The Golden Echo

Spare! There is one, yes I have one (Hush there!); Only not within seeing of the sun, Not within the singeing of the strong sun, Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air. Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one, Óne. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place, Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone, Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face, The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet, Never fleets more, fastened with the tenderest truth To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an ever- lastingness of, O it is an all youth! Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace, Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace-- Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath, And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver. See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair Is, hair of the head, numbered. Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept, This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold What while we, while we slumbered. O then, weary then whý should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered, When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care, Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder A care kept. Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.-- Yonder.--What high as that! We follow, now we follow.-- Yonder, yes yonder, yonder, Yonder.

37 The Blessed Virgin compared to the Air we Breathe

WILD air, world-mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair Girdles; goes home betwixt The fleeciest, frailest-flixed Snowflake; that’s fairly mixed With, riddles, and is rife In every least thing’s life; This needful, never spent, And nursing element; 10 My more than meat and drink, My meal at every wink; This air, which, by life’s law, My lung must draw and draw Now but to breathe its praise, Minds me in many ways Of her who not only Gave God’s infinity Dwindled to infancy Welcome in womb and breast, 20 Birth, milk, and all the rest But mothers each new grace That does now reach our race-- Mary Immaculate, Merely a woman, yet Whose presence, power is Great as no goddess’s Was deemèd, dreamèd; who This one work has to do-- Let all God’s glory through, 30 God’s glory which would go Through her and from her flow Off, and no way but so.

I say that we are wound With mercy round and round As if with air: the same Is Mary, more by name. She, wild web, wondrous robe, Mantles the guilty globe, Since God has let dispense 40 Her prayers his providence: Nay, more than almoner, The sweet alms’ self is her And men are meant to share Her life as life does air. If I have understood, She holds high motherhood Towards all our ghostly good And plays in grace her part About man’s beating heart, 50 Laying, like air’s fine flood, The deathdance in his blood; Yet no part but what will Be Christ our Saviour still. Of her flesh he took flesh: He does take fresh and fresh, Though much the mystery how, Not flesh but spirit now And makes, O marvellous! New Nazareths in us, 60 Where she shall yet conceive Him, morning, noon, and eve; New Bethlems, and he born There, evening, noon, and morn Bethlem or Nazareth, Men here may draw like breath More Christ and baffle death; Who, born so, comes to be New self and nobler me In each one and each one 70 More makes, when all is done, Both God’s and Mary’s Son. Again, look overhead How air is azurèd; O how! nay do but stand Where you can lift your hand Skywards: rich, rich it laps Round the four fingergaps. Yet such a sapphire-shot, Charged, steepèd sky will not 80 Stain light. Yea, mark you this: It does no prejudice. The glass-blue days are those When every colour glows, Each shape and shadow shows. Blue be it: this blue heaven The seven or seven times seven Hued sunbeam will transmit Perfect, not alter it. Or if there does some soft, 90 On things aloof, aloft, Bloom breathe, that one breath more Earth is the fairer for. Whereas did air not make This bath of blue and slake His fire, the sun would shake, A blear and blinding ball With blackness bound, and all The thick stars round him roll Flashing like flecks of coal, 100 Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt, In grimy vasty vault. So God was god of old: A mother came to mould Those limbs like ours which are What must make our daystar Much dearer to mankind; Whose glory bare would blind Or less would win man’s mind. Through her we may see him 110 Made sweeter, not made dim, And her hand leaves his light Sifted to suit our sight. Be thou then, thou dear Mother, my atmosphere; My happier world, wherein To wend and meet no sin; Above me, round me lie Fronting my froward eye With sweet and scarless sky; 120 Stir in my ears, speak there Of God’s love, O live air, Of patience, penance, prayer: World-mothering air, air wild, Wound with thee, in thee isled, Fold home, fast fold thy child.

38 To what serves Mortal Beauty?

To what serves mortal beauty | dangerous; does set dancing blood the O-seal-that-so | feature, flung prouder form Than Purcell tune lets tread to? | See: it does this: keeps warm Men’s wits to the things that are; | what good means--where a glance Master more may than gaze, | gaze out of countenance. Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh | windfalls of war’s storm, How then should Gregory, a father, | have gleanèd else from swarmed Rome? But God to a nation | dealt that day’s dear chance. To man, that needs would worship | block or barren stone, Our law says: Love what are | love’s worthiest, were all known; World’s loveliest--men’s selves. Self | flashes off frame and face. What do then? how meet beauty? | Merely meet it; own, Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; | then leave, let that alone. Yea, wish that though, wish all, | God’s better beauty, grace.

39 (The Soldier)

YES. Whý do we áll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part, But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart, Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess That, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less; It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art; And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart, And scarlet wear the spirit of wár thére express.

Mark Christ our King. He knows war, served this soldiering through; He of all can handle a rope best. There he bides in bliss Now, and séeing somewhére some mán do all that man can do, For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss, And cry ‘O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too: Were I come o’er again’ cries Christ ‘it should be this’.

40 (Carrion Comfort)

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

41

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing-- Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling- ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

_42 Tom’s Garland;

upon the Unemployed_

TOM--garlanded with squat and surly steel Tom; then Tom’s fallowbootfellow piles pick By him and rips out rockfire homeforth--sturdy Dick; Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his meal Sure, ‘s bed now. Low be it: lustily he his low lot (feel That ne’er need hunger, Tom; Tom seldom sick, Seldomer heartsore; that treads through, prickproof, thick Thousands of thorns, thoughts) swings though. Common- weal Little I reck ho! lacklevel in, if all had bread: What! Country is honour enough in all us--lordly head, With heaven’s lights high hung round, or, mother-ground That mammocks, mighty foot. But no way sped, Nor mind nor mainstrength; gold go garlanded With, perilous, O nó; nor yet plod safe shod sound; Undenizened, beyond bound Of earth’s glory, earth’s ease, all; no one, nowhere, In wide the world’s weal; rare gold, bold steel, bare In both; care, but share care-- This, by Despair, bred Hangdog dull; by Rage, Manwolf, worse; and their packs infest the age.

43 Harry Ploughman

HARD as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank-- Head and foot, shoulder and shank-- By a grey eye’s heed steered well, one crew, fall to; Stand at stress. Each limb’s barrowy brawn, his thew That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank-- Soared or sank--, Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll- call, rank And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do-- His sinew-service where do.

He leans to it, Harry bends, look. Back, elbow, and liquid waist In him, all quail to the wallowing o’ the plough: ‘s cheek crimsons; curls Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced-- See his wind- lilylocks -laced; Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls Them--broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls-- With-a-fountain’s shining-shot furls.

44

To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life Among strangèrs. Father and mother dear, Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near And he my peace my parting, sword and strife. England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife To my creating thought, would neither hear Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear- y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.

I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd Remove. Not but in all removes I can Kind love both give and get. Only what word Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven’s baffling ban Bars or hell’s spell thwarts. This to hoard unheard, Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.

45

I WAKE and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light’s delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

46

PATIENCE, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray, But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks; To do without, take tosses, and obey. Rare patience roots in these, and, these away, Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills Of us we do bid God bend to him even so. And where is he who more and more distils Delicious kindness?--He is patient. Patience fills His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.

47

MY own heart let me have more pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile ‘s not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather--as skies Betweenpie mountains--lights a lovely mile.

48 That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection

CLOUD-PUFFBALL, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air- built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches. Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches, Shivelights and shadowtackle in long | lashes lace, lance, and pair. Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare Of yestertempest’s creases; in pool and rut peel parches Squandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches Squadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil there Footfretted in it. Million-fuelèd, | nature’s bonfire burns on. But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone! Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone Sheer off, disseveral, a star, | death blots black out; nor mark Is any of him at all so stark But vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resur- rection, A heart’s-clarion! Away grief’s gasping, | joyless days, dejection. Across my foundering deck shone A beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trash Fall to the residuary worm; | world’s wildfire, leave but ash: In a flash, at a trumpet crash, I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, Is immortal diamond.

49 In honour of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez Laybrother of the Society of Jesus

HONOUR is flashed off exploit, so we say; And those strokes once that gashed flesh or galled shield Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field, And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day. On Christ they do and on the martyr may; But be the war within, the brand we wield Unseen, the heroic breast not outward-steeled, Earth hears no hurtle then from fiercest fray.

Yet God (that hews mountain and continent, Earth, all, out; who, with trickling increment, Veins violets and tall trees makes more and more) Could crowd career with conquest while there went Those years and years by of world without event That in Majorca Alfonso watched the door.

50

Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum: verum- tamen justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prospera- tur? &c.

THOU art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend, Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes Them; birds build--but not I build; no, but strain, Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

51 To R. B.

THE fine delight that fathers thought; the strong Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame, Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came, Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song. Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim Now known and hand at work now never wrong. Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration. O then if in my lagging lines you miss The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.

UNFINISHED POEMS & FRAGMENTS

52 Summa

THE best ideal is the true And other truth is none. All glory be ascribèd to The holy Three in One.

53

WHAT being in rank-old nature should earlier have that breath been That hére pérsonal tells off these heart-song powerful peals?-- A bush-browed, beetle-brówed bíllow is it? With a soúth-wésterly wínd blústering, with a tide rolls reels Of crumbling, fore-foundering, thundering all-surfy seas in; seen Únderneath, their glassy barrel, of a fairy green. . . . . . . . . Or a jaunting vaunting vaulting assaulting trumpet telling

_54 On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People

A Brother and Sister_

O I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years. A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves, And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears.

Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast: Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest In one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast, Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.

And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beams Their young delightful hour do feature down That fleeted else like day-dissolvèd dreams Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown.

She leans on him with such contentment fond As well the sister sits, would well the wife; His looks, the soul’s own letters, see beyond, Gaze on, and fall directly forth on life.

But ah, bright forelock, cluster that you are Of favoured make and mind and health and youth, Where lies your landmark, seamark, or soul’s star? There’s none but truth can stead you. Christ is truth.

There’s none but good can bé good, both for you And what sways with you, maybe this sweet maid; None good but God--a warning wavèd to One once that was found wanting when Good weighed.

Man lives that list, that leaning in the will No wisdom can forecast by gauge or guess, The selfless self of self, most strange, most still, Fast furled and all foredrawn to No or Yes.

Your feast of; that most in you earnest eye May but call on your banes to more carouse. Worst will the best. What worm was here, we cry, To have havoc-pocked so, see, the hung-heavenward boughs?

Enough: corruption was the world’s first woe. What need I strain my heart beyond my ken? O but I bear my burning witness though Against the wild and wanton work of men. . . . . . . .

55

THE sea took pity: it interposed with doom: ‘I have tall daughters dear that heed my hand: Let Winter wed one, sow them in her womb, And she shall child them on the New-world strand.’ . . . . . . . .

56 (Ash-boughs)

a.

NOT of all my eyes see, wandering on the world, Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deep Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky. Say it is ashboughs: whether on a December day and furled Fast ór they in clammyish lashtender combs creep Apart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high. They touch heaven, tabour on it; how their talons sweep The smouldering enormous winter welkin! May Mells blue and snowwhite through them, a fringe and fray Of greenery: it is old earth’s groping towards the steep Heaven whom she childs us by.

(Variant from line 7.) b.

They touch, they tabour on it, hover on it[; here, there hurled], With talons sweep The smouldering enormous winter welkin. [Eye, But more cheer is when] May Mells blue with snowwhite through their fringe and fray Of greenery and old earth gropes for, grasps at steep Heaven with it whom she childs things by.

57

. . . . . . . . HOPE holds to Christ the mind’s own mirror out To take His lovely likeness more and more. It will not well, so she would bring about An ever brighter burnish than before And turns to wash it from her welling eyes And breathes the blots off all with sighs on sighs. Her glass is blest but she as good as blind Holds till hand aches and wonders what is there; Her glass drinks light, she darkles down behind, All of her glorious gainings unaware. . . . . . . . . I told you that she turned her mirror dim Betweenwhiles, but she sees herself not Him. . . . . . . . .

_53 St. Winefred’s Well