A Parson's Letter To A Young Poet.

They said "Too late, too late, the work is done;     Great Homer sang of glory and strong men     And that fair Greek whose fault all these long years     Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can;     For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend,     For yet the world waits in the victor's tent     Daily, and sees an old man honourable,     His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears     Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured,     The like whereof no soul hath yet endured,     To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'"     They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more;     One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill     That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work;     When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light     And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came     And marked her till she span off all her thread.     "O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more:     The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear!     A Tuscan afterward discovered steps     Over the line of life in its mid-way;     He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love     Safe at her singing, and he left his foes     In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled     Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds.     "Who may inherit next or who shall match     The Swan of Avon and go float with him     Down the long river of life aneath a sun     Not veiled, and high at noon? - the river of life     That as it ran reflected all its lapse     And rippling on the plumage of his breast?     "Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now,     Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty     Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days,     Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world.     Look back they must and show thee thy fair past,     Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant     As they behold.          "The mother-glowworm broods     Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg     And long before they come to life they shine -     The mother-age broods on her shining thought     That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes     Her poet son, and lo you, he can see     The shining, and he takes it to his breast     And fashions for it wings that it may fly     And show its sweet light in the dusky world.     "Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day,     What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee?     Lapsed water cannot flow above its source;     'The kid must browse,'" they said, "'where she is tied.'"     Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them.     What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed     And crownless? - Set the crown on her fair head:     She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee     "Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear,     To him the mother cries "Thou art the man."     She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low -     "Methought the men of war were even as gods     The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes     Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls     That buried it; from carved and curious homes     Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil,     Where having burned, battered, and wasted them,     They flung it. Give us, give us better gods     Than these that drink with blood upon their hands,     For I repent me that I worshipped them.     O that there might be yet a going up!     O to forget - and to begin again!"     Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs     Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee,     Thee only, should the utterance shape itself     "O to forget, and to begin again,"     Only of thee be heard as that keen cry     Rending its way from some distracted heart     That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry     Begin for her again, and learn to sing;     But first, in all thy learning learn to be.     Is life a field? then plough it up - re-sow     With worthier seed - Is life a ship? O heed     The southing of thy stars - Is life a breath?     Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour,     Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul.     It may be God's first work is but to breathe     And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air     That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds.     A little space is measured out to us     Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein,     For life, alas! is short, and "When we die     It is not for a little while."     They said,     "The work is done," and is it therefore done?     Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair,     Lady of ages, beautiful To-day     And sorrowful To-day, thy children set     The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss     Is like to be the loss of all: we hear     Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain     Loss of high leadership, but where is he     That shall be great enough to lead thee now?     Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him.     Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night     And found thyself alone. The stars have set,     There is great darkness, and the dark is void     Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh     And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love     And lean on to break silence worthily -     Discern the beauty in thy goings - feel     The glory of thy yearning, - thy self-scorn     Matter to dim oblivion with a smile -     Own thy great want, that knew not its great name?     O who shall make to thee mighty amends     For thy lost childhood, joining two in one,     Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near:     God is thy Poet now.     "A King sang once     Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God,     Yea for the living God' - thy thirst and his     Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands     Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough,     Nor love, nor learning, - Death is not enough     Even to them, happy, who forecast new life;     But give us now and satisfy us now,     Give us now, now, to live in the life of God,     Give us now, now, to be at one with Him."     Would I had words - I have not words for her,     Only for thee; and thus I tell them out:     For every man the world is made afresh;     To God both it and he are young. There are     Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night     "Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day.     We would be here with God, not there with God.     Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer,     And let our souls sink deeper into Thee" -     There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest     They know not why, of good they know not what.     The unknown life, and strange its stirring is.     The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it     And yearning only for its mother's breast     Feeds thus the unheeded thing - and as for thee,     That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes,     And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what,     Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy,     One draught of passionate peace - but wilt thou know     The other name of joy, the better name     Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life     Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God,     Even the living God.         But "No," thou sayest,     "My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet     Tread a dry desert where there is no way     Nor water. I look back, and deep through time     The old words come but faintly up the track     Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent,     The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved     If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes.     But long ago He died, and long ago     Is gone."             He is not dead, He cannot go.     Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream,     Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down     Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat     Hiding himself in verdure: then at last     In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt.     But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast     And daily at his source the stream is born.     Go up - go mark the whiteness of the snow - Thy     faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God,     Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old.     The living God is new, and He is near.     What need to look behind thee and to sigh?     When God left speaking He went on before     To draw men after, following up and on;     And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow;     Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait,     A Father and not wait! - He waited long     For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long     And will not count the time. There are no dates     In His fine leisure.             Speak then as a son:     "Father, I come to satisfy Thy love     With mine, for I had held Thee as remote,     The background of the stars - Time's yesterday -     Illimitable Absence. Now my heart     Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me     Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so?     Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God,     It is and yet shall hide. And I have part     In all, for in Thine image I was made,     To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine.     If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me,     And man be God-like, God is like to man.     "Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard     To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form     Bled 'neath a thorny crown - but since indeed,     For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst     To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee,     My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want:     I am athirst for God, the living God.'"     Then straightway flashes up athwart the words:     "And if I be a son I am very far     From my great Father's house; I am not clean.     I have not always willed it should be so,     And the gold of life is rusted with my tears."     It is enough. He never said to men,     "Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought -     Beautiful children, well-beloved sons,     Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons     All night, and sighing because star multitudes     Fainted away as to a glittering haze,     And sparkled here and there like silver wings,     Confounding them with nameless, numberless,     Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well     For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far     To the unimaginable steeps on high     Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home,     Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out,     But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down,     Come." And that cry shall have the mastery.     Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee,     And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean,"     But never more "I will to have it so."     From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love     To long for, pureness to desire, a mount     Of consecration it were good to scale.     Look you, it is to-day as at the first.     When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes     And opened them, behold the light! And breath     Of God was misting yet about his mouth,     Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth     And was a part of light; also he saw     Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve - Eve     was the child of midnight and of sleep.     Lo, in the dark God led her to his side;     It may be in the dark she heard him breathe     Before God woke him. And she knew not light,     Nor life but as a voice that left his lips,     A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out,     And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them.     Haply she thought that always it was night;     Haply he, whispering to her in that reach     Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart     A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it     To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want     Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze     On his new fate, the gracious mystery     His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why,     After the light that never she had known.     So doth each age walk in the light beheld,     Nor think on light, if it be light or no;     Then comes the night to it, and in the night Eve.         The God-given, the most beautiful     Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake;     Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt,     The age perceives how dark it is, and fain,     Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well,     A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent     To draw the soul away from valley clods;     Made from itself, yet now a better self -     Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire     Let down into a careless breast; a pang     Sweeter than healing that cries out with it     For light all light, and is beheld at length -     The morning dawns.         Were not we born to light?     Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints     Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair;     Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves,     Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth.     And flocks of them flew white about the world.     And dreams were like to ships that floated us     Far out on silent floods, apart from earth,     From life - so far that we could see their lights     In heaven - and hear the everlasting tide,     All dappled with that fair reflected gold,     Wash up against the city wall, and sob     At the dark bows of vessels that drew on     Heavily freighted with departed souls     To whom did spirits sing; but on that song     Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain,     Impose the harsh captivity of words.     Afterward waking, sweet was early air,     Full excellent was morning: whether deep     The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail     Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore,     And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews     And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet     The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm;     Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed     The mill atween its bowering maple trees,     And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged     A diamond-dripping wheel.         The happy find     Equality of beauty everywhere     To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs,     All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways     Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight     Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew     And the melted mist of morning, when at watch     Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe,     Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade,     Or dart athwart his view as August stars     Shoot and are out - while gracefully pace on     The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree     To clear the velvet from their budded horns.     There is no want, both God and life are kind;     It is enough to hear, it is enough     To see; the pale wide barley-field they love,     And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon     That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves.     So in the rustic hamlet at high noon     The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep     To hide her head in turrets browned of moss     That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks     And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff     While far below the northern diver feeds;     She having ended settling while she sits,     As vessels water-logged that sink at sea     And quietly into the deep go down.     It is enough to wake, it is enough     To sleep: - With God and time he leaves the rest.     But on a day death on the doorstep sits     Waiting, or like a veild woman walks     Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path     The splendid passion-flower love unfolds     Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know     Appeasement through the answer of a sigh,     The kiss of pity with denial given,     The crown and blossom of accomplishment.     Or haply comes the snake with subtlety,     And tempts him with an apple to know all.     So, - Shut the gate; the story tells itself     Over and over; Eden must be lost     If after it be won. He stands at fault,     Not knowing at all how this should be - he feels     The great bare barrenness o' the outside world.     He thinks on Time and what it has to say;     He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand,     Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on     To cover the day-king in his eclipse,     And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all     Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul.     The dark, but not Orion sparkling there     With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve.     And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy     Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon,     Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned     The spell whereby to loose and set them forth,     And all the glad delights that boyhood loved     Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still.     Ah! they must sleep - "The mill can grind no more     With water that hath passed." Let it run on.     For he hath caught a whisper in the night;     This old inheritance in darkness given,     The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive,     Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake,     Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth,     Exultant for expansion and release,     And bent to satisfy the mighty wish,     Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish,     Life of his life, the soul's immortal child     That is to him as Eve.             He cannot win,     Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend,     With all the watch, tender, impetuous,     That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels     Infinite things; but yet the night is full     Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake.     Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants,     Or wherefore was he born?             O he was born     To wish - then turn away: - to wish again     And half forget his wish for earthlier joy;     He draws the net to land that brings red gold;     His dreams among the meshes tangled lie,     And learning hath him at her feet; - and love,     The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam,     Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart,     Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him,     Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen,     Fainting away for the remorseless ALL     Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before,     But never in his arms. Then pity comes,     Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in,     Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal,     But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain,     Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares     Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence;     But who can stir the weighty world; or who     Can drink a sea of tears?         O love, and life,     O world, and can it be that this is all?     Leave him to tread expectance underfoot;     Let him alone to tame down his great hope     Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share     That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life.     This that I bear, what is it? - me no less     It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul."     There is but halting for the wearied foot.     The better way is hidden; faith hath failed -     One stronger far than reason mastered her.     It is not reason makes faith hard, but life.     The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry,     Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell,     Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes,     Some widow'd witch divining by the dead.     Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate     And go to it from time to time with tears,     What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold,     A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth     Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed     With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre,     The love of God that daily dies; - to them     That trust it the One Life, the all that lives.     O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old,     Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet     Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew     The immortal want of morning; but thy day     Dawned and was over, and thy children know     Contentment never, nor continuance long.     For even thus it is with them: the day     Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night     Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars.     A soul in want and restless and bereft     To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie?     Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God,     Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus.     I do submit me to Thy sovereign will     That I full oft should hunger and not have,     And vainly yearn after the perfect good,     Gladness and peace"?             No, rather dare think thus:     "Ere chaos first had being, earth, or time,     My Likeness was apparent in high heaven,     Divine and manlike, and his dwelling place     Was the bosom of the Father. By His hands     Were the worlds made and filled with diverse growths     And ordered lives. Then afterward they said,     Taking strange counsel, as if he who worked     Hitherto should not henceforth work alone,     'Let us make man;' and God did look upon     That Divine Word which was the form of God,     And it became a thought before the event.     There they foresaw my face, foreheard my speech,     God-like, God-loved, God-loving, God-derived.     "And I was in a garden, and I fell     Through envy of God's evil son, but Love     Would not be robbed of me for ever - Love     For my sake passed into humanity,     And there for my first Father won me home.     How should I rest then? I have NOT gone home;     I feed on husks, and they given grudgingly,     While my great Father - Father - O my God,     What shall I do?"             Ay, I will dare think thus:     "I cannot rest because He doth not rest     In whom I have my being. THIS is GOD -     My soul is conscious of His wondrous wish,     And my heart's hunger doth but answer His     Whose thought has met with mine.             "I have not all;     He moves me thus to take of Him what lacks.     My want is God's desire to give, - He yearns     To add Himself to life and so for aye     Make it enough."             A thought by night, a wish     After the morning, and behold it dawns     Pathetic in a still solemnity,     And mighty words are said for him once more,     "Let there be light." Great heaven and earth have heard,     And God comes down to him, and Christ doth rise.