If I Forget Thee, O Jerusalem.

Out of the melancholy that is made     Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs,     Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed,     A note in new love-pipings on the bough,     Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air     And shaken milky corn doth wot of it,     The pity of it trembling in the talk     Of the beforetime merrymaking brook -     Out of that melancholy will the soul,     In proof that life is not forsaken quite     Of the old trick and glamour which made glad;     Be cheated some good day and not perceive     How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view,     How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep,     How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream     Interpreted to mean so much is found     To mean and give so little - frets no more,     Floating apart as on a cloud - O then     Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,'     She will, no longer weighted, find escape,     Lift up herself as if on wings and flit     Back to the morning time.         'O once with me     It was all one, such joy I had at heart,     As I heard sing the morning star, or God     Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand,     And dip me in the day.         O once with me,'     Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look     Wonder and love. Now let that come again.     Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement     Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop     Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes,     Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula,     Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet,     Her pink buds pouting from their green.             To these     Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came     To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid.     Then add wide pear trees on the warmd wall,     The old red wall one cannot see beyond.     That is the garden.         In the wall a door     Green, blistered with the sun. You open it,     And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills     And a glad silence, and an open calm.     Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills     Dance down delightedly, in every crease,     And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip,     Then shining waves upon a lonely beach.     That is the world.             An all-sufficient world,     And as it seems an undiscovered world,     So very few the folk that come to look.     Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far     The world is undiscovered, and the child     Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy     Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells     Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold.     What matters to the child, it matters not     More than it mattered to the moons of Mars,     That they for ages undiscovered went     Marked not of man, attendant on their king.     A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff,     There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland     Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm,     Their talk full oft was of old days, - for here     Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path     Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come     To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck,     Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head     Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore)     That split, and all her ribs were on their fires     The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright     Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet     The tide had turned.         'Many,' methought, 'and rich     They must have been, so long their chronicle.     Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk,     For ships at sea are few that near us now.'     Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags,     Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock     In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry,     'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear     Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.'     'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light     In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet.     And so the world was sweet, and it was strange,     Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower,     Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one.     The laughter of glad music did not yet     In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond,     Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss     Like a moon halo in a watery sky,     Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear     In a world not comprehended touch the heart -     The poetry of life was not yet born.     'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days     When some are known to feel 'God is about,'     As if that morn more than another morn     Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world     Swam in a soothd calm made resonant     And vital, swam as in the lap of God     Come down; until she slept and had a dream     (Because it was too much to bear awake),     That all the air shook with the might of Him     And whispered how she was the favourite world     That day, and bade her drink His essence in.     'Tis on such days that seers prophesy     And poets sing, and many who are wise     Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things     Whereof the hint came in that Presence known     Yet unknown. But a seer - what is he?     A poet is a name of long ago.     Men love the largeness of the field - the wild     Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days     They loved the shadow of the city wall,     In its stone ramparts read their poetry,     Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace,     Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there     This to excuse a child's allegiance and     A spirit's recurrence to the older way.     Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true,     Things came to pass not told before to me.     Thus, we did journey once when eve was near.     Through carriage windows I beheld the moors,     Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills.     The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep,     Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels     And see the lamps alight. This was the town.     Then a wide inn received us, and full soon     Came supper, kisses, bed.          The lamp without     Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone.     An ecstasy of exultation took     My soul, for there were voices heard and steps,     I was among so many, - none of them     Knew I was come!          I rose, with small bare feet,     Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child,     And through the window peered. Behold the town.     There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet     In a soft lamplight down the narrow street;     The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock     Chimed slowly, open shops across the way     Showed store of fruit, and store of bread, - and one     Many caged birds. About were customers,     I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice     Was heard, - a woman sang, her little babe     Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy     Added wild notes and sweet to hers.             Some passed     Who gave her money. It was far from me     To pity her, she was a part of that     Admird town. E'en so within the shop     A rosy girl, it may be ten years old,     Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed     The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe     For boyish customers, and counted pence     And dropped them in an apron that she wore.     Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot,     She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled.     But yet the song went on, and in a while     The meaning came; the town was not enough     To satisfy that singer, for a sigh     With her wild music came. What wanted she?     Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how     'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's.     Could she not dwell content and let them be,     That they might take their pleasure in the town,     For - no, she was not poor, witness the pence.     I saw her boy and that small saleswoman;     He wary, she with grave persuasive air,     Till he came forth with filberts in his cap,     And joined his mother, happy, triumphing.     This was the town; and if you ask what else,     I say good sooth that it was poetry     Because it was the all, and something more, -     It was the life of man, it was the world     That made addition to the watching heart,     First conscious its own beating, first aware     How, beating it kept time with all the race;     Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim     Of a Great Father watching too.     But lo! the rich lamenting voice again;     She sang not for herself; it was a song     For me, for I had seen the town and knew,     Yearning I knew the town was not enough.     What more? To-day looks back on yesterday,     Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn,     And reads a meaning into it, unknown     When it was with us.             It is always so.     But when as ofttimes I remember me     Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair,     Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit,     I know it was not pity that made yearn     My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy     How grand methought to be abroad so late.     And barefoot dabble in the shining wet;     How fine to peer as other urchins did     At those pent huddled doves they let not rest;     No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet     The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far     That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog,     From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane.     How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind,     To see the coach come up with din of horn.     Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by     Greet one another, and go on.             But now     They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still,     The beggars moved away - where was their home.     The coach which came from out dull darksome fells     Into the light; passed to the dark again     Like some old comet which knows well her way,     Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop     She turns, forebodes the destined silences.     Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone,     And those it bore I pitied even to tears,     Because they must go forth, nor see the lights,     Nor hear the chiming bells.          In after days,     Remembering of the childish envy and     The childish pity, it has cheered my heart     To think e'en now pity and envy both     It may be are misplaced, or needed not.     Heaven may look down in pity on some soul     Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile,     For that it hath to wait as it were an hour     To see the lights that go not out by night,     To walk the golden street and hear a song;     Other-world poetry that is the all     And something more.