should have fawned on the hand that fed, It turned to a devil or teeth and claws, Scratch me and bit me and fled. To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay, With a purr had been an easy task, But its hate and my blood, Its hate and my blood were required to pay, For the gifts that it did not ask. At the last, where are you? You whose loving breath, Alone can stay my soul from death, The world so wide I seek it through, Yet dare I dream to win to you? Perhaps your dear desired feet Pass me in this grey muddy street, Your face it may be has its shrine. In that dull house there's next to mine, But I believe, O life of fate, That when I call on death and wait, One moment at the unclosing gate, I shall turn back for one last gaze, Along the trampled sordid ways, And in the sunset sea at last, Just as the barred gate holds me fast, Your face, your face, too late. Fear. If you were here, Hope's dream's ambition, Faith would disappear, Drowned in your eyes, And I should touch your hand, Forgetting all that now I understand, For you confuse my life with memories Of unremembrable ecstasies, Which were and are not, And can never be, Keep the whole world between you and me. A farewell. Goodbye, goodbye. It is not heart apart, You have my heart, the heart that leaps to hear, Your name called by an echo in a dream. You have my soul, that, like an untroubled stream, Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near. Your heart beats set the rhythm for my heart. What more could life give if we gave her leave? To give, and life should give us leave to take. Only each other's arms, each other's eyes, Each other's lips, the clinging secrecies, That are but as the written words to make, Records of what the heart and soul achieve. This, only this we yield, my love, my friend, To fate's implacable eyes and withering breath. We still are yours and mine, though, by time's theft, My arms are empty and your arms bereft. It is not heart apart, not harder than death, And each of us must face death in the end. A selection from Many Voices by E. Nesbitt. Recorded by Corey Samuel. And Jim Mowat. And Carrie Gillespie. And P. T. Isley. And David Barnes. And Jesse The Cat. This recording is in the public domain.