Read Ebook: The Singing Man: A Book of Songs and Shadows by Peabody Josephine Preston

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Ebook has 143 lines and 13002 words, and 3 pages

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day; And I am wearied. And the day is done. Now, while the wild brooks run Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray, Their laughters turned to musing--ah, let me Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee, Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers, Along the meadows and the paling foam, All wings of thine that roam Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs The silence of the earth; and from the warm Face of the field the upward savors swarm Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest, The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer; Mad-mane and gentle ear; And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,-- O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far, With human-aching heart, as I a star-- Tempest of plum?d joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love More than thou lovest them, or lovest me. So beautiful to see, Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above Scorch me with farness--lights that call and call To the far heart, and answer not at all; Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark The after-glow go dark? This hour to sing--but never have--heart's-ease! That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon Outside our happy windows their old rune, Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours. I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free, Take on more heavily The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers. --Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand, This near one's breathless plea to understand. Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who shines within my house, my sight Of the heart's eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain, My singing's one refrain-- Are there for her no tidings from the height? For her, my solace, likewise lost and far, Islanded with me here, on this lone star Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her A little wayside shelter from the stark Sky that we hear, and mark? Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were! And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest, Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest From light to light of day; from dark--till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast Our bright! To hold her fast,-- Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air. To know I cannot hold her so my own, But under surge of joy, the surges moan That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son. I know from echoes far behind the sky. I know; I know not why. Even from thy golden, wide oblivion: Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting, Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing; Thy leave to suffer--yea, to sing and die, Beautiful Mother! ... Ah, Whose child am I?

THE FEASTER

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors, While we are glad within? Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors; Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,-- Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down Though we implore. It is her silence binds me unreleased, It is her silence that no flute can drown, It is her moonlit silence at the door, Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high That frights my heart with an immortal Cry, Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;--louder, O my harp; Let me not hear her voice; And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp, With waves of golden noise! For she is wise as Eden, even mute, To search my spirit through the deep and height Again, again. Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute; And you, gloom over, viols of the night With colors lost in umber,--with sweet pain Of richest world's desire,--prevail, sing down All memory with pleading, so you drown Her merciless refrain!

But I have that shall fill this wound of mine, Since Loveliness must be;-- Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine And perish utterly. All that the years have left us, undismayed Of age or death; and happier fair than truth, --When truth is fair! Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade Iron and fire and marble to their youth; Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms' lair Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush; --Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush, For my sad soul to wear!

Let April fade! For me, unfading bloom!... The little fruitless seed Deep sown of fire within the midmost gloom, A sterner fire to feed:-- The rainbow, frozen in a lasting dew; Green-gazing emerald, fresh as grass beneath The placid rose. Fair pearl, and you, fair pearl, and you and you, Rained from the moon, and kissing in a wreath, As moment unto eager moment goes! Look back at me, you sapphires blue and wise With farthest twilight, blue resplendent eyes That never weep, nor close.

O house me, glories! Give me house and home Here for my homelessness. Set forth for me the wine, the honeycomb Whereto desire saith 'Yes!' O Senses, weave me from all lovely dust Some home-array, some fair familiar garb For me, exiled. Charm me some rare anointment I may trust Against her query, searching like a barb The dumbness of a heart unreconciled. Clothe me with silver; fold me from dismay; Save me from pity. For I hear her say, 'Alas, Alas, poor child!'

'Alas, Alas, thou lost poor child, how long? Why wilt thou suffer want? Why must I hear thy weeping through thy song, And see thine eyes grow gaunt? Making sad feast upon the crumbs of light Shed long ago from heavenly highways where Thy brethren are! And thy heart smoulders in thee, to be bright, Thy one sole refuge from thy one despair, Fraying the thwarted body with a scar. How long, before thine eyelids, desolate, How long shall this thy dark dominion wait For thee, belated Star?'

THE GOLDEN SHOES

The winds are lashing on the sea; The roads are blind with storm. And it's far and far away with me; So bide you there, stay warm. It's forth I must, and forth to-day; And I have no path to choose. The highway hill, it is my way still.-- Give me my golden shoes.

This cloak is worn too threadbare thin, But ah, how weatherwise! This girdle serves to bind it in; What heed of wondering eyes?-- And yet beside, I wear one pride --Too bright, think you, to use?-- That I must wear, and still keep fair.-- Give here my golden shoes.

They would buy me house and hearth, no doubt, And the mirth to spend and share; Could I sell that gift, and go without, Or wear--what neighbors wear. But take my staff, my purse, my scrip; For I have one thing to choose. For you,--Godspeed! May you soothe your need. For me, my golden shoes!

NOON AT PAESTUM

Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise Our hands among the clamorous weeds,--we too. Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue, Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays, Here, where the thousand broken names and ways Of worship are but shards we wandered through, There is no gift to offer, or undo; There is no prayer left in us, only praise.

Only to glory in this glory here, Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;-- To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear Even as the seaward gaze of Homer's eyes; And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour Wine to the Unknown God.--We ask no more.

VESTAL FLAME

Light, light,--the last: Till the night be done, Keep the watch for stars and sun, and eyelids over-cast.

Once there seemed a sky, Brooding over men. Now no stars have come again, since their bright good-bye!

Once my dreams were wise. Now I nothing know; Fasting and the dark have so put out my heart's eyes.

But thy golden breath Burns against my cheek. I can feel and love, and seek all the rune it saith.

Do not thou be spent, Holy thing of fire,-- Only hope of heart's desire dulled with wonderment!

While there bide these two Hands to bar the wind; Though such fingers chill and thinned, shed no roses through.

While this body bends Only for thy guard; Like a tower, to ward and worship all the light it sends.

It is not for fear Lest there ring some cry On the midnight, 'Rise and come. Lo, the Bridegroom near!'

It is not for pride, To be shining fair In a wedding-garment there, lighting home the Bride.

It is not to win Love, for hoarded toil, From those poor, with their spent oil, weeping, 'Light us in!'--

No; but in despite Of all vigils set, Do I bind me to thee yet,--strangest thing of Light!

Only, all, for thee Whatsoe'er thou art, Smiling through the blinded heart, things it cannot see.

Hold thy golden breath! For I feel,--not hear-- Spent with joy and fear to lose thee, all the song it saith.

Light, light, my own: Do not thou disown Thy poor keeper-of-the-light, for Light's sake alone.

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:-- Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water's cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld! --Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely bless?d in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eves, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands, and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here. Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,-- Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the thronging memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart's-desire, from day to day. But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep. And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.-- All day long, he kept the sheep.

THE LONG LANE

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