A Dark Month

'La maison sans enfants!' - VICTOR HUGO.

I.

A month without sight of the sun

Rising or reigning or setting

Through days without use of the day,

Who calls it the month of May?

The sense of the name is undone

And the sound of it fit for forgetting.

We shall not feel if the sun rise,

We shall not care when it sets:

If a nightingale make night's air

As noontide, why should we care?

Till a light of delight that is done rise,

Extinguishing grey regrets;

Till a child's face lighten again

On the twilight of older faces;

Till a child's voice fall as the dew

On furrows with heat parched through

And all but hopeless of grain,

Refreshing the desolate places

Fall clear on the ears of us hearkening

And hungering for food of the sound

And thirsting for joy of his voice:

Till the hearts in us hear and rejoice,

And the thoughts of them doubting and darkening

Rejoice with a glad thing found.

When the heart of our gladness is gone,

What comfort is left with us after?

When the light of our eyes is away,

What glory remains upon May,

What blessing of song is thereon

If we drink not the light of his laughter?

No small sweet face with the daytime

To welcome, warmer than noon!

No sweet small voice as a bird's

To bring us the day's first words!

Mid May for us here is not Maytime!

No summer begins with June.

A whole dead month in the dark,

A dawn in the mists that o'ercome her

Stifled and smothered and sad

Swift speed to it, barren and bad!

And return to us, voice of the lark,

And remain with us, sunlight of summer.

II.

Alas, what right has the dawn to glimmer,

What right has the wind to do aught but moan?

All the day should be dimmer

Because we are left alone.

Yestermorn like a sunbeam present

Hither and thither a light step smiled,

And made each place for us pleasant

With the sense or the sight of a child.

But the leaves persist as before, and after

Our parting the dull day still bears flowers

And songs less bright than his laughter

Deride us from birds in the bowers.

Birds, and blossoms, and sunlight only,

As though such folly sufficed for spring!

As though the house were not lonely

For want of the child its king!

III.

Asleep and afar to-night my darling

Lies, and heeds not the night,

If winds be stirring or storms be snarling;

For his sleep is its own sweet light.

I sit where he sat beside me quaffing

The wine of story and song

Poured forth of immortal cups, and laughing

When mirth in the draught grew strong.

I broke the gold of the words, to melt it

For hands but seven years old,

And they caught the tale as a bird, and felt it

More bright than visible gold.

And he drank down deep, with his eyes broad beaming,

Here in this room where I am,

The golden vintage of Shakespeare, gleaming

In the silver vessels of Lamb.

Here by my hearth where he was I listen

For the shade of the sound of a word,

Athirst for the birdlike eyes to glisten,

For the tongue to chirp like a bird.

At the blast of battle, how broad they brightened,

Like fire in the spheres of stars,

And clung to the pictured page, and lightened

As keen as the heart of Mars!

At the touch of laughter, how swift it twittered

The shrillest music on earth;

How the lithe limbs laughed and the whole child glittered

With radiant riot of mirth!

Our Shakespeare now, as a man dumb-stricken,

Stands silent there on the shelf:

And my thoughts, that had song in the heart of them, sicken,

And relish not Shakespeare's self.

And my mood grows moodier than Hamlet's even,

And man delights not me,

But only the face that morn and even

My heart leapt only to see.

That my heart made merry within me seeing,

And sang as his laugh kept time:

But song finds now no pleasure in being,

And love no reason in rhyme.

IV.

Mild May-blossom and proud sweet bay-flower,

What, for shame, would you have with us here?

It is not the month of the May-flower

This, but the fall of the year.

Flowers open only their lips in derision,

Leaves are as fingers that point in scorn:

The shows we see are a vision;

Spring is not verily born.

Yet boughs turn supple and buds grow sappy,

As though the sun were indeed the sun:

And all our woods are happy

With all their birds save one.

But spring is over, but summer is over,

But autumn is over, and winter stands

With his feet sunk deep in the clover

And cowslips cold in his hands.

His hoar grim head has a hawthorn bonnet,

His gnarled gaunt hand has a gay green staff

With new-blown rose-blossom on it:

But his laugh is a dead man's laugh.

The laugh of spring that the heart seeks after,

The hand that the whole world yearns to kiss,

It rings not here in his laughter,

The sign of it is not this.

There is not strength in it left to splinter

Tall oaks, nor frost in his breath to sting:

Yet it is but a breath as of winter,

And it is not the hand of spring.

V.

Thirty-one pale maidens, clad

All in mourning dresses,

Pass, with lips and eyes more sad

That it seems they should be glad,

Heads discrowned of crowns they had,

Grey for golden tresses.

Grey their girdles too for green,

And their veils dishevelled:

None would say, to see their mien,

That the least of these had been

Born no baser than a queen,

Reared where flower-fays revelled.

Dreams that strive to seem awake,

Ghosts that walk by daytime,

Weary winds the way they take,

Since, for one child's absent sake,

May knows well, whate'er things make

Sport, it is not Maytime.

VI.

A hand at the door taps light

As the hand of my heart's delight:

It is but a full-grown hand,

Yet the stroke of it seems to start

Hope like a bird in my heart,

Too feeble to soar or to stand.

To start light hope from her cover

Is to raise but a kite for a plover

If her wings be not fledged to soar.

Desire, but in dreams, cannot ope

The door that was shut upon hope

When love went out at the door.

Well were it if vision could keep

The lids of desire as in sleep

Fast locked, and over his eyes

A dream with the dark soft key

In her hand might hover, and be

Their keeper till morning rise;

The morning that brings after many

Days fled with no light upon any

The small face back which is gone;

When the loved little hands once more

Shall struggle and strain at the door

They beat their summons upon.

VII.

If a soul for but seven days were cast out of heaven and its mirth,

They would seem to her fears like as seventy years upon earth.

Even and morrow should seem to her sorrow as long

As the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.

Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sight

As her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.

Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and grey

In her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.

Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,

When it could but withhold what a man may behold of the sun.

For dreams would perplex, were the days that should vex her but seven,

The sight of her vision, made dark with division from heaven.

Till the light on my lonely way lighten that only now gleams,

I too am divided from heaven and derided of dreams.

VIII.

A twilight fire-fly may suggest

How flames the fire that feeds the sun:

'A crooked figure may attest

In little space a million.'

But this faint-figured verse, that dresses

With flowers the bones of one bare month,

Of all it would say scarce expresses

In crooked ways a millionth.

A fire-fly tenders to the father

Of fires a tribute something worth:

My verse, a shard-borne beetle rather,

Drones over scarce-illumined earth.

Some inches round me though it brighten

With light of music-making thought,

The dark indeed it may not lighten,

The silence moves not, hearing nought.

Only my heart is eased with hearing,

Only mine eyes are soothed with seeing,

A face brought nigh, a footfall nearing,

Till hopes take form and dreams have being.

IX.

As a poor man hungering stands with insatiate eyes and hands

Void of bread

Right in sight of men that feast while his famine with no least

Crumb is fed,

Here across the garden-wall can I hear strange children call,

Watch them play,

From the windowed seat above, whence the goodlier child I love

Is away.

Here the sights we saw together moved his fancy like a feather

To and fro,

Now to wonder, and thereafter to the sunny storm of laughter

Loud and low

Sights engraven on storied pages where man's tale of seven swift ages

All was told

Seen of eyes yet bright from heaven for the lips that laughed were seven

Sweet years old.

X.

Why should May remember

March, if March forget

The days that began with December,

The nights that a frost could fret?

All their griefs are done with

Now the bright months bless

Fit souls to rejoice in the sun with,

Fit heads for the wind's caress;

Souls of children quickening

With the whole world's mirth,

Heads closelier than field-flowers thickening

That crowd and illuminate earth,

Now that May's call musters

Files of baby bands

To marshal in joyfuller clusters

Than the flowers that encumber their hands.

Yet morose November

Found them no less gay,

With nought to forget or remember

Less bright than a branch of may.

All the seasons moving

Move their minds alike

Applauding, acclaiming, approving

All hours of the year that strike.

So my heart may fret not,

Wondering if my friend

Remember me not or forget not

Or ever the month find end.

Not that love sows lighter

Seed in children sown,

But that life being lit in them brighter

Moves fleeter than even our own.

May nor yet September

Binds their hearts, that yet

Remember, forget, and remember,

Forget, and recall, and forget

XI.

As light on a lake's face moving

Between a cloud and a cloud

Till night reclaim it, reproving

The heart that exults too loud,

The heart that watching rejoices

When soft it swims into sight

Applauded of all the voices

And stars of the windy night,

So brief and unsure, but sweeter

Than ever a moondawn smiled,

Moves, measured of no tune's metre,

The song in the soul of a child;

The song that the sweet soul singing

Half listens, and hardly hears,

Though sweeter than joy-bells ringing

And brighter than joy's own tears;

The song that remembrance of pleasure

Begins, and forgetfulness ends

With a soft swift change in the measure

That rings in remembrance of friends

As the moon on the lake's face flashes,

So haply may gleam at whiles

A dream through the dear deep lashes

Whereunder a child's eye smiles,

And the least of us all that love him

May take for a moment part

With angels around and above him,

And I find place in his heart

XII.

Child, were you kinless and lonely

Dear, were you kin to me

My love were compassionate only

Or such as it needs would be.

But eyes of father and mother

Like sunlight shed on you shine:

What need you have heed of another

Such new strange love as is mine?

It is not meet if unruly

Hands take of the children's bread

And cast it to dogs; but truly

The dogs after all would be fed.

On crumbs from the children's table

That crumble, dropped from above,

Mr heart feeds, fed with unstable

Loose waifs of a child's light love.

Though love in your heart were brittle

As glass that breaks with a touch,

You haply would lend him a little

Who surely would give you much.

XIII.

Here is a rough

Rude sketch of my friend,

Faint-coloured enough

And unworthily penned.

Fearlessly fair

And triumphant he stands,

And holds unaware

Friends' hearts in his hands;

Stalwart and straight

As an oak that should bring

Forth gallant and great

Fresh roses in spring.

On the paths of his pleasure

All graces that wait

What metre shall measure

What rhyme shall relate

Each action, each motion,

Each feature, each limb,

Demands a devotion

In honour of him:

Head that the hand

Of a god might have blest,

Laid lustrous and bland

On the curve of its crest:

Mouth sweeter than cherries

Keen eyes as of Mars

Browner than berries

And brighter than stars.

Nor colour nor wordy

Weak song can declare

The stature how sturdy,

How stalwart his air.

As a king in his bright

Presence-chamber may be,

So seems he in height

Twice higher than your knee.

As a warrior sedate

With reserve of his power,

So seems he in state

As tall as a flower:

As a rose overtowering

The ranks of the rest

That beneath it lie cowering,

Less bright than their best

And his hands are as sunny

As ruddy ripe corn

Or the browner-hued honey

From heather-bells borne.

When summer sits proudest,

Fulfilled with its mirth,

And rapture is loudest

In air and on earth,

The suns of all hours

That have ripened the roots

Bring forth not such flowers

And beget not such fruits.

And well though I know it,

As fain would I write,

Child, never a poet

Could praise you aright.

I bless you? the blessing

Were less than a jest

Too poor for expressing;

I come to be blest,

With humble and dutiful

Heart, from above:

Bless me, O my beautiful

Innocent love!

This rhyme in your praise

With a smile was begun;

But the goal of his ways

Is uncovered to none,

Nor pervious till after

The limit impend;

It is not in laughter

These rhymes of you end.

XIV.

Spring, and fall, and summer, and winter,

Which may Earth love least of them all,

Whose arms embrace as their signs imprint her,

Summer, or winter, or spring, or fall?

The clear-eyed spring with the wood-birds mating,

The rose-red summer with eyes aglow,

The yellow fall with serene eyes waiting,

The wild-eyed winter with hair all snow?

Spring's eyes are soft, but if frosts benumb her

As winter's own will her shrewd breath sting:

Storms may rend the raiment of summer,

And fall grow bitter as harsh-lipped spring.

One sign for summer and winter guides me,

One for spring, and the like for fall:

Whichever from sight of my friend divides me,

That is the worst ill season of all.

XV.

Worse than winter is spring

If I come not to sight of my king:

But then what a spring will it be

When my king takes homage of me!

I send his grace from afar

Homage, as though to a star;

As a shepherd whose flock takes flight

May worship a star by night.

As a flock that a wolf is upon

My songs take flight and are gone:

No heart is in any to sing

Aught but the praise of my king.

Fain would I once and again

Sing deeds and passions of men:

But ever a child's head gleams

Between my work and my dreams.

Between my hand and my eyes

The lines of a small face rise,

And the lines I trace and retrace

Are none but those of the face.

XVI.

Till the tale of all this flock of days alike

All be done,

Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strike

Thirty-one,

Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and end

With the clock,

Till the last and whitest sheep at last be penned

Of the flock,

I their shepherd keep the count of night and day

With my song,

Though my song be, like this month which once was May,

All too long.

XVII.

The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,

On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:

But trulier had it given the truth

To shape him like a child.

No face full-grown of all our dearest

So lightens all our darkness, none

Most loved of all our hearts hold nearest

So far outshines the sun,

As when with sly shy smiles that feign

Doubt if the hour be clear, the time

Fit to break off my work again

Or sport of prose or rhyme,

My friend peers in on me with merry

Wise face, and though the sky stay dim

The very light of day, the very

Sun's self comes in with him.

XVIII.

Out of sight,

Out of mind!

Could the light

Prove unkind?

Can the sun

Quite forget

What was done

Ere he set?

Does the moon

When she wanes

Leave no tune

That remains

In the void

Shell of night

Overcloyed

With her light?

Must the shore

At low tide

Feel no more

Hope or pride,

No intense

Joy to be,

In the sense

Of the sea

In the pulses

Of her shocks

It repulses,

When its rocks

Thrill and ring

As with glee?

Has my king

Cast off me,

Whom no bird

Flying south

Brings one word

From his mouth?

Not the ghost

Of a word

Riding post

Have I heard,

Since the day

When my king

Took away

With him spring,

And the cup

Of each flower

Shrivelled up

That same hour,

With no light

Left behind.

Out of sight,

Out of mind!

XIX.

Because I adore you

And fall

On the knees of my spirit before you

After all,

You need not insult,

My king,

With neglect, though your spirit exult

In the spring,

Even me, though not worth,

God knows,

One word of you sent me in mirth,

Or one rose

Out of all in your garden

That grow

Where the frost and the wind never harden

Flakes of snow,

Nor ever is rain

At all,

But the roses rejoice to remain

Fair and tall

The roses of love,

More sweet

Than blossoms that rain from above

Round our feet,

When under high bowers

We pass,

Where the west wind freckles with flowers

All the grass.

But a child's thoughts bear

More bright

Sweet visions by day, and more fair

Dreams by night,

Than summer's whole treasure

Can be:

What am I that his thought should take pleasure,

Then, in me?

I am only my love's

True lover,

With a nestful of songs, like doves

Under cover,

That I bring in my cap

Fresh caught,

To be laid on my small king's lap

Worth just nought

Yet it haply may hap

That he,

When the mirth in his veins is as sap

In a tree,

Will remember me too

Some day

Ere the transit be thoroughly through

Of this May

Or perchance, if such grace

May be,

Some night when I dream of his face,

Dream of me.

Or if this be too high

A hope

For me to prefigure in my

Horoscope,

He may dream of the place

Where we

Basked once in the light of his face,

Who now see

Nought brighter, not one

Thing bright,

Than the stars and the moon and the sun,

Day nor night

XX.

Day by darkling day,

Overpassing, bears away

Somewhat of the burden of this weary May.

Night by numbered night,

Waning, brings more near in sight

Hope that grows to vision of my heart's delight

Nearer seems to burn

In the dawn's rekindling urn

Flame of fragrant incense, hailing his return.

Louder seems each bird

In the brightening branches heard

Still to speak some ever more delightful word.

All the mists that swim

Round the dawns that grow less dim

Still wax brighter and more bright with hope of him,

All the suns that rise

Bring that day more near our eyes

When the sight of him shall clear our clouded skies.

All the winds that roam

Fruitful fields or fruitless foam

Blow the bright hour near that brings his bright face home,

XXI.

I hear of two far hence

In a garden met,

And the fragrance blown from thence

Fades not yet.

The one is seven years old,

And my friend is he:

But the years of the other have told

Eighty-three.

To hear these twain converse

Or to see them greet

Were sweeter than softest verse

May be sweet.

The hoar old gardener there

With an eye more mild

Perchance than his mild white hair

Meets the child.

I had rather hear the words

That the twain exchange

Than the songs of all the birds

There that range,

Call, chirp, and twitter there

Through the garden-beds

Where the sun alike sees fair

Those two heads,

And which may holier be

Held in heaven of those

Or more worth heart's thanks to see

No man knows.

XXII.

Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

No glory that ever was shed

From the crowning star of the seven

That crown the north world's head,

No word that ever was spoken

Of human or godlike tongue,

Gave ever such godlike token

Since human harps were strung.

No sign that ever was given

To faithful or faithless eyes

Showed ever beyond clouds riven

So clear a Paradise.

Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven

And blood have denied each creed:

If of such be the kingdom of heaven,

It must be heaven indeed

XXIII.

The wind on the downs is bright

As though from the sea:

And morning and night

Take comfort again with me.

He is nearer to-day,

Each night to each morning saith,

Whose return shall revive dead May

With the balm of his breath.

The sunset says to the moon,

He is nearer to-night

Whose coming in June

Is looked for more than the light.

Bird answers to bird,

Hour passes the sign on to hour,

And for joy of the bright news heard

Flower murmurs to flower.

The ways that were glad of his feet

In the woods that he knew

Grow softer to meet

The sense of his footfall anew.

He is near now as day,

Says hope to the new-born light:

He is near now as June is to May,

Says love to the night.

XXIV.

Good things I keep to console me

For lack of the best of all,

A child to command and control me,

Bid come and remain at his call

Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,

Give all that ever they gave:

But my world is a cultureless island,

My spirit a masterless slave.

And friends are about me, and better

At summons of no man stand:

But I pine for the touch of a fetter,

The curb of a strong king's hand.

Each hour of the day in her season

Is mine to be served as I will:

And for no more exquisite reason

Are all served idly and ill

By slavery my sense is corrupted,

My soul not fit to be free:

I would fain be controlled, interrupted,

Compelled as a thrall may be.

For fault of spur and of bridle

I tire of my stall to death:

My sail flaps joyless and idle

For want of a small child's breath.

XXV.

Whiter and whiter

The dark lines grow,

And broader opens and brighter

The sense of the text below.

Nightfall and morrow

Bring nigher the boy

Whom wanting we want not sorrow,

Whom having we want no joy.

Clearer and clearer

The sweet sense grows

Of the word which hath summer for hearer,

The word on the lips of the rose.

Duskily dwindles

Each deathlike day,

Till June realising rekindles

The depth of the darkness of May.

XXVI.

'In his bright radiance and collateral light

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.'

Stars in heaven are many,

Suns in heaven but one:

Nor for man may any

Star supplant the sun.

Many a child as joyous

As our far-off king

Meets as though to annoy us

In the paths of spring.

Sure as spring gives warning,

All things dance in tune:

Sun on Easter morning,

Cloud and windy moon,

Stars between the tossing

Boughs of tuneful trees.

Sails of ships recrossing

Leagues of dancing seas;

Best, in all this playtime,

Best of all in tune,

Girls more glad than Maytime,

Boys more bright than June;

Mixed with all those dances,

Far through field and street

Sing their silent glances,

Ring their radiant feet.

Flowers wherewith May crowned us

Fall ere June be crowned:

Children blossom round us

All the whole year round.

Is the garland worthless

For one rose the less,

And the feast made mirthless?

Love, at least, says yes.

Strange it were, with many

Stars enkindling air,

Should but one find any

Welcome: strange it were,

Had one star alone won

Praise for light from far:

Nay, love needs his own one

Bright particular star.

Hope and recollection

Only lead him right

In its bright reflection

And collateral light.

Find as yet we may not

Comfort in its sphere:

Yet these days will weigh not

When it warms us here;

When full-orbed it rises,

Now divined afar:

None in all the skies is

Half so good a star;

None that seers importune

Till a sign be won:

Star of our good fortune,

Rise and reign, our sun!

XXVII.

I pass by the small room now forlorn

Where once each night as I passed I knew

A child's bright sleep from even to morn

Made sweet the whole night through.

As a soundless shell, as a songless nest,

Seems now the room that was radiant then

And fragrant with his happier rest

Than that of slumbering men.

The day therein is less than the day,

The night is indeed night now therein:

Heavier the dark seems there to weigh,

And slower the dawns begin.

As a nest fulfilled with birds, as a shell

Fulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn,

Again shall be this bare blank cell,

Made sweet again with him.

XXVIII.

Spring darkens before us,

A flame going down,

With chant from the chorus

Of days without crown

Cloud, rain, and sonorous

Soft wind on the down.

She is wearier not of us

Than we of the dream

That spring was to love us

And joy was to gleam

Through the shadows above us

That shift as they stream.

Half dark and half hoary,

Float far on the loud

Mild wind, as a glory

Half pale and half proud

From the twilight of story,

Her tresses of cloud;

Like phantoms that glimmer

Of glories of old

With ever yet dimmer

Pale circlets of gold

As darkness grows grimmer

And memory more cold.

Like hope growing clearer

With wane of the moon,

Shines toward us the nearer

Gold frontlet of June,

And a face with it dearer

Than midsummer noon.

XXIX.

You send me your love in a letter,

I send you my love in a song:

Ah child, your gift is the better,

Mine does you but wrong.

No fame, were the best less brittle,

No praise, were it wide as earth,

Is worth so much as a little

Child's love may be worth.

We see the children above us

As they might angels above:

Come back to us, child, if you love us,

And bring us your love.

XXX.

No time for books or for letters:

What time should there be?

No room for tasks and their fetters:

Full room to be free.

The wind and the sun and the Maytirne

Had never a guest

More worthy the most that his playtime

Could give of its best.

If rain should come on, peradventure,

(But sunshine forbid!)

Vain hope in us haply might venture

To dream as it did.

But never may come, of all comers

Least welcome, the rain,

To mix with his servant the summer's

Rose-garlanded train!

He would write, but his hours are as busy

As bees in the sun,

And the jubilant whirl of their dizzy

Dance never is done.

The message is more than a letter,

Let love understand,

And the thought of his joys even better

Than sight of his hand.

XXXI.

Wind, high-souled, full-hearted

South-west wind of the spring!

Ere April and earth had parted,

Skies, bright with thy forward wing,

Grew dark in an hour with the shadow behind it, that bade not a bird dare sing.

Wind whose feet are sunny,

Wind whose wings are cloud,

With lips more sweet than honey

Still, speak they low or loud,

Rejoice now again in the strength of thine heart: let the depth of thy soul wax proud.

We hear thee singing or sighing,

Just not given to sight,

All but visibly flying

Between the clouds and the light,

And the light in our hearts is enkindled, the shadow therein of the clouds put to flight.

From the gift of thine hands we gather

The core of the flowers therein,

Keen glad heart of heather,

Hot sweet heart of whin,

Twin breaths in thy godlike breath close blended of wild spring's wildest of kin.

All but visibly beating

We feel thy wings in the far

Clear waste, and the plumes of them fleeting,

Soft as swan's plumes are,

And strong as a wild swan's pinions, and swift as the flash of the flight of a star.

As the flight of a planet enkindled

Seems thy far soft flight

Now May's reign has dwindled

And the crescent of June takes light

And the presence of summer is here, and the hope of a welcomer presence in sight.

Wind, sweet-souled, great-hearted

Southwest wind on the wold!

From us is a glory departed

That now shall return as of old,

Borne back on thy wings as an eagle's expanding, and crowned with the sundawn's gold.

There is not a flower but rejoices,

There is not a leaf but has heard:

All the fields find voices,

All the woods are stirred:

There is not a nest but is brighter because of the coming of one bright bird.

Out of dawn and morning,

Noon and afternoon,

The sun to the world gives warning

Of news that brightens the moon;

And the stars all night exult with us, hearing of joy that shall come with June.