Michael Oaktree

Under an arch of glorious leaves I passed     Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon     Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.     It was the quiet hour before the sun     Gathers the clouds to prayer and silently     Utters his benediction on the waves     That whisper round the death-bed of the day.     The labourers were returning from the farms     And children danced to meet them. From the doors     Of cottages there came a pleasant clink     Where busy hands laid out the evening meal.     From smouldering elms around the village spire     There soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.     The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the tale     The sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.     The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace,     And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar,     And fragrant grasses, murmuring a prayer,     Bowed all together to the holy west,     Bowed all together thro' the golden hush,     The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush,     The holy, holy hush of eventide.     And, in among the ferns that crowned the hill     With waving green and whispers of the wind,     A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands,     Into their golden dream drifted away.     On that rich afternoon of scent and song     Old Michael Oaktree died. It was not much     He wished for; but indeed I think he longed     To see the light of summer once again     Blossoming o'er the far blue hills. I know     He used to like his rough-hewn wooden bench     Placed in the sun outside the cottage door     Where in the listening stillness he could hear,     Across the waving gilly-flowers that crowned     His crumbling garden wall, the long low sigh     Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills     The sacred consolation of the sea.     He did not hope for much: he longed to live     Until the winter came again, he said;     But on the last sweet eve of May he died.     I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanes     Down to the cottage on that afternoon;     For I had known old Michael Oaktree now     So many years, so many happy years.     When I was little he had carried me     High on his back to see the harvest home,     And given me many a ride upon his wagon     Among the dusty scents of sun and hay.     He showed me how to snare the bulky trout     That lurked under the bank of yonder brook.     Indeed, he taught me many a country craft,     For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt,     I loved the teacher of that homely lore.     Deep in my boyish heart he shared the glad     Influence of the suns and winds and waves,     Giving my childhood what it hungered for--     The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.     He had retained his childhood: Death for him     Had no more terror than his bed. He walked     With wind and sunlight like a brother, glad     Of their companionship and mutual aid.     We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soon     From earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast.     Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast,     Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crown     Of roses from the dreaming brow. We pass     Our lives in most laborious idleness.     For we have lost the meaning of the world;     We have gone out into the night too soon;     We have mistaken all the means of grace     And over-rated our small power to learn.     And the years move so swiftly over us:     We have so little time to live in worlds     Unrealised and unknown realms of joy,     We are so old before we learn how vain     Our effort was, how fruitlessly we cast     Our Bread upon the waters, and how weak     Our hearts were, but our chance desires how strong!     Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays;     We cannot cry to God as once we cried!     Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love,     Lies dead with years that never can return.     But Michael Oaktree was a man whose love     Had never waned through all his eighty years.     His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a part     Of all that he believed in. He had lived     In constant conversation with the sun,     The wind, the silence and the heart of peace;     In absolute communion with the Power     That rules all action and all tides of thought,     And all the secret courses of the stars;     The Power that still establishes on earth     Desire and worship, through the radiant laws     Of Duty, Love and Beauty; for through these     As through three portals of the self-same gate     The soul of man attains infinity,     And enters into Godhead. So he gained     On earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, not     The void of eastern dream, but the desire     And goal of all of us, whether thro' lives     Innumerable, by slow degrees, we near     The death divine, or from this breaking body     Of earthly death we flash at once to God.     Through simple love and simple faith, this man     Attained a height above the hope of kings.     Yet, as I softly shut the little gate     And walked across the garden, all the scents     Of mingling blossom ached like inmost pain     Deep in my heart, I know not why. They seemed     Distinct, distinct as distant evening bells     Tolling, over the sea, a secret chime     That breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heart     In sorrow rather than in sound, a chime     Strange as a streak of sunset to the moon,     Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave,     Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips;     A chime of melancholy, mute as death     But strong as love, uttered in plangent tones     Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,     Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,     Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.     At last I tapped and entered and was drawn     Into the bedroom of the dying man,     Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietly     Gazing; for through his open casement far     Beyond the whispers of the gilly-flowers     He saw the mellow light of eventide     Hallow the west once more; and, as he gazed,     I think I never saw so great a peace     On any human face. There was no sound     Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,     The whisper of the garden and, far off,     The sacred consolation of the sea.     His wife sat at his bed-side: she had passed     Her eightieth year; her only child was dead.     She had been wedded more than sixty years,     And she sat gazing with the man she loved     Quietly, out into that unknown Deep.     A butterfly floated into the room     And back again, pausing awhile to bask     And wink its painted fans on the warm sill;     A bird piped in the roses and there came     Into the childless mother's ears a sound     Of happy laughing children, far away.     Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin hand     Between his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark,     And, as he turned to her and died, he spoke     Two words of perfect faith and love--Come soon!     O then in all the world there was no sound     Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,     The whisper of the leaves and far away,     The infinite compassion of the sea.     But, as I softly passed out of the porch     And walked across the garden, all the scents     Of mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy,     Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choir     Pealing one mystic music, still and strange     As voices of the holy Seraphim,     One voice of adoration, mute as love,     Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tones     Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,     Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,     Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.     O then indeed I knew how closely knit     To stars and flowers we are, how many means     Of grace there are for those that never lose     Their sense of membership in this divine     Body of God; for those that all their days     Have walked in quiet communion with the Life     That keeps the common secret of the sun,     The wind, the silence and the heart of man.     There is one God, one Love, one everlasting     Mystery of Incarnation, one creative     Passion behind the many-coloured veil.     We have obscured God's face with partial truths,     The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our wars     Of force and thought, in this unheavened world.     Yet, by the battle of our partial truths,     The past against the present and the swift     Moment of passing joy against the deep     Eternal love, ever the weaker truth     Falls to the stronger, till once more we near     The enfolding splendour of the whole. Our God     Has been too long a partial God. We are all     Made in His image, men and birds and beasts,     Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns,     With those great Beings above our little world,     A height beyond for every depth below,     Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,     Existences that live and move in realms     As far beyond our thought as Europe lies     With all its little arts and sciences     Beyond the comprehension of the worm.     We are all partial images, we need     What lies beyond us to complete our souls;     Therefore our souls are filled with a desire     And love which lead us towards the Infinity     Of Godhead that awaits us each and all.     Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went.     The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The stars     Trembled like blossoms in the purple trees.     But, as I paused upon the whispering hill     The mellow light still lingered in the west,     And dark and soft against that rosy depth     A boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns.     Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart,     Yet I was very glad; and as the moon     Brightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand,     Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.     Under an arch of leaves, into the gloom     I went along the little woodland road,     And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heard     Out of the deepening night, the long low sigh     Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills     The sacrament and sabbath of the sea.