Front matter (continued 2)

A new life, soul to soul; oh, love! return."

"Too late," his heart replied. At last he rode to learn.

Bowed, but alive with hope, he topped the pass,

And saw, below, her cottage by the way,

White, in a garden green with springing grass,

And smoke against the blue sky going gray.

"God make us all the happier for to-day,"

He muttered humbly; then, below, he spied,

Mary and Michael entering, walking side by side.

Arm within arm, like lovers, like dear lovers

Matched by the happy stars and newly wed,

Over whose lives a rosy presence hovers.

Lion dismounted, seeing hope was dead.

A child was by the road, he stroked his head,

And "Little one," he said, "who lives below

There, in the cottage there, where those two people go?"

"They do," the child said, pointing: "Mrs. Gray

Lives in the cottage there, and he does, too.

They've been back near a week since being away."

It was but seal to what he inly knew.

He thanked the child and rode. The Spring was blue,

Bluer than ever, and the birds were glad;

Such rapture in the hedges all the blackbirds had.

He was not dancing to that pipe of the Spring.

He reached The Roughs, and there, within her room,

Bowed for a time above her wedding ring,

Which had so chained him to unhappy doom;

All his dead marriage haunted in the gloom

Of that deserted chamber; all her things

Lay still as she had left them when her love took wings.

He kept a bitter vigil through the night,

Knowing his loss, his ten years' passion wasted,

His life all blasted, even at its height,

His cup of life's fulfilment hardly tasted.

Gray on the budding woods the morning hasted,

And looking out he saw the dawn come chill

Over the shaking acre pale with daffodil.

Birds were beginning in the meadows; soon

The blackbirds and the thrushes with their singing

Piped down the withered husk that was the moon,

And up the sky the ruddy sun came winging.

Cows plodded past, yokes clanked, the men were bringing

Milk from the barton. Someone shouted "Hup,

Dog, drive them dangy red ones down away on up."

Some heavy hours went by before he rose.

He went out of the house into the grass,

Down which the wind flowed much as water flows;

The daffodils bowed down to let it pass.

At the brook's edge a boggy bit there was,

Right at the field's north corner, near the bridge,

Fenced by a ridge of earth; he sat upon the ridge,

Watching the water running to the sea,

Watching the bridge, the stile, the path beyond,

Where the white violet's sweetness brought the bee.

He paid the price of being overfond.

The water babbled always from the pond

Over the pretty shallows, chattering, tinkling,

With trembles from the sunlight in its clearness wrinkling.

So gazing, like one stunned, it reached his mind,

That the hedge-brambles overhung the brook

More than was right, making the selvage blind;

The dragging brambles too much flotsam took.

Dully he thought to mend. He fetched a hook,

And standing in the shallow stream he slashed,

For hours, it seemed; the thorns, the twigs, the dead leaves splashed,

Splashed and were bobbed away across the shallows;

Pale grasses with the sap gone from them fell,

Sank, or were carried down beyond the sallows.

The bruised ground-ivy gave out earthy smell.

"I must be dead," he thought, "and this is hell."

Fiercely he slashed, till, glancing at the stile,

He saw that Michael stood there, watching, with a smile,

His old contemptuous smile of careless ease,

As though the world with all its myriad pain

Sufficed, but only just sufficed, to please.

Michael was there, the robber come again.

A tumult ran like flame in Lion's brain;

Then, looking down, he saw the flowers shake:

Gold, trembling daffodils; he turned, he plucked a stake

Out of the hedge that he had come to mend,

And flung his hook to Michael, crying, "Take;

We two will settle our accounts, my friend,

Once and for ever. May the Lord God make

You see your sins in time." He whirled his stake

And struck at Michael's head; again he struck;

While Michael dodged and laughed, "Why, man, I bring you luck.

"Don't kill a bringer of good news. You fool,

Stop it and listen. I have come to say:

Lion, for God's sake, listen and be cool.

You silly hothead, put that stake away.

Listen, I tell you." But he could not stay

The anger flaming in that passionate soul.

Blows rained upon him thick; they stung; he lost control.

Till, "If you want to fight," he cried, "let be.

Let me get off the bridge and we will fight.

That firm bit by the quag will do for me.

So. Be on guard, and God defend the right.

You foaming madman, with your hell's delight,

Smashing a man with stakes before he speaks:

On guard. I'll make you humbler for the next few weeks."

The ground was level there; the daffodils

Glimmered and danced beneath their cautious feet,

Quartering for openings for the blow that kills.

Beyond the bubbling brook a thrush was sweet.

Quickly the footsteps slid; with feint and cheat,

The weapons poised and darted and withdrew.

"Now stop it," Michael said, "I want to talk to you."

"We do not stop till one of us is dead,",

Said Lion, rushing in. A short blow fell

Dizzily, through all guard, on Michael's head.

His hedging-hook slashed blindly but too well:

It struck in Lion's side. Then, for a spell,

Both, sorely stricken, staggered, while their eyes

Dimmed under mists of blood; they fell, they tried to rise,--

Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,

Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,

Touched with a redness from the end of day.

There was all April in the blackbird's cry.

And lying there they felt they had to die,

Die and go under mould and feel no more

April's green fire of life go running in earth's core.

"There was no need to hit me," Michael said;

"You quiet thinking fellows lose control.

This fighting business is a foolish trade.

And now we join the grave-worm and the mole.

I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul;

You always were hot-headed. Well, let be:

You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me.

"I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit,

And lashed out blindly at you; you were mad.

It would be different if you'd stopped a bit.

You are too blind when you are angry, lad.

Oh, I am giddy, Lion; dying, bad,

Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his look

Grew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook.

And as he watched it, Lion raised his head;

Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil.

"Michael," he moaned, "I, too, am dying: dead.

You're nearer to the water. Could you fill

Your hat and give me drink? Or would it spill?

Spill, I expect." "I'll try," said Michael, "try--

I may as well die trying, since I have to die."

Slowly he forced his body's failing life

Down to the water; there he stooped and filled;

And as his back turned Lion drew his knife,

And hid it close, while all his being thrilled

To see, as Michael came, the water spilled,

Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright.

"Drink," muttered Michael, "drink. We two shall sleep to-night."

He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank.

Lion lay still a moment, gathering power,

Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank.

Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower,

He raised himself above the bloodied flower

And struck with all his force in Michael's side.

"You should not have done that," his stricken comrade cried.

"No; for I meant to tell you, Lion; meant

To tell you; but I cannot now; I die.

That hit me to the heart and I am spent.

Mary and I have parted; she and I

Agreed she must return, lad. That is why

I came to see you. She is coming here,

Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear,

"You come to tread a bloody path of flowers.

All the gold flowers are covered up with blood,

And the bright bugles blow along the towers;

The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood."

His spilled life trickled down upon the mud

Between weak, clutching fingers. "Oh," he cried,

"This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died.

Lion lay still while the cold tides of death

Came brimming up his channels. With one hand

He groped to know if Michael still drew breath.

His little hour was running out its sand.

Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand

Above. He cried aloud, "He was my brother.

I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other.

"Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me.

We wise who try to change. Oh, you wild birds,

Help my unhappy spirit to the sea.

The golden bowl is scattered into sherds."

And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words

To that poor body on the dabbled flowers:

"Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours--

"Michael, my own heart's darling, speak; it's me,

Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here.

Oh, little golden-haired one, listen. See,

It's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear.

Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear;

And you have killed him, Lion; he is dead.

My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head.

"We had such fun together, such sweet fun,

My love and I, my merry love and I.

Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun.

Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye."

Then in a great voice Lion called, "I die.

Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear.

Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear.

"Better than he; not better, dear, as well.

If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last.

We have made bloody doorways from our hell,

Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past,

We are but pitiful poor souls; and fast

The darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet;

I loved you all my life; but some lives never meet

"Though they go wandering side by side through Time.

Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow:

"Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime."

"Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough,

Caught fast for death; but never mind that now;

Go home and tell my people. I am dying,

Dying, dear, dying now." He died; she left him lying,

And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field.

"They have been killed," she called, in a great crying.

"Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed.

The blood is scattered on the flowers drying."

It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying;

They hooted as the Occleves ran to bring

That sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting.

They laid the bodies on the bed together.

And "You were beautiful," she said, "and you

Were my own darling in the April weather.

You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew.

Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true.

Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring;

My love is dead, and I must deck his burying."

They left her with her dead; they could not choose

But grant the spirit burning in her face

Rights that their pity urged them to refuse.

They did her sorrow and the dead a grace.

All night they heard her passing footsteps trace

Down to the garden from the room of death.

They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath,

To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers,

Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread,

But at the dawn her singing gathered powers

Like to the dying swan who lifts his head

On Eastnor, lifts it, singing, dabbled red,

Singing the glory in his tumbling mind,

Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind.

So triumphing her song of love began,

Ringing across the meadows like old woe

Sweetened by poets to the help of man

Unconquered in eternal overthrow;

Like a great trumpet from the long ago

Her singing towered; all the valley heard.

Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and stirred.

And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door,

And burst it, fearing; there the singer lay

Drooped at her lover's bedside on the floor,

Singing her passionate last of life away.

White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn spray

Over her loosened hair. Pale flowers of spring

Filled the white room of death; they covered everything.

Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers.

She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast.

"Oh, it was sweet," she cried, "that love of ours.

You were the dearest, sweet; I loved you best.

Beloved, my beloved, let me rest

By you forever, little Michael mine.

Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine

"Broken and spilt; and now the homing birds

Draw to a covert, Michael; I to you.

Bury us two together," came her words.

The dropping petals fell about the two.

Her heart had broken; she was dead. They drew

Her gentle head aside; they found it pressed

Against the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast,

The one that bore her name in Michael's hair,

Given so long before. They let her lie,

While the dim moon died out upon the air,

And happy sunlight coloured all the sky.

The last cock crowed for morning; carts went by;

Smoke rose from cottage chimneys; from the byre

The yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire.

In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled,

But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring,

Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled,

On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing;

Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing;

It saw the moorhen nesting; then it stayed

In a great space of reeds where merry otters played.

Slowly it loitered past the shivering reeds

Into a mightier water; thence its course

Becomes a pasture where the salmon feeds,

Wherein no bubble tells its humble source;

But the great waves go rolling, and the horse

Snorts at the bursting waves and will not drink,

And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink,

Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line,

Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates,

Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine,

And all the ocean opens. Then the mates

Cry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits,

But sing triumphant and the topsail fills

To this old tale of woe among the daffodils.

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