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 nights air     As noontide, why should we care?     Till a light of delight that is done rise,     Extinguishing grey regrets;     Till a childs face lighten again     On the twilight of older faces;     Till a childs 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 birds     To bring us the days 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 oercome 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 Shakespeares self.     And my mood grows moodier than Hamlets 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 mans 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 childs absent sake,     May knows well, whateer things make     Sport, it is not Maytime. VI.     A hand at the door taps light     As the hand of my hearts 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 mans 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 winds caress;     Souls of children quickening     With the whole worlds mirth,     Heads closelier than field-flowers thickening     That crowd and illuminate earth,     Now that Mays 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 lakes 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 tunes 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 joys 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 lakes face flashes,     So haply may gleam at whiles     A dream through the dear deep lashes     Whereunder a childs 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 childrens bread     And cast it to dogs; but truly     The dogs after all would be fed.     On crumbs from the childrens table     That crumble, dropped from above,     Mr heart feeds, fed with unstable     Loose waifs of a childs 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?     Springs eyes are soft, but if frosts benumb her     As winters 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 childs 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 months hand strike     Thirty-one,     Till the clocks 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     Suns 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 childs thoughts bear     More bright     Sweet visions by day, and more fair     Dreams by night,     Than summers whole treasure     Can be:     What am I that his thought should take pleasure,     Then, in me?     I am only my loves     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 kings 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 hearts delight     Nearer seems to burn     In the dawns 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 hearts 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 worlds 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.     Earths 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 kings 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 childs 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 childs 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 gods 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     Childs 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 summers     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 springs wildest of kin.     All but visibly beating     We feel thy wings in the far     Clear waste, and the plumes of them fleeting,     Soft as swans plumes are,     And strong as a wild swans 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 Mays 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 eagles expanding, and crowned with the sundawns 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.