The Listeners | Page 7

you rest, young man,


And apples for thirst withal.'
And he looked up out of his sad reverie,
And saw all the woods in
green,
With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling,
The
jewel-bright leaves between.
And he lifted up his face towards her lattice,
And there, alluring-wise,

Slanting through the silence of the long past,
Dwelt the still green
Witch's eyes.
And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory
Voices seemed to cry;

'What is the darkness of one brief life-time
To the deaths thou hast
made us die?
'Heed not the words of the Enchantress
Who would us still betray!'

And sad with the echo of their reproaches,
Doubting, he turned away.
'I may not shelter 'neath your roof, lady,
Nor in this wood's green
shadow seek repose,
Nor will your apples quench the thirst
A
homesick wanderer knows.'
'"Homesick," forsooth!' she softly mocked him:
And the beauty in her
face
Made in the sunshine pale and trembling
A stillness in that
place.
And he sighed, as if in fear, the young Wanderer,
Looking to left and
to right,
Where the endless narrow road swept onward,
In the
distance lost to sight.
And there fell upon his sense the briar,
Haunting the air with its
breath,
And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds' throats,
Their tent
of leaves beneath.
And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding;
Her arbour, and
fruit-filled dish,
Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask--
All
that the weary wish.

And the last gold beam across the green world
Faltered and failed, as
he
Remembered his solitude and the dark night's
Inhospitality.
His shoulders were bowed with his knapsack;
His staff trailed heavy
in the dust;
His eyes were dazed, and hopeless of the white road

Which tread all pilgrims must.
And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow
In the darkening
of the day;
And turned him aside into oblivion;
And the voices died
away....
And the Witch stepped down from her casement:
In the hush of night
he heard
The calling and wailing in dewy thicket
Of bird to hidden
bird.
And gloom stole all her burning crimson;
Remote and faint in space

As stars in gathering shadow of the evening
Seemed now her
phantom face.
And one night's rest shall be a myriad,
Midst dreams that come and
go;
Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him
This same
strange by-way through:
To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes,
The lips of welcome, and
the eyes
More beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper
Lone in
the lightening skies:
Till once again the Witch's guile entreat him;
But, worn with wisdom,
he
Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night's
Inhospitality.
HAUNTED
The rabbit in his burrow keeps
No guarded watch, in peace he sleeps;

The wolf that howls into the night
Cowers to her lair at morning
light;
The simplest bird entwines a nest
Where she may lean her
lovely breast,
Couched in the silence of the bough;
But thou, O man,

what rest hast thou?
The deepest solitude can bring
Only a subtler questioning
In thy
divided heart; thy bed
Recalls at dawn what midnight said;
Seek
how thou wilt to feign content
Thy flaming ardour's quickly spent;

Soon thy last company is gone,
And leaves thee--with thyself--alone.
Pomp and great friends may hem thee round,
A thousand busy tasks
be found;
Earth's thronging beauties may beguile
Thy longing
lovesick heart awhile;
And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread
A
changing glory round thy head;
But fade will all; and thou must come,

Hating thy journey, homeless, home.
Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote,
That inward presence
slumbers not,
Frets out each secret from thy breast,
Gives thee no
rally, pause, nor rest,
Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they

Should sap his patient power away,
Answers thy wrath with peace,
thy cry
With tenderest taciturnity.
SILENCE
With changeful sound life beats upon the ear;
Yet striving for release

The most delighting string's
Sweet jargonings,
The happiest
throat's
Most easeful, lovely notes
Fall back into a veiling
silentness.
Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host,
Blackening the clear green
earth,
Vainly 'gainst that thin wall
The trumpets call,
Or with loud
hum
The smoke-bemuffled drum:
From that high quietness no reply
comes forth.
When all at peace, two friends at ease alone
Talk out their hearts,--yet
still,
Between the grace-notes of
The voice of love
From each to
each
Trembles a rarer speech,

And with its presence every pause
doth fill.

Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush
Of one who stooping
near,
No smallest stir will make
Our fear to wake;
But yet intent

Upon some mystery bent,
Hearkens the lightest word we say, or
hear.
WINTER DUSK
Dark frost was in the air without,
The dusk was still with cold and
gloom,
When less than even a shadow came
And stood within the
room.
But of the three around the fire,
None turned a questioning head to
look,
Still read a clear voice, on and on,
Still stooped they o'er their
book.
The children watched their mother's eyes
Moving on softly line to
line;
It seemed to listen too--that shade,
Yet made no outward sign.
The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,
No cold wind moved the wintry
tree;
The children both in Faërie dreamed
Beside their mother's
knee.
And nearer yet that spirit drew
Above that heedless one, intent
Only
on what the simple words
Of her small story meant.
No voiceless sorrow