The Hill of Venus: The Medieval Tale for February

Narrative:

In a dense forest, the melancholy thirty-year-old Walter approaches the Venusberg, hurls away his sword, and prepares for death, but he hears instead a hymn to Venus, observes a pageant of lovers, and finally encounters the goddess herself, “naked, alone, unsmiling.” Passionate lovemaking slakes his unfocused sense of longing and anticipation, but Venus evades all questions about the past or future, and when Walter’s growing frustrations at the grotto’s remoteness and vacuity give way to renewed despair, he resolves to leave.

As soon as he exits, Walter’s loneliness returns, and he wanders in solitude till he meets a company of pilgrims whom he accompanies to Rome. There he resolves on a desperate expedient, which he hopes may clarify and perhaps atone for his past errors: he will seek audience and perhaps absolution from the Pope himself. The prelate agrees to see him, but Walter becomes impatient with the Pope’s simplistic preachments, and he stubbornly defends his “love, that never more shall bring/ Delight to me or help me anything” (ll. 1328–29) as an act of paradoxical fidelity, which promises no earthly or heavenly reward.

During the audience, the formerly impassive Venus has also appeared briefly to Walter for the first time since his departure, and he begins to feel for her a kind of protective anxiety, for he sees that she too is subject to a disapproving Christian order. This leads him to deliver an impassioned apology for Venus to the astonished pontiff, who predictably writes Walter off as a spiritual loss, no more to be saved than the Pope’s dry staff can spring into bloom.

Back from Rome, Walter finds the “dark door” of Venus’s cavern once again, and he returns to its bittersweet mixture of complex joy and intense frustration. His exile is needless, however, for in his absence the Pope’s staff has indeed blossomed with heavenly blooms: “and on its barrenness/ … the ripe fruit of heaven’s unmeasured hours” (ll. 1555–56). The Pope has the wit and conscience to understand the import of this miracle, bestows a private blessing, and dies with an expression of ecstatic joy. This beautiful ending offers no help for Walter, who remains unaware that his exile has been needless, and suspended between vindication and despair—the first secular martyr, as it were, of a religion of sexual tolerance and generosity.

Sources:

The Tann(en)häuser legend had been (re)told by Ludwig Tieck in “Der Getreue Eckart und der Tannenhäuser,” in Tales by Musaeus Tieck, translated by Thomas Carlyle in 1827, and in English in Julian Fane and Robert Lytton’s Tannhauser: or, the Battle of the Bards (1861). In the final sections of his version of the legend, Tieck’s Tannenhäuser, a handsome knight but a violent and ultimately culpable man, reappears to tell his friends Emma and Friedrich that he has returned from the Hill of Venus, where he enjoyed all the pleasures of earth. He too then leaves for a pilgrimage to Rome, but returns later, in despair at the Pope’s rejection, and murders the innocent Emma. Neither Tieck nor Fane and Lytton relativized the Pope’s reactions or interpreted the supernatural blossoms as a token of heavenly acceptance of earthly love.

Swinburne’s 1865 “Laus Veneris” might have drawn Morris’s attention to a parallel topic, but the love it celebrated was not only appealing but corrupt. Swinburne later evoked a more kindred distaste for the “pale Galilean” and celebration of a Venus fresh from the foam of the sea, in “Hymn to Proserpine,” ten years after the appearance of Morris’s poem.

Another proximate source was Sabine Baring-Gould’s chapter on “The Mountain of Venus,” in Curious Myths of the Middle Ages (1868). According to Baring-Gould, “Tanhäuser” was a “famous minnesinger, and all his lays were of love and of women, for his heart was full of passion, and that not of the noblest description.” After seven years of revelry in Venus’s palace in the heart of a mountain, Baring-Gould’s Tanhäuser entreats Venus to let him depart, but when he finally succeeds and finds his way to the Pope, the latter scorns his sincere repentence, for “Guilt such as thine can never, never be remitted. Sooner shall this staff in my hand grow green and blossom, than that God should pardon thee!” The Pope’s staff does indeed bloom after three days, but the despairing man has just disappeared into the cave when the Pope’s messengers reach the site (interesting, perhaps, that they know where it is).

Baring-Gould glossed the tale as “the sad yet beautiful story of Tanhäuser. It is a very ancient myth Christianized, a wide-spread tradition localized” (1894 ed., 212). Baring-Gould clearly sympathized with the hero, and his undogmatic secularism, dramatic descriptions of the landscape of the Venusberg, and comparative, anthropological approach to myth anticipated similar strains in Morris’s work. Baring-Gould also omitted all the violent or inexplicable elements of earlier versions of the legend, adduced many cognate tales of temporary stays in underground chambers of fairies or supernatural beings, and interpreted the legend as a pan-European narrative template. Morris varied the plot in minor ways and alluded more frequently to the antiquity of Venus’s worship and continuity between secular eros and Christian agape.

Critical Remarks:

Drafts:

More drafts survive for “The Hill of Venus” than for any other Earthly Paradise tale, and they seem to span much of the period of the larger work’s composition. They also vary somewhat from the patterns outlined in the headnote to this volume’s “List of Drafts.”

Indeed, May Morris wrote about the composition of “The Hill of Venus” that:

Morris has spent more time on bringing this strangely arresting tale to its final form than on any other poem in the book, and the fact that he did have to work so much on it, identifying himself with such intensity with the brooding spirit of doom that pervades it, gives it an interest beyond that which must already attach to the modern handling of this group of legends. (Artist, Writer, Socialist, I, 435)

In her introduction to volume VI of the Collected Works, May Morris mentioned four preliminary drafts and quoted a few stanzas from the earliest version and twelve more from the drafts she called B and C.

Huntington Library M. S. 6423 is an extant fifty-one page copyist’s draft version of Morris’s autograph Fitzwilliam M. S. EP25 with a few corrections, additions and running notes in Morris’s hand. This early version resembles Morris’s early Earthly Paradise style, includes earlier versions of interspersed songs, and gives more attention to tournaments and combats. Its Venus resembles more closely her less-complicated “Watching of the Falcon”-incarnation and other early Morris heroines who are unintentional but innocent causes of distress, and she also responds more warmly to her lover, here called Amyot. She warns him clearly, for example, that he may be exiled from her cave, and it is she who leaves Amyot, prompted by an unexplained desire to return to the sea.

These variations in a relatively finished draft suggest that Morris prepared a near-’final’ early version with the aid of the same copyist who prepared penultimate and final drafts of “The Story of Cupid and Psyche” and “Pygmalion and the Image,” but continued to revise and create new versions until April 1870, about eight months before the tale appeared in print in December. This early version, like other earlier medieval tales such as “The Writing on the Image,” has a more self-consciously artificial frame, and like that of its companion poem “The Ring Given to Venus,” its plot also focuses more heavily on the evils of sorcery.

In the opening section of this earlier version, for example, the narrator pauses at the entrance to a dark cavern, where a friendly old man warns him that Venus’s sorcery has destroyed those who came before him. He himself, when young, had spent a night in the nearby forest, and saw “the God of Heaven mocked most horribly/ By things that coming out from yonder hill/ In uncouth guise danced on the herbage green.” Somewhat later, an “ancient knight” confirms the carle’s story of sorcery and describes one of Venus’s misdeeds.

It is in this inner frame that we encounter Amyot, a knight attracted by stories of “that hollow hill” where women dance and bathe unclothed. Like the hero of “Pygmalion and the Image,” Amyot is dissatisfied with real women’s “hard light hearts, so ready to forget,” and he decides to enter and try his luck. Several hours later, he comes to a luxurious city, where he follows a band of beautiful women on their way to join Venus’s company and hears them sing that “Lo our Queen is at the door/ Gold clad, yet her hair is wet/ With the washing of the sea/ O Sweet Queen we kneel to thee.”

Led to Venus’s retreat by one of her servants, Amyot falls asleep and Venus enters, undresses, and remains with him and her servant until “the middle of next day.” Afterwards, Venus’s loving and attractive companion remains with him, but he is vaguely discontented as he prepares to ride forth with her to the lists, where Venus will officiate. Before they leave, Venus’s attendants sing a version of “Before our Lady came on earth/ Little there was of joy and mirth…,” a lovely song which survived into the tale’s final version (ll. 281–328). After sacrificing at Venus’s altar, he enters and wins the tournament against an assortment of unnamed opponents, but senses that “all those things he saw were but shadows/ Set round him but to keep his heart aflame.” Venus invites him to meet her at an isolated temple, his companion loyally leads him there, and he enters a nearby walled garden, where “soon [Venus’s] body fair/ Naked within his arms did Amyot hold/ Therewith they vanished through the gates of gold.”

Amyot remains with Venus in a state of erotic bliss for five months, but she then leaves him for the sea and fisher-folk of her native Cyprus, and he feels a wave of predictable despair. His original companion reappears, invites him to return to her, and promises a prolonged youth, “[f]or I have charms to hold grim eld at bay.” Amyot will have none of this, however, and returns to the outer world, where he joins a band of pilgrims who await a visit from the Pope. Sincerely contrite, Amyot tells his tale to the pontiff, but the latter tells him to “Go hence, thou hast no grain of hope,” and he faints away in despair. Later, however, the prelate sees the budding rod and seeks Amyot in vain until he dies himself. As for Amyot himself, “[I]f Dame Venus took him for her knight/ Again I know not, or what else befell/ Unto him as he journeyed on to Hell.”

At the end of the tale the narrator reappears to meditate on ‘sin,’ charity, and art:

Therewith the old Knight ceased and I sat still

Thinking of all the story I had heard;

And pondering on that unmatched dreadful hill

I deemed that verily the old Swinherd

Had spoken unto me a timely word.

Yet in my heart there lingered none the less

Regretful longing for that loveliness.

And thinking of the joy that I had had

To hear that tale I said, “Mens miseries

May sometimes chance to make their fellows glad

Now the shadow of them in likewise

Will bring the happy tears into our eyes

Like too sweet music too soon passed away.

Therewith the minster chimes sung out midday.

The sentiments and formal aspects of this finished tale resembled those of other early and middle-Earthly Paradise narratives such as “Atalanta’s Race” and “The Lady of the Land,” and its imbricated frame-structure paralleled that of “The Land East of the Sun.” It might even have formed a plausible concluding tale for the first volume, in the place now taken by “Ogier the Dane.”

In any event, it seems clear that Morris remained fond of the tale’s states of “regretful longing” and realized that a more nuanced version of its didactic plot might permit him to say something less trivial about the interrelations between physical love and moral self-knowledge. He continued to polish and revise the tale through successive drafts until only one remaining spot remained for it in the finished cycle.

Be that as it may, two drafts for “The Hill of Venus” appear in B. L. Add. M. S. 45,299. The first of these (ff. 49–65) seems to be later than the Fitzwilliam and Huntington Library manuscripts just described. The second (ff. 66–105) appears to correspond to May Morris’s B. Morris devoted four pages of it (reproduced in Boos, 449–76) to an episode in which the hero (Amyot in all but the final version) lies sick and despairing in a hospital in Rome, and an attendant monk urges that he seek an interview with the Pope.

This second draft also provides details of Amyot’s emotions and the vision of dancing maidens, and its Venus attempts to answer some of Amyot’s agonized questions. She admits, for example, her fundamental indifference, and that she cannot assuage his yearning. The disillusioned Amyot sees “his love made manifest in the flesh, grown base/ And hateful,” and

… with despair and hate and longing mazed

Into the depths of her grey eyes he gazed,

That looked not on him. (f. 81)

Cognate motifs appear in “Near But Far Away” and other poems of the period, and also in the gods’ indifference Orpheus condemns in “The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice.” Morris’s decision to omit these stanzas may have paralleled his decision to withhold “Orpheus” and several other shorter lyrics from publication, and delay the appearance of others (cf. Boos, 354–57). In the published version a procession of literary lovers also replaced these bleak reflections and detailed descriptions of venerian love.

Conclusion:

This unusually complex evolutionary history of Morris’s many drafts for “The Hill of Venus” suggests that one of his principal aims was to rework his early sources’ conclusion to affirm more fully Baring-Gould’s emphasis on forgiveness and earthly love, and to reject the more repressive constraints of Christian dogma. The result is also the Earthly Paradises most direct allegory of conflict between erotic and agapic ideals and their imperfect human realizations.

Along the way Morris modulated “The Hill”’ s explicit sexuality in various ways, but never repudiated it, and he emphasized more and more clearly that true ‘heroism’ must defend the validity of these aspirations in suitably sublimated forms, if necessary without hope of external reward or acknowledgement. Amyot/Walter’s conscious acknowledgement of his ambivalence evolved into a form of strength, and his determination to accept it an integral part of his life and identity as a worthy human being. In its final form, “The Hill of Venus” clarified Morris’s view of Christianity as a limited moral scheme whose best elements might belatedly respect the legitimacy of human needs.

All the same, the “love” celebrated in “The Hill of Venus” may be more complex and ambivalent than readers might have expected from the last poem in a twenty-five-tale cycle. In all the drafts of “The Hill of Venus,” Walter/Amyot comes to see his love for Venus as a projection of his own will and imagination, which will therefore survive as long as he upholds and values it, in despite of religious orthodoxy, society-at-large, and external reward.

In a sense, one might see the concluding classical tales as illustrations of the emotional framework of a worthy external life, and the last medieval one as an emblem of the more difficult life of introspection. If so, the narrator/singer of “L’Envoi” may justly claim that “little is there left behind,” but the ambivalent ‘heroism’ Morris’s final tale celebrates is a near-Keatsian “negative capability,” a refusal to judge others or decry the constraints of one’s life. Such heroism is a receding, almost stoic ideal, and it is certainly not realizable in conventional forms of plot-closure.

Morris’s final medieval tale thus blended its tentative ending with a sense of eternal incompleteness, and became a miniature of Morris’s belief in the arduous, processive quality of consciousness and love. This sense of the Aufhebung of individual identities in recurrent historical cycles also underlay the implicit ethic of Love Is Enough and all his other later poems.

See also Bellas, 330–50; Boos, 169–76, 446–48; Calhoun, 210–13; Kirchhoff, 206, 211–14; Oberg, 61–62; and Silver, 72–73.

Manuscripts:

As noted above, early drafts for the poem are contained in B. L. Add. M. S. 45,299, Fitzwilliam Library M. S. FW EP 25, and Huntington Library M. S. 6423. The final draft is in Huntington Library M.S. 6418.

The Hill of Venus.

The Argument.

THIS STORY TELLS OF A CERTAIN MAN WHO BY STRANGE ADVENTURE FELL INTO THE POWER OF VENUS, AND WHO, REPENTING OF HIS LIFE WITH HER, WAS FAIN TO RETURN TO THE WORLD AND AMEND ALL, BUT MIGHT NOT; FOR HIS REPENTANCE WAS REJECTED OF MEN, BY WHOMSOEVER IT WAS ACCEPTED.

CERTAIN summer afternoon day hung
Doubtful ‘twixt storm and sunshine, and the earth
Seemed waiting for the clouds to spread, that clung
About the south-east, ere its morning mirth,
Ere all the freshness of its hopeful birth		5
Should end in dreadful darkness, and the clash
Of rain-beat boughs and wildering lightning-flash.

Such a tide brooded o’er the ancient wood,
Wild with sour waste and rough untended tree,
Which, long before the coming of the Rood,		10
Men held a holy place in Germany;1
Yea, and still looked therein strange things to see,
Still deemed that dark therein was uglier
Than in all other wilds, more full of fear.

Grim on that day it was, when the sun shone		15
Clear through the thinner boughs, and yet its light
Seemed threatening; such great stillness lay upon
The wide-head oaks, such terror as of night
Waylaying day, made the sward2 yet more bright,
As, blotting out the far-away blue sky,		20
The hard and close-packed clouds spread silently.

Now ‘twixt the trees slowly a knight there rode,
Musing belike; a seemly man and fair,
No more a youth, but bearing not the load
Of many years; he might have seen the wear		25
Of thirty summers: why he journeyed there
Nought tells the tale, but Walter doth him name,
And saith that from the Kaiser’s court he came.

Dull enow seemed his thoughts, as on he went
From tree to tree, with heavy knitted brow,		30
And eyes upon the forest grass intent;
And oft beneath his breath he muttered low,
And once looked up and said: The earth doth grow
Day after day a wearier place belike;
No word for me to speak, no blow to strike:		35

Once I looked not for this and it has come;
What shall the end be now I look for worse?
Woe worth the dull walls of mine ancient home,
The ragged fields laid ‘neath the ancient curse!3
Woe worth false hope that dead despair doth nurse;		40
Woe worth the world’s false love and babbling hate:
O life, vain, grasping, uncompassionate!

He looked around as thus he spake, and saw
That he amidst his thoughts had ridden to where
The close wood backward for a space did draw,		45
Leaving a plain of sweet-grown sward all clear,
Till at the end thereof a cliff rose sheer
From the green grass, o’er which again arose
A hill-side clad with fir-trees dark and close.

Now nigh the cliff a little river ran,		50
And bright with sun were hill and mead, although
Already, far away, the storm began
To rumble, and the storm-lift moving slow,
Over a full third of the sky to grow,
Though still within its heart the tumult stayed,		55
Content as yet to keep the world afraid.

There had he drawn rein, and his eyes were set
Upon a dark place in the sheer rock’s side,
A cavern’s mouth; and some new thought did get
Place in his heart therewith, and he must bide		60
To nurse the thing; for certes far and wide
That place was known, and by an evil fame;
The Hill of Venus had it got to name.

And many a tale yet unforgot there was
Of what a devilish world, dream-like, but true,		65
Would snare the o’er-rash man whose feet should pass
That cavern’s mouth: old folk would say they knew
Of men who risked it, nor came back to rue
The losing of their souls; and others told
Of how they watched, when they were young and bold,		70

Midsummer night through: yea, and not in vain;
For on the stream’s banks, and the flowery mead,
Sights had they seen they might not tell again;
And in their hearts that night had sown the seed
Of many a wild desire and desperate need;		75
So that, with longings nought could satisfy,
Their lives were saddened till they came to die.

For all the stories were at one in this,
That still they told of a trap baited well
With some first minutes of unheard-of bliss;		80
Then, these grasped greedily, the poor fool fell
To earthly evil, or no doubtful hell.
Yet, as these stories flitted by all dim,
The knight’s face softened; sweet they seemed to him.

He muttered: Yea, the end is hell and death,		85
The midmost hid, yet the beginning Love.
Ah me! despite the worst Love threateneth,
Still would I cling on to the skirts thereof,
If I could hope his sadness still could move
My heart for evermore. A little taste		90
Of the king’s banquet, then all bare and waste

My table is; fresh guests are hurrying in
With eager eyes, there to abide their turn,
That they more hunger therewithal may win!
Ah me! what skill for dying love to yearn?		95
Yet, O my yearning! though my heart should burn
Into light feathery ash, blown here and there,
After one minute of that odorous flare.

With that once more he hung his head adown;
The name of Love such thoughts in him had stirred,		100
That somewhat sweet his life to him was grown,
And like soft sighs his breathing now he heard;
His heart beat like a lover’s heart afeard;
Of such fair women as he erst had seen,
The names he named, and thought what each had been.		105

Yet, as he told them over one by one,
But dimly might he see their forms, and still
Some lack, some coldness, cursed them all, and none
The void within his straining heart might fill;
For evermore, as if against his will,		110
Words of old stories, turned to images
Of lovelier things, would blur the sight of these.

Long dwelt he in such musings, though his beast
From out his hand had plucked the bridle-rein,
And, wandering slowly onward, now did feast		115
Upon the short sweet herbage of the plain;
So when the knight raised up his eyes again,
Behind his back the dark of the oak-wood lay,
And nigh unto its end was grown the day.

He gazed round toward the west first, and the stream,		120
Where all was bright and sunny, nor would he
Have deemed himself deep fallen into a dream
If he had seen the grass swept daintily
By raiment that in old days used to be;
When white ‘neath Pallas’4 smile and Juno’s frown		125
Gleamed Venus from the gold slow slipping down.

But void was all the meadow’s beauty now,
And to the east he turned round with a sigh,
And saw the hard lift5 blacker and blacker grow
‘Neath the world’s silence, as the storm drew nigh;		130
And to his heart there went home suddenly
A sting of bitter hatred and despair,
That these things, his own heart had made so fair,

He might not have; and even as he gazed,
And the air grew more stifling yet and still,		135
Down in the east a crooked red line blazed,
And soon the thunder the eve’s hush did fill,
Low yet, but strong, persistent as God’s will.
He cried aloud: A world made to be lost,
A bitter life ‘twixt pain and nothing tossed!		140

And therewithal he stooped and caught the rein,
And turned his horse about till he did face
The cavern in the hill, and said: Ah, vain
My yearning for enduring bliss of days
Amidst the dull world’s hopeless, hurrying race,		145
Where the past gain each new gain makes a loss,
And yestreen’s golden love to-day makes dross!

And as he spake, slowly his horse ‘gan move
Unto the hill: To-morrow and to-day,
Why should I name you, so I once hold Love		150
Close to my heart? If others fell away,
That was because within their souls yet lay
Some hope, some thought of making peace at last
With the false world, when all their love was past.

But strangely light therewith his heart did grow,		155
He knew not why; and yet again he said:
A wondrous thing that I this day must trow
In tales that poets and old wives have made!
Time was when duly all these things I weighed.
Yet, O my heart, what sweetens the dull air?		160
What is this growing hope, so fresh and fair?

Then therewithal louder the thunder rolled,
And the world darkened, for the sun was down;
A fitful wind ‘gan flicker o’er the wold,6
And in scared wise the woods began to moan,		165
And fast the black clouds all the sky did drown;
But his eyes glittered, a strange smile did gleam
Across his face, as in a happy dream.

Again he cried: Thou callest me; I come;
I come, O lovely one! Oh, thou art nigh;		170
Like a sweet scent, the nearness of thine home
Is shed around; it lighteth up God’s sky:
O me, thy glory! Therewith suddenly
The lightning streamed across the gathering night,
And his horse swerved aside in wild affright.		175

He heeded not except to spur him on;
He drew his sword as if he saw a foe,
And rode on madly till the stream he won,
And, even as the storm-wind loud ‘gan blow,
And the great drops fell pattering, no more slow,		180
Dashed through the stream and up the other bank,
And leaped to earth amidst his armour’s clank,

And faced the wild white rain, and the wind’s roar,
The swift wide-dazzling lightning strange of hue,
The griding thunder, saying: No more, no more,		185
Helpless and cruel, do I deal with you,
Or heed the things the false world calleth true.
Surely mine eyes in spite of you behold
The perfect peace Love’s loving arms enfold.

Then, whirling o’er his head his glittering sword,		190
Into the night he cast it far away;
And turning round, without another word
Left the wild tumult of the ruined day,
And into the darkness that before him lay
Rushed blindly, while the cold rain-bearing wind		195
Wailed after him, and the storm clashed behind.

A few steps through black darkness did he go,
Then turned and stayed, and with his arms outspread
Stood tottering there a little while, as though
He fain would yet turn back; some words he said		200
If the storm heard, then fell, and as one dead
Lay long, not moving, noting not how soon
Above the dripping boughs outshone the moon.

E woke up with the tears upon his cheek,
As though awakened from some dream of love;		205
And as his senses cleared felt strange and weak,
And would not open eyes or try to move,
Since he felt happy and yet feared to prove
His new-born bliss, lest it should fade from him
E’en as in waking grows the love-dream dim.		210

A half hush was there round about, as though
Beast, bird, and creeping thing went each their ways,
Yet needs must keep their voices hushed and low,
For worship of the sweet love-laden days.
Most heavenly odours floated through the place,		215
Whate’er it was, wherein his body lay,
And soft the air was as of deathless May.

At last he rose with eyes fixed on the ground,
And therewithal his armour’s clinking seemed
An overloud and clean unlooked-for sound:		220
He trembled; even yet perchance he dreamed,
Though strange hope o’er his wondering heart there streamed;
He looked up; in the thickest of a wood
Of trees fair-blossomed, heavy-leaved, he stood.

He turned about and looked; some memory		225
Of time late past, of dull and craving pain,
Made him yet look the cavern’s mouth to see
Anigh behind him: but he gazed in vain,
For there he stood, as a man born again,
‘Midst a close break of eglantine7 and rose,		230
With no deed now to cast aside or choose.

Yet, as a man new-born at first may hear
A murmur in his ears of life gone by,
Then in a flash may see his past days clear,
The pain, the pleasure, and the strife, all nigh,		235
And stripped of every softening veil and lie,
So did he hear, and see, and vainly strive
In one short minute all that life to live.

But even while he strove, as strong as sleep,
As swift as death, came deep forgetfulness,		240
Came fresh desire unnamed; his heart did leap
With a fresh hope, a fresh fear did oppress
The new delight, that else cried out to bless
The unchanging softness of that unknown air,
And the sweet tangle round about him there.		245

Trembling, and thinking strange things to behold,
The interwoven boughs aside he drew,
And softly, as though sleep the world did hold,
And he should not awake it, passed them through
Into a freer space; yet nought he knew		250
Why he was thither come, or where to turn,
Or why the heart within him so did burn.

Then through the wood he went on, and for long
Heard but the murmur of the prisoned breeze,
Or overhead the wandering wood-doves song;		255
But whiles amid the dusk of far-off trees
He deemed he saw swift-flitting images,
That made him strive in vain to call to mind
Old stories of the days now left behind.

Slowly he went, and ever looking round		260
With doubtful eyes, until he heard at last
Across the fitful murmur of dumb sound,
Far off and faint, the sound of singing cast
Upon the lonely air; the sound went past,
And on the moaning wind died soft away;		265
But, as far thunder startles new-born day,

So was his dream astonied therewithal,
And his lips strove with some forgotten name,
And on his heart strange discontent did fall,
And wild desire o’ersweet therefrom did flame;		270
And then again adown the wind there came
That sound grown louder; then his feet he stayed
And listened eager, joyous, and afraid.

Again it died away, and rose again,
And sank and swelled, and sweeter and stronger grew,		275
Wrapping his heart in waves of joy and pain,
Until at last so near his ears it drew
That very words amid its notes he knew,
And stretched his arms abroad to meet the bliss,
Unnamed indeed as yet, but surely his.		280

Song.
EFORE our lady came on earth
Little there was of joy or mirth;
About the borders of the sea
The sea-folk wandered heavily;
About the wintry river-side		285
The weary fishers would abide.
Alone within the weaving-room
The girls would sit before the loom,
And sing no song, and play no play;
Alone from dawn to hot mid-day,		290
From mid-day unto evening,
The men afield would work, nor sing,
Mid weary thoughts of man and God,
Before thy feet the wet ways trod.
Unkissed the merchant bore his care,		295
Unkissed the knights went out to war,
Unkissed the mariner came home,
Unkissed the minstrel men did roam.
Or in the stream the maids would stare,
Nor know why they were made so fair;		300
Their yellow locks, their bosoms white,
Their limbs well wrought for all delight,
Seemed foolish things that waited death,
As hopeless as the flowers beneath
The weariness of unkissed feet:		305
No life was bitter then, or sweet.
Therefore, O Venus, well may we
Praise the green ridges of the sea
O’er which, upon a happy day,8
Thou cam’st to take our shame away.		310
Well may we praise the curdling foam
Amidst the which thy feet did bloom,
Flowers of the gods; the yellow sand
They kissed atwixt the sea and land;
The bee-beset ripe-seeded grass,		315
Through which thy fine limbs first did pass;
The purple-dusted butterfly,
First blown against thy quivering thigh;
The first red rose that touched thy side,
And overblown and fainting died;		320
The flickering of the orange shade,
Where first in sleep thy limbs were laid;
The happy day’s sweet life and death,
Whose air first caught thy balmy breath.
Yea, all these things well praised may be,		325
But with what words shall we praise thee,
O Venus, O thou love alive,
Born to give peace to souls that strive?

Louder the song had grown to its last word,
And with its growth grew odours strange and sweet,		330
And therewithal a rustling noise he heard,
As though soft raiment the soft air did meet,
And through the wood the sound of many feet,
Until its dusk was peopled with a throng
Of fair folk fallen silent after song.		335

Softly they flowed across his glimmering way,
Young men and girls thin-clad and garlanded,
Too full of love a word of speech to say
Except in song; head leaning unto head,
As in a field the poppies white and red;		340
Hand warm with hand, as faint wild rose with rose,
Mid still abundance of a summer close.

Softly they passed, and if not swiftly, still
So many, and in such a gliding wise,
That, though their beauty all his heart did fill		345
With hope and eagerness, scarce might his eyes,
Caught in the tangle of their first surprise,
Note mid the throng fair face, or form, or limb,
Ere all amid the far dusk had grown dim.

A while, indeed, the wood might seem more sweet,		350
That there had been the passionate eyes of them
Wandering from tree to tree loved eyes to meet;
That o’erblown flower, or heavy-laden stem
Lay scattered, languid ‘neath the delicate hem
That kissed the feet moving with love’s unrest,		355
Though love was nigh them, to some dreamed-of best.

A little while, then on his way he went,
With all that company now quite forgot,
But unforgot the name their lips had sent
Adown the wave of song; his heart waxed hot		360
With a new thought of life, remembered not,
Save as a waste passed through with loathing sore
Unto a life which, if he gained no more

Than this desire, lonely, unsatisfied,
This name of one unknown, unseen, was bliss;		365
And if this strange world were not all too wide,
But he some day might touch her hand with his,
And turn away from that ungranted kiss
Not all unpitied, nor unhappy quite,
What better knew the lost world of delight?		370

Now, while he thought these things, and had small heed
Of what was round him, changed the place was grown
Like to a tree-set garden, that no weed,
Nor winter, or decay had ever known;
No longer now complained the dove alone		375
Over his head, but with unwearying voice
‘Twixt leaf and blossom did the birds rejoice.

No longer strove the sun and wind in vain
To reach the earth, but bright and fresh they played
About the flowers of a wide-stretching plain,		380
Where ‘twixt the soft sun and the flickering shade
There went a many wild things, unafraid
Each of the other or of the wanderer,
Yea, even when his bright arms drew anear.

And through the plain a little stream there wound,		385
And far o’er all there rose up mountains grey,
That never so much did the place surround,
But ever through their midmost seemed a way
To whatsoe’er of lovely through them lay.
But still no folk saw Walter; nay, nor knew		390
If those were dreams who passed the wild wood through.

But on he passed, and now his dream to prove
Plucked down an odorous fruit from overhead,
Opened its purple heart and ate thereof;9
Then, where a path of wondrous blossoms led,		395
Beset with lilies and with roses red,
Went to the stream, and felt its ripples cold,
As through a shallow, strewn with very gold

For pebbles, slow he waded: still no stay
He made, but wandered toward the hills; no fear		400
And scarce a pain upon his heart did weigh;
Only a longing made his life more dear,
A longing for a joy that drew anear;
And well-nigh now his heart seemed satisfied,
So only in one place he should not bide.		405

And so he ever wandered on and on,
Till clearer grew the pass ‘twixt hill and hill;
Lengthened the shadows, sank adown the sun,
As though in that dull world he journeyed still
Where all day long men labour, night to fill		410
With dreams of toil and trouble, and arise
To find the daylight cold to hopeless eyes.

Some vague thought of that world was in his heart,
As, meeting sunset and grey moonrise there,
He came unto the strait vale that did part		415
Hill-side from hill-side; through the golden air,
Far off, there lay another valley fair;
Red with the sunset ran the little stream:
Ah me! in such a place, amidst a dream,

Two sundered lovers, each of each forgiven,		420
All things known, all things past away, might meet:
Such place, such time, as the one dream of heaven,
Midst a vain life of nought. With faltering feet
He stayed a while, for all grew over-sweet;
He hid his eyes, lest day should come again		425
As in such dream, and make all blank and vain.

He trembled as the wind came up the pass;
Was it long time ‘twixt breath and breath thereof?
Did the shade creep slow o’er the flower-strewn grass?
Was it a long time that he might not move,		430
Lest morn should bring the world and slay his love?
Surely the sun had set, the stream was still,
The wind had sunk adown behind the hill.

Nay, through his fingers the red sun did gleam;
In cadence with his heart’s swift beating now		435
Beat the fresh wind, and fell adown the stream.
Then from his eyes his hands fell, and e’en so
The blissful knowledge on his soul did grow
That she was there, her speech as his speech, stilled
By very love, with love of him fulfilled.		440

O close, O close there, in the hill’s grey shade,
She stood before him, with her wondrous eyes
Fixed full on his! All thought in him did fade
Into the bliss that knoweth not surprise,
Into the life that hath no memories,		445
No hope and fear, the life of all desire,
Whose fear is death, whose hope consuming fire.

Naked, alone, unsmiling, there she stood,
No cloud to raise her from the earth; her feet
Touching the grass that his touched, and her blood		450
Throbbing as his throbbed through her bosom sweet;
Both hands held out a little, as to meet
His outstretched hands; her lips each touching each;
Praying for love of him, but without speech.

He fell not and he knelt not; life was strong		455
Within him at that moment; well he thought
That he should never die; all shame and wrong,
Time past and time to come, were all made nought;
As, springing forward, both her hands he caught;
And, even as the King of Love might kiss,		460
Felt her smooth cheek and pressed her lips with his.

What matter by what name of heaven or earth
Men called his love? Breathing and loving there
She stood, and clung to him; one love had birth
In their two hearts, he said; all things were fair,		465
Although no sunlight warmed the fresh grey air
As their lips sundered. Hand in hand they turned
From where no more the yellow blossoms burned.

Louder the stream was, fallen dead was the wind,
As up the vale they went into the night,		470
No rest but rest of utter love to find
Amidst the marvel of new-born delight;
And as her feet brushed through the dew, made white
By the high moon, he cried: For this, for this
God made the world, that I might feel thy kiss!		475

HAT, is the tale not ended then? Woe’s me!
How many tales on earth have such an end:
I longed, I found, I lived long happily,
And fearless in death’s fellowship did wend?
On earth, where hope is that two souls may blend		480
That God has made; but she, who made her then
To be a curse unto the sons of men?

And yet a flawless life indeed that seemed
For a long while: as flowers, not made to die
Or sin, they were: no dream was ever dreamed,		485
How short soe’er, wherein more utterly
Was fear forgot or weariness worn by;
Wherein less thought of the world’s woe and shame,
Of men’s vain struggles, o’er the sweet rest came.

Men say he grew exceeding wise in love,		490
That all the beauty that the earth had known,
At least in seeming, would come back, and move
Betwixt the buds and blossoms overblown;
Till, turning round to that which was his own,
Blind would he grow with ecstasy of bliss,		495
And find unhoped-for joy in each new kiss.

Men say that every dear voice love has made
Throughout that love-filled loneliness would float,
And make the roses tremble in the shade
With unexpected sweetness of its note		500
Till he would turn unto her quivering throat,
And, deaf belike, would feel the wave of sound
From out her lips change all the air around.

Men say he saw the lovers of old time;
That ORPHEUS10 led in his EURYDICE,		505
Crooning o’er snatches of forgotten rhyme,
That once had striven against eternity,
And only failed, as all love fails, to see
Desire grow into perfect joy, to make
A lonely heaven for one beloved’s sake.		510

THISBE11 he saw, her wide white bosom bare;
Thereon instead of blood the mulberries’ stain;
And single-hearted PYRAMUS anear
Held in his hand tufts of the lion’s mane,
And the grey blade that stilled their longings vain		515
Smote down the daisies. Changeless earth and old,
Surely thy heart amid thy flowers is cold!

HELEN he saw move slow across the sward,
Until before the feet of her she stood
Who gave her, a bright bane and sad reward,12		520
Unto the PARIS that her hand yet wooed:
Trembled her lips now, and the shame-stirred blood
Flushed her smooth cheek; but hard he gazed, and yearned
Unto the torch that Troy and him had burned.

Then ARIADNE13 came, her raiment wet		525
From out the sea; to her a prison wall,
A highway to the love she could not get.
Then upon PHYLLIS’14 ivory cheeks did fall
The almond-blossoms. Then, black-haired and tall,
Came DIDO, with her slender fingers laid		530
On the thin edge of that so bitter blade.15

Then, what had happed? was the sun darker now?
Had the flowers shrunk, the warm breeze grown a-chill?
It may be; but his love therewith did grow,
And all his aching heart it seemed to fill		535
With such desire as knows no chain nor will:
Shoulder to shoulder quivering there they lay,
In a changed world that had not night nor day.

A loveless waste of ages seemed to part,
And through the cloven dullness BRYNHILD came,		540
Her left hand on the fire that was her heart,
That paled her cheeks and through her eyes did flame,
Her right hand holding SIGURD’S; for no shame
Was in his simple eyes, that saw the worth
So clearly now of all the perished earth.		545

Then suddenly outbroke the thrushes’ sound,
The air grew fresh as after mid-spring showers,
And on the waves of soft wind flowing round
Came scent of apple-bloom and gilliflowers,16
And all the world seemed in its morning hours,		550
And soft and dear were kisses, and the sight
Of eyes, and hands, and lips, and bosom white.

Yea, the earth seemed a-babbling of these twain,
TRISTRAM and YSEULT,17 as they lingered there,
All their life-days now nothing but a gain;		555
While death itself, wrapped in love’s arms, must bear
Some blossoms grown from depths of all despair,
Some clinging, sweetest, bitterest kiss of all,
Before the dark upon their heads should fall.

Others he saw, whose names could tell him nought		560
Of any tale they might have sorrowed through;
But their lips spake, when of their lives he sought,
And many a story from their hearts he drew,
Some sweet as any that old poets knew,
Some terrible as death, some strange and wild		565
As any dream that hath sad night beguiled.

But all with one accord, what else they said,
Would praise with eager words the Queen of Love;
Yet sometimes while they spake, as if with dread,
Would look askance adown the blossomed grove;		570
Till a strange pain within his heart would move,
And he would cling to her enfolding arm,
Trembling with joy to find her breast yet warm.

Then a great longing would there stir in him,
That all those kisses might not satisfy;		575
Dreams never dreamed before would gather dim
About his eyes, and trembling would he cry
To tell him how it was he should not die;
To tell him how it was that he alone
Should have a love all perfect and his own.		580

Ah me! with softest words her lips could make,
With touches worth a lifetime of delight,
Then would she soothe him, and his hand would take,
And lead him through all places fresh and bright,
And show him greater marvels of her might,		585
Till midst of smiles and joy he clean forgot
That she his passionate cry had answered not.

Forgot to-day, and many days maybe:
Yet many days such questions came again,
And he would ask: How do I better thee,		590
Who never knew’st a sorrow or a pain?
Folk on the earth fear they may love in vain,
Ere first they see the love in answering eyes,
And still from day to day fresh fear doth rise.

Unanswered and forgot! forgot to-day,		595
Because too close they clung for sight or sound;
But yet to-morrow: Changeless love, O say
Why, since love’s grief on earth doth so abound,
No heart my heart that loveth so ere found
That needed me? for wilt thou say indeed		600
That thou, O perfect one, of me hast need?

Unanswered and forgot a little while;
Asked and unanswered many a time and oft;
Till something gleamed from out that marvellous smile,
And something moved within that bosom soft,		605
As though the God of Love had turned and scoffed
His worshipper, before his feet cast down
To tell of all things for his sake o’erthrown.

How many questions asked, nor answered aught;
How many longings met still by that same		610
Sweet face, by anguish never yet distraught,
Those limbs ne’er marred by any fear or shame;
How many times that dear rest o’er him came
And faded mid the fear that nought she knew
What bitter seed within his bosom grew?		615

‘Twixt lessening joy and gathering fear, grew thin
That lovely dream, and glimmered now through it
Gleams of the world cleft from him by his sin;
Hell’s flames withal, heaven’s glory, ‘gan to flit
Athwart his eyes sometimes, as he did sit		620
Beside the Queen, in sleep’s soft image laid;
And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed.

And in that while two thoughts there stirred in him,
And this the first: Am I the only one
Whose eyes thy glorious kisses have made dim?		625
And what then with the others hast thou done?
Where is the sweetness of their sick love gone?
Ah me! her lips upon his lips were laid,
And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed.

And in that while the second thought was this:		630
And if, wrapped in her love, I linger here
Till God’s last justice endeth all our bliss,
Shall my eyes then, by hopeless pain made clear,
See that a vile dream my vain life held dear,
And I am lone? Ah, cheek to his cheek laid!		635
And yet awhile the dreadful dawn was stayed.

How long who knoweth? and be sure meanwhile,
That could man’s heart imagine, man’s tongue say,
The strange delights that did his heart beguile
Within that marvellous place from day to day,		640
Whoso might hearken should cast clean away
All thought of sin and shame, and laugh to scorn
The fear and hope of that delaying morn.

But the third thought at last, unnamed for long,
Bloomed, a weak flower of hope within his heart;		645
And by its side unrest grew bitter strong,
And, though his lips said not the word, Depart;
Yet would he murmur Hopeless fair thou art!
Is there no love amid earth’s sorrowing folk?
So glared the dreadful dawn, and thus it broke.		650

For on a night, amid the lily and rose,
Peaceful he woke from dreams of days bygone;
Peaceful at first; and, seeing her lying close
Beside him, had no memory of deeds done
Since long before that eve he rode alone		655
Amidst the wild wood; still awhile himseemed
That of that fair close, those white limbs he dreamed.

So there for long he lay in happy rest,
As one too full of peace to wish to wake
From dreams he knows are dreams. Upon her breast		660
The soft wind did the dewy rose-leaves shake;
From out a gleaming cloud the moon did break;
Till, mid her balmy sleep, toward him she turned,
And into his soul her touch his baseness burned.

Then fled all peace, as in a blaze of flame,		665
Rushed dreadful memory back; and therewithal,
Amid the thoughts that crowding o’er him came,
Clear vision of the end on him did fall;
Rose up against him a great fiery wall,
Built of vain longing and regret and fear,		670
Dull empty loneliness, and blank despair.

A little space in stony dread he lay,
Till something of a wretched hope at last
Amidst his tangled misery drave its way.
Slowly he rose, and, cold with terror, passed		675
Through blossomed boughs, whose leaves, upon him cast
As he brushed by, seemed full of life and sound,
Though noiselessly they fell upon the ground.

But soon he fled fast: and his goal he knew,
For each day’s life once burdened with delight		680
Rose clear before him, as he hurried through
That lonely hell the grey moon yet made bright;
And midst them he remembered such a night
Of his first days there, when, hand locked in hand,
Sleepless with love, they wandered through the land;		685

And how, as thus they went, and as he thought
If he might still remember all her speech
Whatso fresh pleasure to him might be brought,
A grove of windless myrtles they did reach,
So dark, that closer they clung each to each,		690
As children might, and how the grove nigh done,
They came upon a cliff of smooth grey stone;

And how, because the moon shone thereabout
Betwixt the boughs grown thinner, he could see,
Gazing along her smooth white arm stretched out,		695
A cavern mid the cliff gape gloomily;
And how she said: Hither I guided thee,
To show thee the dark danger and the death,
But if thou have heed, of thy love and faith.

Ah me! the memory of the sunrise sweet		700
After that warning little understood,
When stole the golden sun unto her feet,
As she lay sleeping by the myrtle-wood,
Watched by his sleepless longing! O how good
Those days were! fool, go back, go back again;		705
Shalt thou have lived and wilt thou die in vain?

So cried he, knowing well now what it meant,
That long-passed warning that there gaped the gate
Whereby lost souls back to the cold earth went
Then through his soul there swept a rush of hate		710
‘Gainst hope, that came so cruel and so late
To drive him forth from all the joys he knew,
Yet scarcely whispering why or whereunto.

Therewith he stayed: midst a bright mead he was,
Whose flowers across her feet full oft had met		715
While he beheld; a babbling stream did pass
Unto the flowery close that held her yet.
O bliss grown woe that he might ne’er forget!
But how shall he go back, just, e’en as now,
Oft, o’er again that bliss from him to throw?		720

He cried aloud with rage and misery,
But once again gat onward through the night;
Nought met him but the wind as he drew nigh
That myrtle-grove, black ‘gainst the meadow bright;
Nought followed but the ghost of dead delight;		725
The boughs closed round him as still on he sped,
Half deeming that the world and he were dead.

But when he came unto the open space,
Grey with the glimmer of the moon, he stayed
Breathless, and turned his white and quivering face		730
Back toward the spot where he had left her, laid
Beneath the rose-boughs by their flowers down-weighed,
As if he looked e’en yet to see her come
And lead him back unto her changeless home.

Nought saw he but the black boughs, and he cried:		735
No sign, no sign for all thy kisses past!
For all thy soft speech that hath lied and lied!
No help, no cry to come back? Ah, at last
I know that no real love from me I cast;
Nought but a dream; and that God knoweth too;		740
And no great gift He deems this deed I do.

O me! if thou across the night wouldst cry,
If through this dusky twilight of the moon
Thou wouldst glide past and sob a-going by,
Then would I turn and ask no greater boon		745
Of God, than here with thee to dwell alone,
And wait His day! but now, behold, I flee,
Lest thy kissed lips should speak but mocks to me!

But now I flee, lest God should leave us twain
Forgotten here when earth has passed away,		750
Nor think us worthy of more hell or pain
Than such a never-ending, hopeless day!
No sign yet breaketh through the glimmering grey!
Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave,
Unless this last faint hope thou wilt receive!		755

And with that word he rushed into the cave.
But when the depths of its chill dark he gained,
Turning he saw without the black boughs wave;
And oh, amidst them swayed her form unstained!
But as he moved to meet her, all things waned;		760
A void unfathomed caught him as he fell
Into a night whereof no tongue can tell.

NTO bright sun he woke up suddenly,
And sprang up like a man with foes beset
Amidst of sleep, and crying an old cry		765
Learned in the tilt-yard; blind and tottering yet,
He stretched his hand out, that a tree-trunk met
Dank with the dew of morn, and through his blood
A shiver ran, as hapless there he stood.

Until, though scarce remembering aught at all,		770
Clearly he saw the world and where he was;
For as he gazed around his eyes did fall
Upon a tree-encompassed plain of grass,
Through which anigh him did a fair stream pass.
He stood and looked, nor a long while did dare		775
To turn and see what lay behind him there.

At last he did turn, and the cave’s mouth, black,
Threatening, and dreadful, close to him did see,
And thither now his first thought drove him back;
A blind hope mingled with the misery		780
That ‘gan to close about him; and yet he
Had no will left to move his feet thereto.
Yea, vague that past joy seemed; yea, hardly true.

Again he looked about: the sun was bright,
And leafless were the trees of that lone place,		785
Last seen by him amid the storm’s wild light:
He passed his hand across his haggard face,
And touched his brow; and therefrom did he raise,
Unwittingly, a strange-wrought golden crown,
Mingled with roses, faded now and brown.		790

The cold March wind across his raiment ran
As his hand dropped, and the crown fell to earth;
An icy shiver caught the wretched man
As he beheld his raiment of such worth
For gems, that in strange places had their birth,		795
But frail as is the dragon-fly’s fair wing
That down the July stream goes flickering.

Cold to the very bone, in that array
He hugged himself against the biting wind,
And toward the stream went slow upon his way;		800
Nor yet amidst the mazes of his mind
The whole tale of his misery might he find,
Though well he knew he was come back again
Unto a lost world fresh fulfilled of pain.

But ere he reached the rippling stony ford,		805
His right foot smote on something in the grass,
And, looking down, he saw a goodly sword,
Though rusted, tangled in the weeds it was;
Then to his heart did better memory pass,
And in one flash he saw that bygone night,		810
Big with its sudden hopes of strange delight.

For, lo you, now his blanched and unused hand
Clutched the spoiled grip of his once trusty blade!
There, holding it point downward, did he stand,
Until he heard a cry, and from a glade		815
He saw a man come toward him; sore afraid
Of that new face he was, as a lone child
Of footsteps on a midnight road and wild.

There he stood still, and watched the man draw near;
A forester, who, gazing on him now,		820
Seemed for his part stayed by some sudden fear
That made him fit a shaft unto his bow,
As his scared heart wild tales to him did show
About that haunted hill-side and the cave,
And scarce he thought by flight his soul to save.		825

Now when he saw that, out into the stream
The knight strode, with a great and evil cry,
Since all men suddenly his foes did seem:
Then quailed the man, yet withal timidly
His bowstring drew, and close the shaft did fly		830
To Walter’s ear, but the carle turned and fled,
E’en as he drew the bowstring to his head.

But the knight reached the other side, and stood
Staring with hopeless eyes through that cold day,
And nothing that he now might do seemed good:		835
Then muttered he: Why did I flee away?
My tears are frozen, and I cannot pray;
Nought have I, God, for thee to take or leave,
Unless that last faint hope thou didst receive.

But as he spake these words unwittingly,		840
He moaned; for once again the moonlit place
Where last he said them did he seem to see,
And in his heart such longing did that raise,
That a bright flush came o’er his haggard face
And round he turned unto the cliff once more,		845
And moved as if the stream he would cross o’er.

Who shall tell what thought stayed him? who shall tell
Why pale he grew? of what was he afraid,
As, turning, fast his hurried footsteps fell
On the wind-bitten blooms of spring delayed?		850
What hope his dull heart tore, as brown birds made
Clear song about the thicket’s edge, when he
Rushed by their thorny haunts of melody?

Heavily now his feet, so well wont, trod
The blind ways of the wood, till it grew thin,		855
And through the beech-trunks the green sunlit sod
He saw again; and presently did win
Into another cleared space, hemmed within
A long loop of the stream, and midmost there
Stood the abode of some stout wood-dweller.		860

Now as he came anigher to the sun,
Upon his glittering, gauzy, strange array
The bough-flecked, dazzling light of mid-day shone,
And at the wood’s edge made he sudden stay,
And, writhing, seemed as he would tear away		865
The bright curse from him, till he raised his face,
And knew the cottage midmost of the place:

Knew it, as one a-dying might behold
His cup, made joyous once with wine and glee,
Now brought unto him with its ruddy gold		870
Stained with the last sad potion scantily;
For he, a youth, in joyous company,
Maying or hunting, oft had wandered there,
When maiden’s love first known was fresh and fair.

He moaned, and slowly made unto the door,		875
Where sat a woman spinning in the sun,
Who oft belike had seen him there before,
Among those bright folk not the dullest one;
But now when she had set her eyes upon
The wild thing hastening to her, for a space		880
She sat regarding him with scared white face;

But as he neared her, fell her rock adown.
She rose, and fled with mouth that would have cried
But for her terror. Then did Walter groan:
O wretched life! how well might I have died		885
Here, where I stand, on many a happy tide,
When folk fled not from me, nor knew me cursed,
And yet who knoweth that I know the worst?

Scarce formed upon his lips, the word Return
Rang in his heart once more; but a cold cloud		890
Of all despair, however he might yearn,
All pleasure of that bygone dream did shroud,
And hopes and fears, long smothered, now ‘gan crowd
About his heart: nor might he rest in pain,
But needs must struggle on, howe’er in vain.		895

Into the empty house he passed withal:
As in a dream the motes did dance and grow
Amidst the sun, that through the door did fall
Across its gloom, and on the board did show
A bag of silver pieces, many enow,		900
The goodman’s market-silver, and a spear
New-shafted, bright, that lay athwart it there.

Brooding he stood, till in him purpose grew:
Unto the peasants’ coffer, known of old,
He turned, and raised the lid, and from it drew		905
Raiment well worn by miles of wind-beat wold;
And, casting to the floor his gauzy gold,
Did on these things, scarce thinking in meanwhile
How he should deal with his life’s new-born toil.

But now, being clad, he took the spear and purse,		910
And on the board his clothes begemmed he laid,
Half wondering would their wealth turn to a curse
As in the tales he once deemed vainly made
Of elves and such-like. Once again he weighed
The bright web in his hand, and a great flood		915
Of evil memories fevered all his blood,

Blinded his eyes, and wrung his heart full sore;
Yet grew his purpose among men to dwell,
He scarce knew why, nor said he any more
That word Return: perchance the threatened hell,		920
Disbelieved once, seemed all too possible
Amid this anguish, wherefrom if the grain
Of hope should fall, then hell would be a gain.

He went his ways, and once more crossed the stream,
And hastened through the wood, that scantier grew,		925
Till from a low hill he could see the gleam
Of the great river that of old he knew,
Which drank the woodland stream: ‘neath the light blue
Of the March sky, swirling and bright it ran,
A wonder and a tale to many a man.		930

He went on, wondering not; all tales were nought
Except his tale; with ruin of his own life,
To ruin the world’s life, hopeful once, seemed brought;
The changing year seemed weary of the strife
Ever recurring, with all vain hope rife;		935
Earth, sky, and water seemed too weak and old
To gain a little rest from waste and cold.

He wondered not, and no pain smote on him,
Though from a green hill on the further side,
Above the green meads set with poplars slim,		940
A white wall, buttressed well, made girdle wide
To towers and roofs where yet his kin did bide:
His father’s ancient house; yea, now he saw
His very pennon toward the river draw.

No pain these gave him, and no scorn withal		945
Of his old self; no rage that men were glad
And went their ways, whatso on him might fall;
For all seemed shadows to him, good or bad;
At most the raiment that his yearning clad,
Yearning made blind with misery, for more life,		950
If it might be, love yet should lead the strife.

He stood a space and watched the ferry-boat
Take in its load of bright and glittering things;
He watched its head adown the river float,
As o’er the water came the murmurings		955
Of broken talk; and as all memory clings
To such dumb sounds, so dreamlike came back now
The tale of how his life and love did grow.

He turned away and strode on, knowing not
What purpose moved him; as the river flowed		960
He hastened, where the sun of March blazed hot
Upon the bounding wall and hard white road,
The terraced blooming vines, the brown abode
Where wife and child and dog of vine-dressers
With mingled careless clamour cursed his ears.		965

How can words measure misery, when the sun
Shines at its brightest over plague and ill?
How can I tell the woe of any one,
When the soft showers with fair-hued sweetness fill,
Before the feet of those grief may not kill,		970
The tender meads of hopeful spring, that comes
With eager hours to mock all hopeless homes?

So let it pass, and ask me not to weigh
Grief against grief: ye who have ever woke
To wondering, ere came memory back, why day,		975
Bare, blank, immovable, upon you broke,
Untold shall ye know all; to happy folk
All heaviest words no more of meaning bear
Than far-off bells saddening the summer air.

But tells my tale, that all that day he went		980
Along the highway by the river side,
Urged on by restlessness without intent,
Until when he was caught by evening-tide,
Worn out withal, at last must he abide
At a small homestead, where he gat him food		985
And bed of straw, among tired folk and rude.

A weary ghost within the poor hall there,
He sat amidst their weariness, who knew
No whit of all his case, yet half with fear
And half with scorn gazed on him, as, with few		990
And heavy words, about the fire they drew,
The goodman and goodwife, both old and grey,
Three stout sons, and one rough uncared-for may.

A ghost he sat, and as a ghost he heard
What things they spoke of; but sleep-laden night		995
Seemed to have crushed all memory of their word,
When on the morrow, in the young sun’s light,
He plodded o’er the highway hard and white;
Unto what end he knew not: though swift thought
Memory of things long spoken to him brought.		1000

That day he needs must leave the streamside road,
Whereon he met of wayfarers no few;
For sight of wondering eyes now ‘gan to goad
His misery more, as still more used he grew
To that dull world he had returned unto;		1005
So into a deep-banked lane he turned aside,
A little more his face from men to hide.

Slowly he went, for afternoon it was,
And with the long way was he much forworn;
Nor far between the deep banks did he pass,		1010
Ere on the wind unto his ears was borne
A stranger sound than he had heard that morn,
Sweet sound of mournful singing; then he stayed
His feet, and gazed about as one afraid:

He shuddered, feeling as in time long past,

1015