 CHAPTER 9 IF WE MUST PART, THIS PARTING IS THE BEST. How could you bear to lay your head on some warm pillow far away, your head so used to lying on my breast, but now your pillow is cold, your hands have flowers and not my hands to hold. Upon our bed the worn bride linen lies, I have put the death money upon your eyes, so that you should not wake up in the night. I have bound your face with white. I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears. Those arms wherein I have slept so many years, those feet that hastened when they came to me and all your body that belonged to me. I have smoothed your dear dull hair and there is nothing left to say for you and nothing left to fear or pray for you, and I have got the rest of life to bear. Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there. If I had died, and you had stood beside, this still white bed where the white scented, horrible flowers are spread, I know the thing it is, and I thank God that He has spared you this. If one must bear it, thank God it was I who had to live and bear to see you die, who have to live and bear to see you dead. You will have nothing of it all to bear, you will not even know that in your bed you lie alone, you will not miss my head, beside you on the pillow, you will rest. So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast, but I, but I, your pillow and your place and only the darkness laid against my face and only my anguish pressed against my side. Thank God, thank God that it was you who died, Chloe. Night wind sighing through the poplar leaves, trembling of the aspen, shivering of the willow, every leafy voice of all the nighttime grieves, mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow. Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn, fairer than the larches in their young spring glory, brighter than the glowworms on the dewy lawn. Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story. Chloe lived and Chloe loved, she brought new gladness, hope and life and all things good to all who met her, only dying wept to know the lifelong sadness, willed against her will to those who can't forget her. Invocation Come tonight in a dream tonight, come as you used to do. Come in the gown, in the gown of white, come in the ribbon of blue. Come in the virgins' colors you wear, come through the dark in the dew. Come with the scent of the night in your hair, come as you used to do. Blue and white of your eyes and your face, white of your gown and blue, will you not come from the happy place, come as you used to do. Tears so many, so many tears, where there were one so few, can they not wash the gray of the years from the white of your gown and blue? The last betrayal, and I shall lie alone at last, clear of the stream that ran so fast, and feel the flower roots in my hair and in my hands the roots of trees, myself frapped in the ungrudging peace that leaves no pain uncovered anywhere. What! This hope left, this way not barred. This last best treasure without guard. This heaven free, no prayers to pay. Fool, are the rulers of men asleep, thou knowest what tears they bade thee weep. But when peace comes, tis thou wilt sleep, not they. A prayer for the king's majesty. 22nd January 1901 The queen is dead, God save the king. In this his hour of grief, when sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf to lay them on his shoulders as he stands, inheriting her glories and her lands. First gain of his at which his mother's voice has not been first to bless and to rejoice. A man set lonely between gain and loss. O words of love the heart remembereth, almighty loss outweighing every gain. A son whose kingdom death's arm lies across, a king whose mother lies alone with death wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep. O God, who seeest the tears thy children weep. O God, who countest each sad heartbeat, see how our king needs the grace we ask of thee. Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing is empire when the heart is sick with pain. God save the king. The queen is dead. The splendor of her days, the sorrow of them both alike merge now in the new Oreo that lights her brow. The clamour of her people's voice and praise must hush itself to the still voice that prays in the holy chamber of death. Tread softly here, a mighty queen lies dead. Her people's heart wears black. The black bells toll unceasing in their ear and on the gold sun's track the great world round like a black ring the voice of mourning goes to leave in our ancient foes with eyes downbent and brotherly bared head keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour when love lends all his power to speed grief's arrows from the bow of death when sighs are idle breath when tears are fountain's vein she will not wake again not now not here oh great and good and infinitely dear oh mother of your people sleep is sweet no more life's thorny ways will wound your feet oh mother dear sleep sound when you shall wake your brows freed from the crown that made them ache so many a time and where the heavenly crown then then you will look down on us who love you and remembering the love of earth will breathe with us our prayer our prayer prayed here join to your prayer prayed there who knows what radiant answer it may bring God save the king the queen is dead God save the king from all ill thought and deed from heartless service and from selfish sway from treason and the vain imagining of evil counselors and the noisome breed of flatterers who eat the soul away God save the king from loss and pain and tears such as her many years brought her from battle and strife and the inmost hurt of life the wounds that no crown can heal no urban robes conceal God save the king God by our memories of his mother's face by the love that makes our heart her dwelling place grant to our sorrow this desired grace God save the king the queen is dead God save the king this is no hour when joy has leave to sing only admit our tears we are bold to pray more boldly and that we pray sorrowing in this most sorrowful day God who was of a mortal mother born who driest the tears with which thy children mourn God save the king look down on him whose crown is wet with tears in which its splendor fades and disappears his tears our tears tears out of all her lands the queen is dead God strengthen the king's hands God save the king true love and new love over the meadow and down the lane to the gate by the twisted thorn your feet should know each turn of the way you tried so many many a day before the old love was put out of its pain before the new love was born kiss her hold her and fold her close tell her the old true tale you ought to know each turn of the phrase learn them all in the poor old days before the birth of the new red rose before the old rose grew pale and do not fear I shall creep tonight to make a third at your trist my ghost if it walked would only wait to scare the others away from the gate where you teach your new love the old delight with the lips that your old love kissed death never again no child shall stir the inmost heart of her and teach your heaven by that first faint stir no little lip shall lie against her breast save the cold lips that now lie there at rest no little voice shall rouse her from her sleep and bid her wake to pain her sleep is calm and deep call not refrain close in her arm as though even death drew back before the face of motherhood in this white stilly place together bud lies waxen white and cold as ever a flower in your winter gardens hold she bore the pain she never wore the crown she worked the bitter charm but all she won thereby is here laid down renounced for good or harm dream feature soul with dreams while we must starve our hearts on clay dream of a glorious white winged sun crowned day when you shall see her once more face to face besides Christ mother in the blessed place but while you dream they carry her from here the black bells toll and toll oh god if only she cannot see your here not hear those ghoul like bells that crowd so near not see that cold clay hole in memory of Soretta deacon who died on October 25 1899 there was a day a horrible autumn day when from her home the home she made for hours and that day made a nightmare of white flowers and folk in black who whispered pitying Lee they carried her away and left our hearts all cold and empty yet was such a store to hold a sudden grief the slow drop still ooze out and falling on all fair things they wither these tears came with time but not with time went by and still we wander desolate about the poor changed house the garden and the croft warm kitchen sunny parlor with the soft intolerable pervading memories of her whose face and voice made melodies sweet unforgotten songs of mother love dear songs of all the little joys that were we see the sun and have no joy thereof because she gathered in her dying hands and carried with her to the fair Farlands the flower of all our joy because she went out of the garden where her days were spent and took the very sun away with her the cross stands at her head over her breast that loving mother breast close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed it seems a place for rest for happy folded sleep but not there not there not there our hardest tears are shed but in the house made empty for her sake here in the night intolerable wake the hungry passionate pangs of love still strong to fight with death the bitter slow night long then the rich price that poor love has to pay is paid slow drop by drop till the new day with thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings and drags us out to common cruel things that sting and barb their stings with memory oh love and is the price too hard to give thine is the splendor of all things that live and this thy pain the price of life to thee the sacrament that binds to the beloved the chain that holds though mountains be removed the portent of thine immortality so in the house of pain imprisoned we endure our bondage and work out our time nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb bondsmen who would not if we could be free thank God our hands still hold loves cord and she do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold drawing a sneer coiling bright fold unfold till the far day when it shall draw a sneer to the sight of her her living hands her dear tired face grown weary of watching for our face and we shall hold her in the happy place and hear her voice the old same voice we knew our children I am tired of wanting you or in some world more beautiful and dear than any she ever even dreamed of here where time has changed does she await the day she longed for and so little a while away when all the love we watered with our tears shall bloom transplanted by the kindle years dreaming through her new garden does she go remembering the old garden long ago tending new flowers more fair than those that grow in this sad garden where such sad flowers blow and fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot training her flowers to perfect branch and root does she sometimes entreat some darling flower to wait a little for its opening hour can you not hear her voice I'm not today while my dear flowers my own are far away be patient bud tomorrow soon will come ah blossom when my little girl comes home but now but here the empty house the always empty place the black remembrance that no night blots out the memories white unbearable and dear that no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear the resistless riotous route of cruel conquering thoughts the night the day love is immortal this the price to pay worse than all pain it would be to forget on love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set love is no niggered though the price be high into God's market love goes forth to buy with royal mead God's greatest gifts and gain love offers up his whole rich store of pain and buys of God's loves immortality for Dorothy 18th August 1900 a party I will not wake you dear no tears shall creep to chill the still bed where you lie asleep no cry no word shall break the sanctity of the great silence where God lets you lie I will not tease your grave with flower or stone you are tired my heart you shall be left alone and even the kisses that my lips must lay upon the mold of the triumphant clay shall be so soft like those a mother lays upon her sleeping babies little face you will not feel my kisses will not hear you are tired sleep on I will not wake you dear but when the good day comes you will hear me cry I'll make a little place where I can lie and have awakened you will feel me creep into the folds of your familiar sleep and draw them round us with a tender moon how could you let me sleep so long alone end of chapter 9 recording by Anna Lisa Bodker end of the rainbow and the rose by Enes bit