Walter de la Mare

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The Scribe

What lovely things

Thy hand hath made,

The smooth-plumed bird

In its emerald shade,

The seed of the grass,

The speck of stone

Which the wayfaring ant

Stirs, and hastes on!

Though I should sit

By some tarn in Thy hills,

Using its ink

As the spirit wills

To write of Earth's wonders,

Its live willed things,

Flit would the ages

On soundless wings

Ere unto Z

My pen drew nigh,

Leviathan told,

And the honey-fly:

And still would remain

My wit to try --

My worn reeds broken,

The dark tarn dry,

All words forgotten --

Thou, Lord, and I.

The Remonstrance

I was at peace until you came

And set a careless mind aflame;

I lived in quiet; cold, content;

All longing in safe banishment,

Until your ghostly lips and eyes

Made wisdom unwise.

Naught was in me to tempt your feet

To seek a lodging. Quite forgot

Lay the sweet solitude we two

In childhood used to wander through;

Time's cold had closed my heart about,

And shut you out.

Well, and what then? . . . O vision grave,

Take all the little all I have!

Strip me of what in voiceless throught

Life's kept of life, unhoped, unsought! --

Reverie and dream that memory must

Hide deep in dust!

This only I say: Though cold and bare,

The haunted house you have chosen to share,

Still 'neath its walls the moonbeam goes

And trembles on the untended rose;

Still o'er its broken roof-tree rise

The starry arches of the skies;

And 'neath your lightest word shall be

The thunder of an ebbing sea.

The Ghost

' Who knocks? ' ' I, who was beautiful

Beyond all dreams to restore,

I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,

And knock on the door.'

' Who speaks? ' 'I -- once was my speech

Sweet as the bird's on the air,

When echo lurks by the waters to heed;

'Tis I speak thee fair.'

' Dark is the hour! ' ' Aye, and cold. '

' Lone is my house. ' ' Ah, but mine? '

' Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain. '

' Long dead these to thine. '

Silence. Still faint on the porch

Brake the flames of the stars.

In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand

Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night

In chaos of vacancy shone;

Nought but vast sorrow was there --

The sweet cheat gone.

The Fool Rings His Bells

Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee;

And thou, poor Innocency;

And Love -- a lad with broken wing;

And Pity, too:

The Fool shall sing to you,

As Fools will sing.

Aye, music hath small sense.

And a time's soon told,

And Earth is old,

And my poor wits are dense;

Yet I have secrets, -- dark, my dear,

To breathe you all: Come near.

And lest some hideous listener tells,

I'll ring the bells.

They're all at war!

Yes, yes, their bodies go

'Neath burning sun and icy star

To chaunted songs of woe,

Dragging cold cannon through a mire

Of rain and blood and spouting fire,

The new moon glinting hard on eyes

Wide with insanities!

Hush! . . . I use words

I hardly know the meaning of;

And the mute birds

Are glancing at Love

From out their shade of leaf and flower,

Trembling at treacheries

Which even in noonday cower.

Heed, heed not what I said

Of frenzied hosts of men,

More fools than I,

On envy, hatred fed,

Who kill, and die --

Spake I not plainly, then?

Yet Pity whispered, 'Why?'

Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go.

Mine was not news for a child to know,

And Death -- no ears hath. He hath supped where creep

Eyeless worms in hush of sleep;

Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws

Athwart his grinning jaws --

Faintly the thin bones rattle and . . . there, there,

Hearken how my bells in the air

Drive away care! . . .

Nay, but a dream I had

Of a world all mad.

Not simple happy mad like me,

Who am mad like an empty scene

Of water and willow tree,

Where the wind hath been;

But that foul Satan-mad,

Who rots in his own head,

And counts the dead,

Not honest one -- and two --

But for the ghosts they were,

Brave, faithful, true,

When, head in air,

In Earth's clear green and blue

Heaven they did share

With Beauty who bade them there. . . .

There, now! -- Death goes --

Mayhap I have wearied him.

Aye, and the light doth dim,

And asleep's the rose,

And tired Innocence

In dreams is hence. . . .

Come, Love, my lad,

Nodding that drowsy head,

'Tis time thy prayers were said.

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