New Year's Eve: A Waking Dream

I have not any fearful tale to tell     Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw,     Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell     To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw;     But what in yonder hamlet there befell,     Or rather what in it my fancy saw,     I will declare, albeit it may seem     Too simple and too common for a dream.     Two brothers were they, and they sat alone     Without a word, beside the winter's glow;     For it was many years since they had known     The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow     Of age had frozen it, and it had grown     An icy-withered stream that would not flow;     And so they sat with warmth about their feet     And ice about their hearts that would not beat.     And yet it was a night for quiet hope:--     A night the very last of all the year     To many a youthful heart did seem to ope     An eye within the future, round and clear;     And age itself, that travels down the slope,     Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near,     The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime,     Jerking our souls into the coming time.     But they!--alas for age when it is old!     The silly calendar they did not heed;     Alas for age when in its bosom cold     There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed!     They thought not of the morrow, but did hold     A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed     Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute     As if they were a-cold from head to foot.     O solemn kindly night, she looketh still     With all her moon upon us now and then!     And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill,     She hath an eye unto the hearts of men!     So past a corner of the window-sill     She thrust a long bright finger just as ten     Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came,     Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.     There is a something in the winds of heaven     That stirreth purposely and maketh men;     And unto every little wind is given     A thing to do ere it is still again;     So when the little clock had struck eleven,     The edging moon had drawn her silver pen     Across a mirror, making them aware     Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.     Therefore they drew aside the window-blind     And looked upon the sleeping town below,     And on the little church which sat behind     As keeping watch upon the scanty row     Of steady tombstones--some of which inclined     And others upright, in the moon did show     Like to a village down below the waves--     It was so still and cool among the graves.     But not a word from either mouth did fall,     Except it were some very plain remark.     Ah! why should such as they be glad at all?     For years they had not listened to the lark!     The child was dead in them!--yet did there crawl     A wish about their hearts; and as the bark     Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware     Of a strange longing for the open air.     Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun     A web of heavy cloud about their brain!     And many a sun and moon had come and gone     Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain!     But now with timd pace their feet did stun     The village echoes into quiet pain:     The street appeard very short and white,     And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.     "Right through the churchyard," one of them did say     --I knew not which was elder of the two--     "Right through the churchyard is our better way."     "Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew.     I have not seen her grave for many a day;     And it is in me that with moonlight too     It might be pleasant thinking of old faces,     And yet I seldom go into such places."     Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan     Sitting about a solitary stone!     Stranger than many tales it is to scan     The earthy fragment of a human bone;     But stranger still to see a grey old man     Apart from all his fellows, and alone     With the pale night and all its giant quiet;     Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.     It was their mother's grave, and here were hid     The priceless pulses of a mother's soul.     Full sixty years it was since she had slid     Into the other world through that deep hole.     But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid     Grew deaf with sudden hammers!--'twas the mole     Niddering about its roots.--Be still, old men,     Be very still and ye will hear again.     Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away,     But it will stay with you till ye are dead!     It is but earthy mould and quiet clay,     But it hath power to turn the oldest head.     Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say     More than a hundred tongues had ever said.     So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket     Into the centre of a firry thicket.     It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life,     An inquest held upon the death of things;     And in the naked north full thick and rife     The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings     Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife;     And the trees seemed to gather into rings,     Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail     Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.     Many strange noises are there among trees,     And most within the quiet moony light,     Therefore those aged men are on their knees     As if they listened somewhat:--Ye are right--     Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees!     Although ye never heard it till to-night,     The mighty mother calleth ever so     To all her pale-eyed children from below.     Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways,     And heard her voices in the market-place,     But ye have never listened what she says     When the snow-moon is pressing on her face!     One night like this is more than many days     To him who hears the music and the bass     Of deep immortal lullabies which calm     His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.     I know not whether there is power in sleep     To dim the eyelids of the shining moon,     But so it seemed then, for still more deep     She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon     Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep     A pressure on her; so there came a swoon     Among the shadows, which still lay together     But in their slumber knew not one another.     But while the midnight gropd for the chime     As she were heavy with excess of dreams,     She from the cloud's thick web a second time     Made many shadows, though with minished beams;     And as she lookd eastward through the rime     Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams,     There fell a little snow upon the crown     Of a near hillock very bald and brown.     And on its top they found a little spring,     A very helpful little spring indeed,     Which evermore unwound a tiny string     Of earnest water with continual speed--     And so the brothers stood and heard it sing;     For all was snowy-still, and not a seed     Had struck, and nothing came but noises light     Of the continual whitening of the night.     There is a kindness in the falling snow--     It is a grey head to the spring time mild;     So as the creamy vapour bowd low     Crowning the earth with honour undefiled,     Within each withered man arose a glow     As if he fain would turn into a child:     There was a gladness somewhere in the ground     Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!     Not through the purple summer or the blush     Of red voluptuous roses did it come     That silent speaking voice, but through the slush     And snowy quiet of the winter numb!     It was a barren mound that heard the gush     Of living water from two fountains dumb--     Two rocky human hearts which long had striven     To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!     Now from the village came the onward shout     Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer;     It was a youthful group that wandered out     To do obeisance to the glad new year;     And as they passed they sang with voices stout     A song which I was very fain to hear,     But as they darkened on, away it died,     And the two men walked homewards side by side.