Narrative Poems Read online

  18

  She answered, ‘Never ask of life and death.

  Uttering these names you dream of wormy clay

  Or of surviving ghosts. This withering breath

  Of words is the beginning of decay

  In truth, when truth grows cold and pines away

  Among the ancestral images. Your eyes

  First see her dead: and more, the more she dies.

  19

  ‘You are still dreaming, dreams you shall forget

  When you have cast your fetters, far from here.

  Go forth; the journey is not ended yet.

  You have seen Dymer dead and on the bier

  More often than you dream and dropped no tear,

  You have slain him every hour. Think not at all

  Of death lest into death by thought you fall.’

  20

  He turned to question her, then looked again,

  And lo! the shape was gone. The darkness lay

  Heavy as yet and a cold, shifting rain

  Fell with the breeze that springs before the day.

  It was an hour death loves. Across the way

  The clock struck once again. He saw near by

  The black shape of the tower against the sky.

  21

  Meanwhile above the torture and the riot

  Of leaping pulse and nerve that shot with pain,

  Somewhere aloof and poised in spectral quiet

  His soul was thinking on. The dizzied brain

  Scarce seemed her organ: link by link the chain

  That bound him to the flesh was loosening fast

  And the new life breathed in unmoved and vast.

  22

  ‘It was like this,’ he thought—‘like this, or worse,

  For him that I found bleeding in the wood . . .

  Blessings upon him . . . there I learned the curse

  That rests on Dymer’s name, and truth was good.

  He has forgotten now the fire and blood,

  He has forgotten that there was a man

  Called Dymer. He knows not himself nor Bran.

  23

  ‘How long have I been moved at heart in vain

  About this Dymer, thinking this was I . . .

  Why did I follow close his joy and pain

  More than another man’s? For he will die,

  The little cloud will vanish and the sky

  Reign as before. The stars remain and earth

  And Man, as in the years before my birth.

  24

  ‘There was a Dymer once who worked and played

  About the City; I sloughed him off and ran.

  There was a Dymer in the forest glade

  Ranting alone, skulking the fates of man.

  I cast him also, and a third began

  And he too died. But I am none of those.

  Is there another still to die . . . Who knows?’

  25

  Then in his pain, half wondering what he did,

  He made no struggle towards that belfried place.

  And groaning down the sodden bank he slid,

  And groaning in the lane he left his trace

  Of bloodied mire: then halted with his face

  Upwards, towards the gateway, breathing hard

  —An old lych-gate before a burial-yard.

  26

  He looked within. Between the huddling crosses,

  Over the slanted tombs and sunken slate

  Spread the deep quiet grass and humble mosses,

  A green and growing darkness, drenched of late,

  Smelling of earth and damp. He reached the gate

  With failing hand. ‘I will rest here,’ he said,

  ‘And the long grass will cool my burning head.’

  CANTO IX

  1

  Even as he heard the wicket clash behind

  Came a great wind beneath that seemed to tear

  The solid graves apart; and deaf and blind

  Whirled him upright, like smoke, through towering air

  Whose levels were as steps of a sky stair.

  The parching cold roughened his throat with thirst

  And pricked him at the heart. This was the first.

  2

  And as he soared into the next degree,

  Suddenly all round him he could hear

  Sad strings that fretted inconsolably

  And ominous horns that blew both far and near.

  There broke his human heart, and his last tear

  Froze scalding on his chin. But while he heard

  He shot like a sped dart into the third.

  3

  And its first stroke of silence could destroy

  The spring of tears forever and compress

  From off his lips the curved bow of the boy

  Forever. The sidereal loneliness

  Received him, where no journeying leaves the less

  Still to be journeyed through: but everywhere,

  Fast though you fly, the centre still is there.

  4

  And here the well-worn fabric of our life

  Fell from him. Hope and purpose were cut short,

  —Even the blind trust that reaches in mid-strife

  Towards some heart of things. Here blew the mort

  For the world spirit herself. The last support

  Was fallen away—Himself, one spark of soul,

  Swam in unbroken void. He was the whole,

  5

  And wailing: ‘Why hast Thou forsaken me?

  Was there no world at all, but only I

  Dreaming of gods and men?’ Then suddenly

  He felt the wind no more: he seemed to fly

  Faster than light but free, and scaled the sky

  In his own strength—as if a falling stone

  Should wake to find the world’s will was its own.

  6

  And on the instant, straight before his eyes

  He looked and saw a sentry shape that stood

  Leaning upon its spear, with hurrying skies

  Behind it and a moonset red as blood.

  Upon its head were helmet and mailed hood,

  And shield upon its arm and sword at thigh,

  All black and pointed sharp against the sky.

  7

  Then came the clink of metal, the dry sound

  Of steel on rock and challenge: ‘Who comes here?’

  And as he heard it, Dymer at one bound

  Stood in the stranger’s shadow, with the spear

  Between them. And his human face came near

  That larger face. ‘What watch is this you keep,’

  Said Dymer, ‘on edge of such a deep?’

  8

  And answer came, ‘I watch both night and day

  This frontier . . . there are beasts of the upper air

  As beasts of the deep sea . . . one walks this way

  Night after night, far scouring from his lair,

  Chewing the cud of lusts which are despair

  And fill not, while his mouth gapes dry for bliss

  That never was.’—‘What kind of beast is this?’

  9

  ‘A kind of things escaped that have no home,

  Hunters of men. They love the spring uncurled,

  The will worn down, the wearied hour. They come

  At night-time when the mask is off the world

  And the soul’s gate ill-locked and the flag furled

  —Then, softly, a pale swarm, and in disguise,

  Flit past the drowsy watchman, small as flies.’

  10

  —‘I’ll see this aerish beast whereof you speak.

  I’ll share the watch with you.’—‘Nay, little One,

  Begone. You are of earth. The flesh is weak . . .’

  —‘What is the flesh to me? My course is run,

  All but some deed still waiting to be done,

  Some moment I may rise on, as the boat

  Lifts with the
lifting tide and steals afloat.

  11

  ‘You are a spirit, and it is well with you,

  But I am come out of great folly and shame,

  The sack of cities, wrongs I must undo . . .

  But tell me of the beast, and whence it came;

  Who were its sire and dam? What is its name?’

  —‘It is my kin. All monsters are the brood

  Of heaven and earth, and mixed with holy blood.’

  12

  —‘How can this be?’—‘My son, sit here awhile.

  There is a lady in that primal place

  Where I was born, who with her ancient smile

  Made glad the sons of heaven. She loved to chase

  The springtime round the world. To all your race

  She was a sudden quivering in the wood

  Or a new thought springing in solitude.

  13

  ‘Till, in prodigious hour, one swollen with youth,

  Blind from new-broken prison, knowing not

  Himself nor her, nor how to mate with truth,

  Lay with her in a strange and secret spot,

  Mortal with her immortal, and begot

  This walker-in-the-night.’—‘But did you know

  This mortal’s name?’—‘Why . . . it was long ago.

  14

  ‘And yet, I think, I bear the name in mind;

  It was some famished boy whom tampering men

  Had crippled in their chains and made him blind

  Till their weak hour discovered them: and then

  He broke that prison. Softly!—it comes again,

  I have it. It was Dymer, little One,

  Dymer’s the name. This spectre is his son.’

  15

  Then, after silence, came an answering shout

  From Dymer, glad and full: ‘Break off! Dismiss!

  Your watch is ended and your lamp is out.

  Unarm, unarm. Return into your bliss.

  You are relieved, Sir. I must deal with this

  As in my right. For either I must slay

  This beast or else be slain before the day.’

  16

  ‘So mortal and so brave?’ that other said,

  Smiling, and turned and looked in Dymer’s eyes,

  Scanning him over twice from heel to head

  —Like an old sergeant’s glance, grown battle-wise

  To know the points of men. At last, ‘Arise,’

  He said, ‘and wear my arms. I can withhold

  Nothing; for such an hour has been foretold.’

  17

  Thereat, with lips as cold as the sea-surge,

  He kissed the youth, and bending on one knee

  Put all his armour off and let emerge

  Angelic shoulders marbled gloriously

  And feet like frozen speed and, plain to see,

  On his wide breast dark wounds and ancient scars,

  The battle honours of celestial wars.

  18

  Then like a squire or brother born he dressed

  The young man in those plates, that dripped with cold

  Upon the inside, trickling over breast

  And shoulder: but without, the figured gold

  Gave to the tinkling ice its jagged hold,

  And the icy spear froze fast to Dymer’s hand.

  But where the other had stood he took his stand

  19

  And searched the cloudy landscape. He could see

  Dim shapes like hills appearing, but the moon

  Had sunk behind their backs. ‘When will it be?’

  Said Dymer: and the other, ‘Soon, now, soon.

  For either he comes past us at night’s noon

  Or else between the night and the full day,

  And down there, on your left, will be his way.’

  20

  —‘Swear that you will not come between us two

  Nor help me by a hair’s weight if I bow.’

  —‘If you are he, if prophecies speak true,

  Not heaven and all the gods can help you now.

  This much I have been told, but know not how

  The fight will end. Who knows? I cannot tell.’

  ‘Sir, be content,’ said Dymer. ‘I know well.’

  21

  Thus Dymer stood to arms, with eyes that ranged

  Through aching darkness: stared upon it, so

  That all things, as he looked upon them, changed

  And were not as at first. But grave and slow

  The larger shade went sauntering to and fro,

  Humming at first the snatches of some tune

  That soldiers sing, but falling silent soon.

  22

  Then came steps of dawn. And though they heard

  No milking cry in the fields, and no cock crew,

  And out of empty air no twittering bird

  Sounded from neighbouring hedges, yet they knew.

  Eastward the hollow blackness paled to blue,

  Then blue to white: and in the West the rare,

  Surviving stars blinked feebler in cold air.

  23

  For beneath Dymer’s feet the sad half-light

  Discovering the new landscape oddly came,

  And forms grown half familiar in the night

  Looked strange again: no distance seemed the same.

  And now he could see clear and call by name

  Valleys and hills and woods. The phantoms all

  Took shape, and made a world, at morning’s call.

  24

  It was a ruinous land. The ragged stumps

  Of broken trees rose out of endless clay

  Naked of flower and grass: the slobbered humps

  Dividing the dead pools. Against the grey

  A shattered village gaped. But now the day

  Was very near them and the night was past,

  And Dymer understood and spoke at last.

  25

  ‘Now I have wooed and won you, bridal earth,

  Beautiful world that lives, desire of men.

  All that the spirit intended at my birth

  This day shall be born into deed . . . and then

  The hard day’s labour comes no more again

  Forever. The pain dies. The longings cease.

  The ship glides under the green arch of peace.

  26

  ‘Now drink me as the sun drinks up the mist.

  This is the hour to cease in, at full flood,

  That asks no gift from following years—but, hist!

  Look yonder! At the corner of that wood—

  Look! Look there where he comes! It shocks the blood,

  The first sight, eh? Now, sentinel, stand clear

  And save yourself. For God’s sake come not near.’

  27

  His full-grown spirit had moved without command

  Or spur of the will. Before he knew, he found

  That he was leaping forward spear in hand

  To where that ashen brute wheeled slowly round

  Nosing, and set its ears towards the sound,

  The pale and heavy brute, rough-ridged behind,

  And full of eyes, clinking in scaly rind.

  28

  And now ten paces parted them: and here

  He halted. He thrust forward his left foot,

  Poising his straightened arms, and launched the spear,

  And gloriously it sang. But now the brute

  Lurched forward: and he saw the weapon shoot

  Beyond it and fall quivering on the field.

  Dymer drew out his sword and raised the shield.

  29

  What now my friends? You get no more from me

  Of Dymer. He goes from us. What he felt

  Or saw from henceforth no man knows but he

  Who has himself gone through the jungle belt

  Of dying, into peace. That angel knelt

  Far off and watched them close but could not see

&n
bsp; Their battle. All was ended suddenly.

  30

  A leap—a cry—flurry of steel and claw,

  Then silence. As before, the morning light

  And the same brute crouched yonder; and he saw

  Under its feet, broken and bent and white,

  The ruined limbs of Dymer, killed outright

  All in a moment, all his story done.

  . . . But that same moment came the rising sun;

  31

  And thirty miles to westward, the grey cloud

  Flushed into answering pink. Long shadows streamed

  From every hill, and the low-hanging shroud

  Of mist along the valleys broke and streamed

  Gold-flecked to heaven. Far off the armour gleamed

  Like glass upon the dead man’s back. But now

  The sentinel ran forward, hand to brow.

  32

  And staring. For between him and the sun

  He saw that country clothed with dancing flowers

  Where flower had never grown; and one by one

  The splintered woods, as if from April showers,

  Were softening into green. In the leafy towers

  Rose the cool, sudden chattering on the tongues

  Of happy birds with morning in their lungs.

  33

  The wave of flowers came breaking round his feet,

  Crocus and bluebell, primrose, daffodil

  Shivering with moisture: and the air grew sweet

  Within his nostrils, changing heart and will,

  Making him laugh. He looked, and Dymer still

  Lay dead among the flowers and pinned beneath

  The brute: but as he looked he held his breath;

  34

  For when he had gazed hard with steady eyes

  Upon the brute, behold, no brute was there,

  But someone towering large against the skies,

  A wing’d and sworded shape, whose foam-like hair

  Lay white about its shoulders, and the air

  That came from it was burning hot. The whole

  Pure body brimmed with life, as a full bowl.

  35

  And from the distant corner of day’s birth

  He heard clear trumpets blowing and bells ring,

  A noise of great good coming into earth

  And such a music as the dumb would sing

  If Balder had led back the blameless spring

  With victory, with the voice of charging spears,

  And in white lands long-lost Saturnian years.

  LAUNCELOT

  When the year dies in preparation for the birth

  Of other seasons, not the same, on the same earth,

  Then saving and calamity together make

  The Advent gospel, telling how the heart will break

  With dread, and stars, unleaving from the rivelled sky,

  Scatter on the wind of man’s Redemption drawing nigh,