UC-NRLF $B STI 215 _ «l»Ytt vv^J A^v ^v>>> THE IWOOD CARVERS 7 WIFE ^XMARJORIE LCPICKTHALL \1/ M/ V/ 7 The Wood Carver's Wife And Later Poems L* jm^ftaM. «rf ^0 COPYRIGHT. CANADA, 1922 by McClelland & stewart. limited. Toronto • . . •« Printed in Canada Poems included in this book have appeared in the London Times, the Century Magazine, the University Magazine, The Youth's Companion, the Dial, the Sunset Magazine, the Woman 's Home Companion, and the Smart Set, to all of which acknowledgments are due. M. L. C. PICKTHALL. MJ304053 Dedication LORD, on this paper white, My soul would write Tales that were heard of old Of perilous things and bold; Kings as young lions for pride; Lost cities where they died Last in the gate; the cry That told some Eastern throng A prophet was gone by; The song of swords; the song Of beautiful, fierce lords Gone down among the swords; The traffick and the breath Of nations spilled in death; The glory and the gleam Of a whole age Snared in a golden page, — Such is my dream. Yet thanks, if yet You give The crumbs by which I live, — DEDICATION Blown shreds of beauty, broken Words half unspoken, So faint, so faltering, They may not truly show The blue on a crow J s wing, The berry of a brier Cupped in new snow As though the snow lit fire, . Marjorie Pickthall: A Memory It was in June and amid the wild loveliness of sea and forest that the writer first saw the manuscript of this book. The author of it sat where great rocks wedged a fallen log — fallen so long that its dead, gray bark had changed to the many greens of velvet mosses. Below lay the Pacific and above and far back the moun- tains rose. Forest sounds, secret and musical, accompanied the rise and fall of the poet's voice as she turned the pages, reading here and there. When she had finished little was said — silence and the dim loveliness of the place seemed the most fitting comment ; beauty had melted into beauty, making each more beautiful. It is inevitable that a note of sadness should attach itself to a book whose author has not lived to see its publication. Yet at the risk of being accused of senti- ment, it may be worth while to insist that, to the poet, publication, though a happy thing, is never the supremest joy. Not in recognition, but in creation, is to be found that incommunicable thrill, the echo of what God felt when he made a world and saw that it was good. Perhaps it was because in Miss Pickthall's mind these essential values were never confused, because she JtfARJORIE PICKTHALL: A MEMORY saw so clearly and chose so unhesitatingly the better part, that her work has been singularly untouched by considerations lesser than the high demand of her art. The easy ways were not for her, but rather the long patience, the single-hearted waiting upon that breath of inspiration which answers no summons save its own. Certain it is that to this attitude of hers we owe these lyrics in which every word gleams, a facet of the gem- like whole. Besides this quiet yet deep belief in the sanctity of her work, Miss Pickthall possessed an originality of mind and a genius for rare and perfect phrasing which will strongly support her claim to real distinction. Her voice is never an echo. Kinship with other poets she has, but the origins of her inspiration are securely set within her own unique personality. And here it may be well to note that personality is a far wider thing than personal experience. And it is evident that Miss Pickthall very early grasped the happy fact that in the poet's winged imaginings lies the sure way of escape from every confining space and an open road to every denied experience. In this inspired fancy lies the sufficient explanation of how one possessing it may live so simply and yet feel and know so much. Could any mother have uttered a cry more poignantly true than "A Mother in Egypt"? And can anyone reading "The Wood Carver's Wife" doubt that its writer knew its MARJORIE PICKTHALL: A MEMORY passions and despairs, its exaltations and strange cruel- ties? To ask whence comes this sure and subtle knowledge is to ask the unanswerable. It is the poet's birthright — one can say no more than that. But though tragedy is a high thing, joy is not less nobly born. In this poet, at least, there was a wealth of happy interest which linked her most companionably with the life of everyday. To her, a sense of humor was always the saving grace, the balance-holder which never confused the great things with the small nor let the sublime slip into the ridiculous. Tears were for secret places but laughter shared with a friend was a bond which made a closer bond more possible. With such a sane combination of humor and mys- ticism to build upon, her work would undoubtedly have broadened with the years. But since she will write no more it is idle to speculate upon what she might have written. Rather should we treasure and enjoy the legacy which is ours — that portion, of her rich endow- ment which she so generously gave. The last poem written, in her own hand, in her manu- script book is "The Vision/ ' and however we may interpret it, it rings most gladly confident. There is no hint here of work unfinished or promise unfulfilled, but a sure knowledge and content that ' ' Life and death are one. ' ' Isabel Ecclestone Mackay. Contents page Dedication ....... 3 Marjorie Pickthall: A Memory 5 SLEEP 11 The Tree . 12 Miranda's Tomb 14 From a Lost Anthology 15 To TlMARION 18 Adam and Eve . 19 Mary Tired 20 Christ in the Museum 22 The Chosen 23 The Coloured Hours 24 Quiet 25 The Gardener's Boy . 26 Bartimeus Grown Old 27 ECCLESIASTES 28 Singing Children 30 Inheritance 32 On Lac Sainte Irenes 33 PAGE When Winter Comes . . 35 Riding ....... . 37 The Woodsman in the Foundry . 38 The Wife . 39 The Hearer . 41 The Wood Carver's Wipe . . 43 Merlin's Isle ..... . 91 Sheep . 93 When I Was a Tall Lad . . 94 Going Home ..... . 95 The Fortune Seeker . 96 Canada to England .... . 98 Marching Men .... . 99 When It Is Finished . 100 For All Prisoners and Captives . 101 English Flowers .... . 103 Again . 104 10 Sleep HERE is a house, so great, so wide It will take in the whole world's pride. Yet, when I looked, it seemed I saw Only a vast room strewn with straw That was threshed of moony gleams And dew of branches and star beams. Here cheek by cheek the drowsed souls lay Still as leverets in the hay. Merry it was to see in Sleep How each soul had found his brother; Here a king and there a sweep Lay hand-fast and kissed each other, ■ There a queen that had been sad Mothered in Sleep a shepherd lad, And lovers saw the loved one's face Star-like in a lonely place. But the Lamp that gave them light "Was lovelier than the dreams of night. Angels watched lest any steal it, — Christ's own heart, laid here to heal it. 11 The Tree IN the dim woods, one tre< Was by the cunning seasons builded fair With the rain's masonry And delicate craft of air. Unknown of anyone, She was the wind's green daughter. Her the dove Made, between leaf and sun, His murmuring house of love. Quiet as a seemly thought Her infinite strength of shade she stretched around. Peace like a spell she wrought On that enclosed ground. Bred of such lowly stuff, — Blown mast, a sheltering day, a tender night, — Now stars seem kin enough To company her height. 12 THE TREE She knows not whence she grew. So in my heart, from some forgotten seed, The lovely thought of you Towered to the lovelier need. 13 Miranda's Tomb MIRANDA? She died soon, and sick for home. And dark Ilario the Milanese Carved her in garments 'scutcheoned to the knees, Holding one orchard-spray as fresh as foam. One heart broke, many grieved. Ilario said: "The summer is gone after her. Who knows If any season shall renew his rose? But this rose lives till Beauty's self be dead." So wrought he, days and years, and half aware Of a small, striving, sorrowing quick thing, Wrapped in a furred sea-cloak, and deft to bring Tools to his hand or light to the dull air. Ghost, spirit, flame, he knew not, — could but tell It had loved her, and its name was Ariel. 14 From a Lost Anthology In a Strange Land. By an unnamed river-anchorage have we raised a shrine to Apollo. If these strange winds cool the grass where he sleeps, we know not, nor if he will hear us. But round about grows the dark laurel, and here also the young oak fattens her acorns against the end of the wheat-harvest. Sparrows. When I was a child I woke early, and the spar- rows chirped to me from the cool eaves of the house. Since then each morning have I recalled their merry voices. But those little birds have long flown to nest about the white feet of Proserpine, where I who alone remember them shall follow them alone. The Rose. Above the ashes of me, Rhodora, they planted a rose, but it died. Pity me that I died also who was also a rose. 15 FROM A LOST ANTHOLOGY The Salt Well. I am a well of brackish water springing from the unfruitful sand hard by the striving sea. Wherefor men have named me for Love, since all wayfarers must drink here, and drink again, lamenting the draught. Friendship. "When the black ships take thought of the sea and the winds are invoked, many are the dear gifts offered on the rocks to Priapus, and to thee, Leucothea of the clear hair ; baskets of rye straw with ripe figs, and wine in curved sea shells. But to me Lysis gives a richer offering, even his grief and his farewell. The Apple Trees. I am an old man, but I have planted young apple trees along the dewy edge of my cattle field. Nymphs of the deep meadows, crowned with rue and fed on wild thyme honey, remember me when in years to come you rob me of my fruit. The Sleeper. Is there indeed a life after death? Then is sleep become a yet more precious thing. Wake me not. 16 FROM A LOST ANTHOLOGY A Shepherd. Me when young, the mild-faded sheep followed. I fenced the folds, I sheltered the ewes, and at shearing time long strands of wool unwoven clung to my coat. Now by the fenceless sea I lay my bones and the foam blows over me, clinging to my bare tomb as white as wool. Yet am I far from the folds and the hill pastures of Thrace. A Poet. That she will soon forget me, I know. Yet build my tomb high in the birch wood above the seaport road, so that the mariners who pass by singing my songs may pause, even if she bring me no myrtle. And plant strong saplings about it, and clean seeds, and cuttings from my rose garden, so that the birds may build there and the dry twigs blossom at the end of the winter. For I would not, Cyprian, that the dove and the rose should forget me as soon as she. A Deaf Girl. Here lies Chryseis, my bride. She was beauti- ful, but the gods of life denied her hearing. Nor have the gods of the dead been kinder. In proof whereof I come here daily and call her, — Chryseis, Chryseis. Witness thou, stranger, she hath not heard me. 17 To Timarion HAD I the thrush's throat, I could not sing you Songs sweeter than his own. And I'm too poor To lay the gifts that other lovers bring you Low at your silver door. Such as I have, I give. See, for your taking Tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust. Here's a lost hope, and here a heart whose aching Grows greater than its trust. Sleep on, you will not hear me. But to-morrow You will remember in your fragrant ways, Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow Lovelier than all men's praise. 18 Adam and Eve WHEN the first dark had fallen around them And the leaves were weary of praise, In the clear silence Beauty found them And shewed them all her ways. In the high noon of the heavenly garden Where the angels sunned with the birds, Beauty, before their hearts could harden, Had taught them heavenly words. When they fled in the burning weather And nothing dawned but a dream, Beauty fasted their hands together And cooled them at her stream. And when day wearied and night grew stronger, And they slept as the beautiful must, Then she bided a little longer, And blossomed from their dust. 19 Mary Tired THROUGH the starred Judean night She went, in travail of the Light. With the earliest hush she saw God beside her in the straw. One poor taper glimmered clear, Drowsing Joseph nodded near. All the glooms were rosed with wings. « She that knew the Spirit's kiss Wearied of the bright abyss. She was tired of heavenly things. There between the day and night These she counted for delight : Baby kids that butted hard In the shadowy stable yard ; Silken doves that dipped and preened Where the crumbling well-curb greened; Sparrows in the vine, and small Sapphired flies upon the wall, So lovely they seemed musical. 20 MARY TIRED In the roof a swift had built. All the new-born airs were spilt Out of cups the morning made Of a glory and a shade. These her solemn eyelids felt While unseen the seraphs knelt. Then a young mouse, sleek and bold, Bustling in the winnowed gold, To her shadow crept, and curled Near the Ransom of the World. 21 Christ in the Museum BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray ; A dial that told the longest summer day How sure, how swift the night : And o'er the silent treasury, so high No lips may kiss, no grieving hands have clung, Numbered and ticketed, the Christ is hung. The many pass Him by, None pause. Here come no agonies, no dreams. Nothing is here to hurt Him, nor to wake. Year after year the golden iris gleams A little paler by her lacquered lake, And the dust gathers on the hands, the side, The lonely head of Love the crucified. 22 The Chosen CALLED to a way too high for me, I lean Out from my narrow window o'er the street, and know the fields I cannot see are green, And guess the songs I cannot hear are sweet. Break up the vision round me, Lord, and thrust Me from Thy side, unhoused without the bars, For all my heart is hungry for the dust And all my soul is weary of the stars. I would seek out a little roof instead, A little lamp to make my darkness brave. "For though she heal a multitude," Love said, "Herself she cannot save." 23 The Coloured Hours GRAY hours have cities, Green hours have rhymes Of hearts grown loving In old summertimes, But the white hours have only A cloud in the sky And a star, bright and lonely, To remember them by. Gold hours have laughter, Red hours have song Drawn from lost fountains Of beauty and wrong. But the white hours, — 0, tender As rose-flakes they lie, With youth's fallen splendour To remember them by. 24 Quiet COMB not the earliest petal here, but only Wind, cloud, and star, Lovely and far, Make it less lonely. Few are the feet that seek her here, but sleeping Thoughts sweet as flowers Linger for hours, Things winged, yet weeping. Here in the immortal empire of the grasses, Time, like one wrong Note in a song, With their bloom, passes. 25 The Gardener's Boy ALL day I have fed on lilied thoughts of her," The gardener's boy sang in Gethsemane. "She is quick, her garments make a lovely stir, Like the wind going in an almond tree. She is young, she hath doves' eyes, and like the vine Her hands enclose me,— hers as she is mine. "She shall feed among the lilies where I am, Learning their silver names. When evening grows, One bower shall hold me and my love, my lamb. Which shall I clasp," he sang, "her or the rose?" When the palm shadow barred the juniper He lay at last to sleep and dream of her. He saw not those who came when night was deep Up from the city, walking hastily. One seemed a strong man wan for fear and sleep. One bore a lantern. One moved stumblingly. The gardener's boy dreamed on the sunburned sod, Smiling beside the agony of God. 26 Bartimeus Grown Old YEA, I am he that dwelt beside this tomb. I was a child. God smote me from the sun. A little while, I had forgot to run Under the rain-sweet roof of almond bloom. I had forgotten summer, and the flaw Ruffling the gray sea and the yellowed grain. Now I am old and I forget again, But a man came and touched me, and I saw. Long years he dowered me with imperial day, Bright-blossomed night and all the stars in trust. Now I am blind again, and by the way Wait still to catch his footsteps in the dust. Surely he comes? — and he will hear my cry, Though he were stricken and dim and old as I. 27 Ecclesiastes UNDER the fluent folds of needlework, Where Balkis prick'd the histories of kings Once great as he, that were as greatly loved, Solomon stooped, and saw the dusk unfold Over the apple orchards like a flower. "0 bloom of eve," he said, "diviner loss Of all light gave us, dove of the whole world, Bearing the branch of peace, the dark, sweet bough, — Endure a little longer, ere full night Comes stark from God and terrible with stars, Eternal as He or love. Now no one wakes, But a lean gardener by my apricots, Sweeping the withered leaves, the yellowing leaves Down the wind's road. Perish our years with them, Our griefs, our little hungers, our poor sins, Leaves that the Lord hath scattered. He shall quench The fierce, impetuous torches of the sun, — Yea, from our dead dust He shall quicken kings, Unleash new battles, sharpen spears unborn, 28 ECCLESIASTES Shadow on shadow; but His stars remain Immortal, and love immortal crowned with them." Night came, and all the hosts thereof. He saw Arcturus clear the doorways of the cloud, And One that followed with his shining sons, In the likeness of a gardener that strode Over the windy hollows of the sky, And with a great broom drave the stars in heaps, — The yellow stars, the little withering stars, Faint drifts along the darkness. New stars came, Budded, and flowered, and fell. These too He swept, And all the heavens were changed. Then Solomon stood Silent, nor ever turned to the Queen's kiss. 29 Singing Children IN the streets of Bethlehem sang the children So merry and so shrill, "He shall have sweet cedars in his garden And a house on Hermon Hill. He shall have the king's daughter for his fellow, A king's crown to bind upon his head." And with bracken buds and straw, brown and yellow, Mary made His bed. In the streets of Nazareth sang the children So clearly and so sweet, "He shall lead us to the spoiling of the nations, He shall bruise them with his feet. His standards shall outface the stars for number, Red as field-lilies when the rains are done." And Mary heard them singing in her slumber. And woke to kiss her Son. In the streets of Jerusalem the children Sang, passing to their play, "The king's daughter waits in her apparel All glorious as day. 30 SINGING CHILDREN We charge you, ye watchmen, of your pity Reveal us our beloved, call his name." And the shadow of a cross beyond the city Fell softly o'er their game. In the ways of all the world sing the children, "We know Him, we have named Him, He is ours, Like leaves we have fluttered to His shadow, He has gathered us as flowers. And when the bud falls all too soon for blossom And when the play has wearied of its charm, He bears the tired lambs within His bosom And the young lambs in His arm." 31 Inheritance DESOLATE strange sleep and wild Came on me while yet a child ; I, before I tasted tears, Knew the grief of all the years. I, before I fronted pain, Felt creation writhe and strain, Sending ancient terrors through, My small pulses, sweet and new. I, before I learned how time Robs all summers at their prime, I, few seasons gone from birth, Felt my body change to earth. 32 On Lac Sainte Irened ON Lac Sainte Irenee the morn Lay rimmed with pine and roped with mist. The old moon hid her silver horn In shadow that the sun had kissed. One went by like a wandering soul, And followed ever, By reed and river, The silent canoe of the lake patrol. On Lac Sainte Irenee the noon Lay wolf -like waiting by her hills. No voice was heard but the sad loon And the wild-throated whip-poor-wills. But one went by on the bitter flaw, And followed ever, By rapid and river, The swift canoe of the white man's law. On Lac Sainte Irenee the moose Broke from his balsams, breathing hot. The bittern and the great wild goose Fled south before the sudden shot. 33 ON LAC SAINTE IRENEE One fled with them like a hunted soul, And followed ever, By ford and river, The little canoe of the lake patrol. On Lac Sainte Irenee the blue Vast arch of night was starred and deep. No footsteps scared the caribou Nor waked the wolverine from his sleep. Loosed indeed was the hunted soul, And homeward ever, By rapid and river, Slipped the canoe of the lake patrol. 34 When Winter Comes RAIN at Muchalat, rain at Sooke, And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena, And the skid-roads blind, and never a look Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina, And west winds keener Than jack-knife blades, And rocks grown greener With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck, And the camp half -closed and the pay-roll leaner, — Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck ? Yet. . . I don't know. . . there's an hour at night When the clouds break and the stars are turning A thousand points of diamond light Through the old snags of the cedar-burning, And the west wind's spurning A hundred highlands, 35 WHEN WINTER COMES And the frost-moon's learning The white fog-ways of the outer islands, And the shallows are dark with the sleeping duck, And life's a wonder for our discerning, — Say, little horse, shall we wait our luck? 36 Riding IF I should live again, God, let me be young, Quick of sinew and vein With the honeycomb on my tongue, All in a moment flung With the dawn on a flowing plain, Riding, riding, riding, riding Between the sun and the rain. If I, having been, must be, God, let it be so, Swift and supple and free With a long journey to go, And the clink of the curb and the blow Of hooves, and the wind at my knee, Riding, riding, riding, riding Between the hills and the sea. 37 The Woodsman in the Foundry WHKRE the trolley's rumble Jars the bones, He hears waves that tumble Green-linked weed along the golden stones. Where the crane goes clanging Chains and bars, He sees branches hanging Little leaves against the laughing stars. Where the molten metals Curdle bright, He sees cherry petals Fallen on blue violets in the night. When the glow is leaping Redly hurled, He sees roses sleeping, Forest-roses in a windy world. 38 The Wife LIVING, I had no might To make you hear, Now, in the inmost night, I am so near No whisper, falling light, Divides us, dear. Living, I had no claim On your great hours. Now the thin candle-flame, The closing flowers, Wed summer with my name, — And these are ours. Your shadow on the dust, Strength, and a cry, Delight, despair, mistrust, — All these am I. Dawn, and the far hills thrust To a far sky. 39 THE WIFE Living, I had no skill To stay your tread, Now all that was my will Silence has said. We are one for good and ill Since I am dead. 40 The Hearer "£^ING of the things we know and love." ^^ But the singer made reply, T^ "There are greater lands to tell you of And stars to steer you by." So he sang of worlds austere and strange, Of seas so wildly wide That only the journeying swan might range The marches of the tide. Men heard the thunder and the rain, The tempest in his song, They turned to their hearth fires again And thought the night too long. And only one man dared to hear The deeds that singer told ; Against the stars he swung his spear And died ere he was old. 41 The Wood Carver's Wife 43 The Wood Carver's Wife Jean Marchant, the wood-carver. Dorette, his wife. Louis de Lotbiniere. Shagonas, an Indian lad. The scene is a log-built room. There is a door; and a narrow window, both open. Outside can be seen fields of ripe corn, a palisade, and the corner of a loop- holed block-house; beyond is the forest; all is silent and deserted in the sun. The walls of the room are hung with skins, and here and there with things Jean has carved, — masks, two crucifixes, pipes, a panel showing a faun dancing to the piping of an Indian girl; there are guns also, rods and nets, a long French spade, and a shelf with a few books. The bare floor is strewn with fine wood-shavings. Jean is carving a Viet a for the new church, in high relief on panels of red cedar wood. Opposite him, facing the door, is Dorette, in a rough chair covered with a fur rug; she is sitting to him for the face of the Madonna. In the doorway sits Shagonas, mending a snare. 45 4 The Wood Carver's Wife Jean, {singing) Hard in the frost and the snow, The cedar must have known In his red, deep-fibred heart, A hundred winters ago, I should love and carve you so. And the knowledge must have beat From his root to his height like the mid-March heat When the wild geese cry from the cloud and the sleet, And the black-birch buds are grown. Then, were you then a part Of the vast slow life of the tree? Did you rise with the sap of his spring ? Did you stoop like a star to his boughs ? Did you nest in his soul and sing, A silver thrush in a shadowy house, As now, beloved, to me? 47 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. Jean. Dorette. Jean. Dorette. Not I. I have not sung. The sight of you Sings to the eyes. A little lower down, — Lean but a little lower that fair head, The head of Mary o'er her murdered Christ, The head I kiss in darkness all night long,— Lord! and the delicate hollow of the cheek Defeats the tool. There's no blade fine enough, Unless a strand of cobweb steeled in frost, Or Time's own graver. Hush. I'll not grow old. Grow old? I shall grow old along with you. Together? No, old age is solitary. A little stretching out of hands, a little 48 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Breathing on ashes, and even regret is gone. I tell you, I have seen old people here As not in Picardy. The milk-dry woman Crouching above her death-fire in the snow, The old man biting on a salted skin, — Their patience and the forest — 0, I fear Age more than anything. Jean. You are yet too young, Beloved, for my Mary. Dorette. What do I lack? Jean. Why, the cold barren look on nothingness, The grief that cannot weep, for if it could It would be less grief. The incon- solable Dumb apprehension, the doubt that asks for ever 49 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE "Is it so?" of Love and hears the answer "Yea," For ever. . . I would grieve you if I could To make my Mary perfect. Dorette. You are hard. You love your cold woods more than loveliness Of look and touch. Jean. Why, only as Lord God Might love the delicate dust He made you from, You and great trees, rivers and clouds, the plain Of ripened grasses running into flowers, And all that breathes in the world. There, you have moved ! Dorette. Jean. I only moved a little way to look. You have carved Our Lady's hair in Indian braids. Why not? 50 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. And laid the Lord on cedar boughs, Wrapping His body in a beaded skin. Jean. Why not? He would have walked in our New France Greatly as there, and died for these as well. Dorette. He is half-Indian. The Intendant will not like it. Jean. The Intendant will not see in the dark church. Old Father Peter has a new lace cope, And even his dark-skinned servers will go fine. Dorette. Ah, the dark people! How I fear them too. Shagonas. The lady should not fear. Their hearts are open Even as Shagonas' heart. Shagonas knows Only the ways of stream and wood a little, 51 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE And whence to bring the lady snake- root, whence White waterlilies, whence sweet sassafras, And berries in the moon of Falling Leaves. Dorette. Not you, Shagonas. I've no fear of you. Shagonas. The young dog-foxes running in the fern, The bittern and the arrow-dropping kite, The tall deer with five summers on his head, — These were Shagonas' brothers. Now he comes With broidered nut-bags and a little snare To catch a musk-rat for the lady's sake. Is it well made? Jean. Well made and strong, Shagonas, You sleek wolf apt to catch the herd-dog's bark. 52 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE The musk-rat ate our pansies out of France And vexed the lady. Shagonas. She must not be vexed. Shagonas dreamed the lady had two shadows. If but the following darkness touches her, Or strikes at her, Shagonas will strike too. So! Dorettc. Jean. 0, the knife, the knife! Put up, Shagonas. We love it not, the steel in a red hand, Who have seen too much. But what did the boy mean? Beloved, how you cried! Dorette. It was the sunlight On the bare blade. I did not guess he wore it. 53 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Jean. They always have a claw beneath the pelt. I know them well. Dorette. When do you go to see The place preparing for your altar-piece ? Jean. Why, any hour. But I can't leave her yet. Look, how the long hand grows from grain to flesh! Did not the bosom lift? Here at her throat's The beating of a vein. 0, if she came From her imprisoning dead cedar wood, — 'Gemma decens, rosa recens, Castitatis lilium,' — You, or the Mother of God? I do not know. I should have two breathing lilies ir my room, Two queens, two heavenly roses, 0, donum Dei! And yet . . . the face, the face! 54 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Beautiful. But there's no despair in her. That makes despair in me. Look you my girl, Suffer it with her. Think. She only knows The dead weight of the Saviour on her knees As it were a little child's. She's woman. There Is her dead heaven, her babe, her God, her all, Unrisen. The grave yet holds Him. Why, you weep. Dorette. Jean. I am tired and cold. Well, . . Rest you, little heart. I would not have you greater. Dry your tears. She has dried hers long ago. Dorette. I have sat too long. Will you go now to the church? Jean. Yes, yes, and see 55 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE The shrine prepared to put my Lady in. You or the Virgin Mother? You, I think. They'll see you there between the candle flames A hundred years. The lads will worship you And maids with innocent eyes will wonder at you. Your beauty will lift many souls to God. Come, boy. Shagonas. The lady must not be afraid Of any shadow. Jean. Fare you well, my rose. Jean kisses her, takes his sword and broad hat, and goes out, followed by Shagonas. Dorette watches them through the open door as they cross the cornfields towards the blockhouse. When they are out of sight she shuts the door, crosses the room, and kneels before the Pieta, her face hidden in her hands. 56 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. If you have lain in the night And felt the old tears run In their channels worn on the heart, Pity me, Mary. If you have dreaded the light And turned from the warmth of the sun Like a blind child groping apart, Pity me, Mary. If you have risen from sleep To the shadow of death, and the moon White as one slain for your sake, Pity me, Mary. If you have longed for the deep Close dark in the fulness of noon When the eyes of the forest awake. Pity me, Mary. 0, you who went folded in wings Of Godhead, the maiden of God, First star of the morning He made, Pity me, Mary. 57 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE No bird of the meadow that sings, No bud that shines up from the sod But pierces me too with its blade. Pity me, Mary. Ah Christ! but will she pity, being pure? You also, yet you pitied. Have compassion. You stilled the wild seas at Gennesaret. Stretch out Your hand and still me. I am torn With tempest, and the deep goes over me. He does not stir. He is dead. 0, Louis, Louis ! There is a soft knocking at the door, but she does not hear. She remains motionless before the Virgin. The door opens, De Lotbiniere enters and shuts it behind him. Seeing her, he uncovers, steals across the room and kneels beside her. Presently she lifts her head and looks him in the face. Dorette. Louis ! De L. O loveliest, join me to your prayer. 58 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. De L. Dorette. De L. Dorette. De L. Louis ! I too will kneel to Christ and weep That anything so beautiful as love Should have such sorrow on it. my dear, I think I knew. But you are mad to come here, Here in broad day. I am growing tired of darkness, Dark hours, dark deeds, and little darkling ways, A dirty smoke across the flame of love. I had rather meet your Jeannot face to face With sunshine and clean air. Clean hands, clean heart, They would be his. He's welcome. Does he know? You have not kissed me yet. Come to my heart. Now answer me. 59 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. DeL. Dorette. DeL. Dorette. De L. The boy Shagonas knows, Not yet my husband. I almost wish he knew. . . 0, Louis, Louis, if you're in haste for that, Content you. He will learn it very soon. The sharp-tongued grasses that I trod towards you Will whisper him, the winds will tell him, Here, The dews will lie at noontime to betray me, The dawn come out of hour, the dark boughs sigh, There, there the foul thing passed. O, my Dorette! That's right. I'll stand and let you kneel to me. Will you kneel gladly? As I would to her, 60 THE WOOD CAHVER'S WIFE God's Mother, looking earthward with your face. Dorette. There's not a chisel-stroke he used to brand My likeness there, but casts me farther out From God's forgiveness. Be L. Alas, my pretty dove. You make me hate myself, my love, my choice That so hath caged you, for you flew so cheerly Between the kind leaves and the little clouds. Gold were your feathers and your wings of silver, And now you feel the mire. Dorette. Nay, you have loosed me A flight above the stars. God pity us. We were not made for sin. I love you, Louis. Del. Why, so I came to hear. 61 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. Be L. Dorette. De L. You are in haste? So bound to my great cousin the Intendant I may not breathe without his lord- ship's leave Nor tie my shoe without a grant for it. That's right, you smile. You look less angel so, But match me better. I have so much time As the old priest here uses for a pater, No more, no less. But that's enough for love. Why, love's timed by the heart beat or the slow Century's half. I have no thought but you, No care, no pride, no hope, no any- thing. I am not myself but you. My very flesh Has taken your tender likeness on. I see, 62 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Speak, breathe, hear, hunger but as you, Dorette. Smile on your servant. Dorette. I smiled upon you once, Out in the forest when you talked to me. It seemed no sin among the idle leaves. But here the very windows are sealed up With watchfulness, the doorsill seems aware Who lately crossed it. Louis, I can- not smile. I fear for you, beloved. Will you go? De L. What, go so soon? I have scarcely looked at you, Nor touched your hair, nor lifted your sweet hands. My chalice has gone drained of you its wine These three days. Love, I cannot leave you yet. 63 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. De L. Dorette. De L. But if he comes. . . . When will you to the forest, My dear wild dove ? I saw red lilies there Burning in sun-bleached grass, and gentians spread Beside a little pool, less blue than he. The great kingfisher poised on the dead bough. Black squirrels chirred against the quarrelling jays, There came a flight of emerald hum- mingbirds, While through the wind-swayed walls of reed and vine Laced the quick dragonflies. Sweet, will you come? I am yours, my heart, wherever I may be. Let it content you. I am not content. She leaves him, goes to the Pieta, and standing before it, speaks. 64 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. Del. Dorette. Be L. Dorette. Mother, tell him I cannot go. Dorette. Mother, hold me fast against his voice. Dorette. Mother, hide me from his eyes. Build from your sorrowing hands a little ark Where that storm-driven bird, my soul, may rest Till all its heaviness is overpast. "Where will that be? In the grave? I think not there. Though my slight bones had lain for centuries Bound over with the prisoning forest roots, And had no other feasting than the rain, And known no other music than the wind, 1 should yet go climbing upward every spring, 65 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE When the whitethroat came and bur- geoning grains put out To look for him. . . See, Louis, she will not hear me. She is not Our Lady, for she has my face . What was that noise? Be L. I heard none. Dorette. It was like The sound of a stretched bow this side the river. Beyond the fields. It had a sound of death. Be L. Loveliest, what frights you? Life is all for us. The fulness and fruition of the year Are on our side, deep rose and dark- ening grape Are with us, and the strong bird fledged to fly Forgetful of the nest. In those deep woods I found white flowers beside a little stream 66 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE With three waxed petals round a core of gold. I would have brought them to you, but I thought To crown you with them there, where balsam boughs Strain the sweet sun, and every hour is stayed On silence, and but the stream runs into song. Dorette. If you owe me any favour, any grace, Of a promise I once kept, I pray you go. Be L. Dorette. Are you tired of loving me ? I tired? Christ! I would lay my body for your feet to walk on, And make a carpet of my hair for you, Be the unsensed wood, the stone, the dust you trod, So that you trod safety. 67 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE De L. Dear, I'll go, But kiss me first. Dorette. Louis, I will seal you With a charm of sevenfold kisses against wrong, Here, here, and here, on hands, cheeks, lips, and head. When first I saw you, back in Amiens, Go riding with the great folk past our door, I thought that head a king's. De L. Sweet, losing you I should go unkinged for ever, since my kingdom Rests but in this. Dorette. You need not fear to lose me, Save as the strong tree loses the dead leaf Or the full tide one star. Though I should die Soon, and be set behind you like a song Heard once between the midnight and the dawn, 68 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE And then forgotten, yet all I was, looked, said, Should still be yours, warm night be full of me, And morning come for ever with my face, Who have given you your first love. De L. First love, and last. Dorette. And last. . . and last. Go now. Christ, too late. De L. Too late? Dorette. They are coming upward from the river, Jean and his Indian boy. De L. So soon returned? Dorette. He is walking very fast. I think he knows. De L. Does he, at last ? 69 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. Perhaps Shagonas told him, Perhaps the dumb earth lightened into speech, As often times to flowers, or the blank air Took colour in our likeness. . . "Why, you wait ! 0, I am going mad. Have you no limbs, No breath, no natural motion ? Would you bide Thus, thus the loosening rock, the falling tree, Fingering a sword ? De L. Is your Jean not so much? Let him find me here beside you. Dorette. If he does I shall go mad indeed. Have I no claim ? Have you no pity for me? Is your love Of such a bitter substance that my tears Can wring no answer from it, nor my hands 70 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Avail against your pride? See, see I'll kneel, Nay, stretch my length before you, in the dust Darken the hair you praise, with very death Entreat, beseech you, only that you go. De L. There, lest my heart break. There, poor child, I'll go! Dorette. De L. Now? Now? Now, now. Why, you will make me laugh At these so tender terrors. I will slip Into the berried elder-brake that throws Shade on your sill, and wait till he's within, And the door shut. Dorette. Go, go. De Lotbiniere slips from the door which he leaves open and hides in the thicket which has thrown leaf 71 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE shadows upon it through the afternoon. Dorette again kneels before the Pieta. Dorette. Keep open door, Saviour, of your mercy. Blot him out In soft leaf-shadows like a little death. Shut thou his eyes with webs, his breath with buds, Prison his hands with branches. Strew Thou me Dust on the wind to blind them so they see not, Nor hear Ah! Jean is heard singing as he approaches the house. Jean, (singing) Three kings rode to Bethlehem By the sand and the foam. Three kings rode to Bethlehem. Only two rode home. 0, he hath stayed to watch her face And make his prayer thereto, 72 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE And to lay down for his soul's grace The straw beneath her shoe. O, he hath sold the golden rings That linked his camel-reins, And the low song a mother sings Is all his sorrow gains. » Two rode home by the foam and the sand, Between the night and the day, But one has stayed in Holy Land And cast his crown away. As his song ends, Jean reaches the door and stands within it, gazing at Dorette, who remains before the Pieta. Presently he enters the room, his gaze still upon her. Jean. Do you pray there to your- self? 73 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. Jean. Dorette. Rather to God. Why, that's a better prayer. You should not pray to yourself. You are too tender, You irised bubble of the clay, to bear The weight of worship. Prayer must not be made To the weak dust the wind cards presently About the world. Why, even your shadow, she, Madonna of the reddening cedar wood, Hath but a troubled momentary power, A doubtful consolation, and a look As though the wind would rend her and the fire Eat to swift ash. No comfort there for sinners. But you're no sinner, need no com- forting Other than mine, — as this, and this, and this. You hurt me. 74 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Jean Dorette. Jean Dorette. Jean. Dorette. Jean Dorette. Jean I? What, hurt yon with a kiss? Shall I go kiss her so? It were a sin. Here is too much of sin and sin and sin. Go, get you to that chair. Why do you look So strangely on me ? Is my look so strange ? Yea, sure, as if you found me dead but now And saw my face. I see a kind of death there. Go, sit you in your chair. Where is Shagonas? Lingering to shoot at crows with his great bow 75 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE More fit for war. He has fledged an arrow thrice In carrion hearts, until the feather dripped Blood, blood, and blood again. You shrink? By blood Was the world saved, and what's as red as it Only by blood is turned wool-white again. What's that to you, white rose? Go, sit you there. I would make you more Madonna. Dorette. Jean, not now. I am sick. I am weary. Jean Do you pray to me 1 You should not. You're Our Lady. You will taste The year-long incense and the holy heat Of candles. They will hail you mys- tic rose, The tower of ivory, the golden house, Sea-star and vase of honour. Sit you there. 76 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. I cannot. Jean. Go. Dorette. Jean. 'Tis you Dorette. Jean Dorette. Jean You are very harsh with me. 'Tis you are hard to please. I kiss; you tremble, I speak ; you are in tears. Where is Shagonas? Without, without. I have an errand for him. He will come soon . . . Fie, what a withered look, How your heart beats. You are fev ered. Sit, Dorette. Lift your face to the light, — a little forward, — So, now, — and dream you hold across your knees What's dearest of your world, and slain for you That blood may wash out sin. 77 THE WOOD CARVER'S WIFE Dorette. 0, Christ! Jean Of course. Who else but Christ? That suits me. Hold your peace. While they are speaking, Dorette has seated herself again in the chair facing towards the door, upon which the lightly-stirred shadows of elder leaves come and go. Jean takes up his tools. Jean d \ \* T UNIVERSITY OF CALirORNLA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed This hook is DUE on the last date stamped below. 27 Jul'49B* LD21- -100m-9,'48iB399sl6)476 k bfe T& 5? V& ■ & ^ j y^7 M204053 ^° WO THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY P\ \ P