Many Voices - Эдит Несбит

The grass was gray with the moonlit dew,
The stones were white as I came through;
I came down the path by the thirteen yews,
Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.
And when I came to the high lych-gate
I waited awhile where the corpses wait;
Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay
Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.

The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight,
The owls spread wings were quiet and white,
The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,
And all about were the rustling shy
Little live creatures that love the night
Little wild creatures timid and free.
I passed, and they were not afraid of me.

It was over the meadow and down the lane
The way to come to my house again:
Through the wood where the lovers talk,
And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.
I wore the clothes that we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there,
No one saw my pale feet pass
By my garden path to my garden grass.
My garden was hung with the veil of spring
Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;
It lay in the moons cold sheet of light
In garlands and silence, wondrous and white
As a dead bride decked for her burying.

Then I saw the face of my house
Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:
I leaned my face to the window bright
To feel if the heart of my house beat right.
The firelight hung it with fitful gold;
It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.
I saw the settles, the candles tall,
The black-faced presses against the wall,
Polished beechwood and shining brass,
The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,
All the little things that were home to me
Everything as it used to be.

Then I said, The fire of life still burns,
And I have returned whence none returns:
I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,
I will warm my heart in the heart of it!
So I called aloud to the one within:
Open, open, and let me in!
Let me in to the fire and the light
It is very cold out here in the night!
There was never a stir or an answering breath
Only a silence as deep as death.

Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried.
No one heard me, and none replied.
The golden silence lay warm and deep,
And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;
And there was no one to hear or see
To comfort me, to have pity on me.

But deep in the silence something stirred
Something that had not seen or heard
And two drew near to the window-pane,
Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,
And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread
Over the garlanded garden bed;
AndHow ghostly the moonlight is! she said.

Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,
I came to mine own place again.
I wore the garments we all must wear,
And no one saw me walking there.
No one heard my thin feet pass
Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,
Along the path where the moonlight hews
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.

In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep
It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:
But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,
And I cannot sleep as I used to do.

You see the fairies dancing in the fountain,
   Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray;
You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain,
   Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;
You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,
   Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;
You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams,
   Rise from the bonfires blue and liquid air.

All the enchantment, all the magic there is
   Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true.
Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies;
   Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.
Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.
   Millions of magics beseech your little looks;
Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you.
   Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books?

Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer,
   Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky,
Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer,
   Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.
Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,
   Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . .
Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses,
   Leave her her kingdomshe will not keep it long!

What do the roses do, mother,
   Now that the summers done?
They lie in the bed that is hung with red
   And dream about the sun.

What do the lilies do, mother,
   Now that theres no more June?
Each one lies down in her white nightgown
   And dreams about the moon.

What can I dream of, mother,
   With the moon and the sun away?
Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,
   And a lily that lives a day!

In the great green park with the wooden palings
The wooden palings so hard to climb,
There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,
And green things growing all the time;
And out in the open the daisies grow,
Pretty and proud in their proper places,
Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,
Millions and millionsnot one or two.
And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:
Are you outare you in?  We have been so good
All the school-time winter through,
But now its playtime,
The gay time, the May time;
We are out and at play.  Where are you?

In the gritty garden inside the railings,
The spiky railings all painted green,
There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia
With never a happy weed between.
Theres a neat little grass plot, bald in places,
And very dusty to touch;
A respectable man comes once a week
To keep the garden weeded and swept,
To keep it as we dont want it kept.
He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,
And we think he cuts it too much.
But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,
The daisies play about.
They are so brave as well as so pretty,
You cannot keep them out.
I love them, I want to let them grow,
But that respectable man says no.
He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine
Like the French Revolution guillotine.
He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,
The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;
Says things must be kept in their proper places
He has no frill round his ugly face
I wish I could find his proper place!

There was a garden, very strange and fair
   With all the roses summer never brings.
   The snowy blossom of immortal Springs
Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there.
   There were new heavens, and the earth was new,
   And still I told my heart the dream was true.

But when the sun stood still, and Time went out
   Like a blown candlewhen she came to me
   Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree,
Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt,
   And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near,
   She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear.

It is no dream, she said.  What dream had stayed
   So long?  It is the blessed isle that lies
   Between the tides of twin eternities.
It is our island; do not be afraid!
   Then, then at last my heart was well deceived;
   I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.

Her real presence sanctified my faith,
   Her very voice my restless fears beguiled,
   And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled,
But when she said I love you! it was Death.
   That, that at least could neither be nor seem
   Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!

Heres a rose that blows for Chloe,
   Fair as ever a rose in June was,
Now the gardens silent, snowy,
   Where the burning summer noon was.

In your gardens summer glory
   One poor corner, shelved and shady,
Told no rosy, radiant story,
   Grew no rose to grace its lady.

What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;
   From his nook your secret lover
Shows what slighted roses grow to
   When the rose you chose is over.

I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,
And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.
Says he, You take it easy!  That aint the way to do!
I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too.
So wont you name the day?
But I said, That I will not.
And I pushed him away,
Out among the raspberries all on a summer day.
And I says, You ask in winter, if your loves so hot,
For its summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full, says I,
With the fair by and by,
And the village dance and all;
And the turkey poults is small,
And sos the ducks and chicks,
And the hay not yet in ricks,
And the flower-showll be presently and hop-pickings to come,
And the fruiting and the harvest home,
And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done.
Cant you leave a girl alone?
Your loves too hot for me!
Cant you leave a girl be
Till the evenings do draw in,
Till the leaves be getting thin,
Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?
Thats the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!

And he took it as I said it, an not as it was meant.
And he went.

The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and brown,
And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,
And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit,
And hed never come anigh again, and all my life was sick.
And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit
With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick.
For father, he lay dead
With the candles at his head,
And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall;
And Id sent them all away,
Though theyd offered for to stay.
I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all.
Then I heard him.  Id a-known it for his footstep just as plain
If hed brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane.
And I hadnt drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane;
And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide.
Says I, You come inside;
For its cold outside for you,
And its cold here too;
And I havent no more pride
Its too cold for that, I cried.

Then I saw in his face
The fear of death, and desire.
And oh, I took and kissed him again and again,
And I clipped him close and all,
In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place,
With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall;
And You warm my heart, I told him, if theres any fire in men!
And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then.
And I warmed my heart at the fire.

Now the Spring is waking,
   Very shy as yet,
Busy mending, making
   Grass and violet.
Frowsy Winters over:
   See the budding lane!
Go and meet your lover:
   Spring is here again!

Every day is longer
   Than the day before;
Lambs are whiter, stronger,
   Birds sing more and more;
Woods are less than shady,
   Griefs are more than vain
Go and kiss your lady:
   Spring is here again!

         So good-bye!
This is where we end it, you and I.
Lifes to live, you know, and deaths to die;
         So good-bye!

         I was yours
For the love in life that loves while life endures,
For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures
         I was yours.

         You were mine
For the moment that a garland takes to twine,
For the human hour that sorcery shews divine
         You were mine.

         All is over.
You and I no more are love and lover;
Noughts to seek now, gain, attain, discover.
         All is over.

Life is a night all dark and wild,
   Yet still stars shine:
This moment is a star, my child
   Your star and mine.

Life is a desert dry and drear,
   Undewed, unblest;
This hour is an oasis, dear;
   Here let us rest.

Life is a sea of windy spray,
   Cold, fierce and free:
An isle enchanted is to-day
   For you and me.

Forget night, sea, and desert: take
   The gift supreme,
And, of lifes brief relenting, make
   A deathless dream.

If you loved me I could trust you to your fancys furthest bound
While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round,
To the utmost of the meshes of the devils strongest net . . .
If you loved me, if you loved mebut you do not love me yet!

I love youand I cannot trust you further than the door!
But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more
And moreuntil I trust you, dear, as women do trust men
I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you then!

We do not clamour for vengeance,
   We do not whine for fear;
We have cried in the outer darkness
   Where was no man to hear.
We cried to man and he heard not;
   Yet we thought God heard us pray;
But our God, who loved and was sorry
   Our God is taken away.

Ours were the stream and the pasture,
   Forest and fen were ours;
Ours were the wild wood-creatures,
   The wild sweet berries and flowers.
You have taken our heirlooms from us,
   And hardly you let us save
Enough of our woods for a cradle,
   Enough of our earth for a grave.

You took the wood and the cornland,
   Where still we tilled and felled;
You took the mine and quarry,
   And all you took you held.
The limbs of our weanling children
   You crushed in your mills of power;
And you made our bearing women toil
   To the very bearing hour.

You have taken our clean quick longings,
   Our joy in lover and wife,
Our hope of the sunset quiet
   At the evening end of life;
You have taken the land that bore us,
   Its soil and stone and sod;
You have taken our faith in each other
   And now you have taken our God.

When our God came down from Heaven
   He came among men, a Man,
Eating and drinking and working
   As common people can;
And the common people received Him
   While the rich men turned away.
But what have we to do with a God
   To whom the rich men pray?

He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,
   Who lived a Man among men,
You have taken away our Lord
   And we cannot find Him again.
You have not left us a handful
   Of even the earth He trod . . .
You have made Him a rich mans idol
   Who came as a poor mans God.

He promised the poor His heaven,
   He loved and lived with the poor;
He said that the rich mans shadow
   Should never darken His door:
But bishops and priests lie softly,
   Drink full and are fully fed
In the Name of the Lord, who had not
   Where to lay His head.

This is the God you have stolen,
   As you steal all elsein His name.
You have taken the ease and the honour,
   Left us the toil and the shame.
You have chosen the seat of Dives,
   We lie where Lazarus lay;
But, by God, we will not yield you our God,
   You shall not take Him away.

All else we had you have taken;
   All else, but not this, not this.
The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,
   And the poor are His, are His.
Is He ours?  Is He yours?  Give answer!
   For both He cannot be.
And if He is oursO you rich men,
   Then whose, in Gods name, are ye?