In Memorabilia Mortis

I MARKED the slow withdrawal of the year.
Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone—
The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn.
A robin’s song fell through the silence—clear
As long ago it rang when June was here.


Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn
Across the sky; and all the song was gone,
And all the gold was quick to disappear.
That day the sun seemed loth to come again;
And all day long the low wind spoke of rain,


Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one
Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth,
Knowing some giant grief had come to birth,
Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun.


I WATCHED the slow oncoming of the Fall.
Slowly the leaves fell from the elms, and lay
Along the roadside; and the wind’s strange way
Was their way, when they heard the wind’s far call.
The crimson vines that clung along the wall

Grew thin as snow that lives on into May;
Grey dawn, grey noon,—all things and hours were grey,
When quietly the darkness covered all.
And while no sunset flamed across the west,
And no great moon rose where the hills were low,


The day passed out as if it had not been:
And so it seemed the year sank to its rest,
Remembering naught, desiring naught,—as though
Early in Spring its young leaves were not green.
A LITTLE while before the Fall was done
A day came when the frail year paused and said:
“Behold! a little while and I am dead;
Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?”
Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun


Shone always, and the roses all were red;
Far off, the great sea slept, and overhead,
Among the robins, matins had begun.
And I knew not at all it was a dream
Only, and that the year was near its close;


Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose,
The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam
Of all the unvext sea, a little space
Were as a mist above the Autumn’s face.


AND in this garden sloping to the sea
I dwelt (it seemed) to watch a pageant pass,—
Great Kings, their armour strong with iron and brass,
Young Queens, with yellow hair bound wonderfully.
For love’s sake, and because of love’s decree,


Most went, I knew; and so the flowers and grass
Knew my steps also: yet I wept Alas,
Deeming the garden surely lost to me.
But as the days went over, and still our feet
Trod the warm, even places, I knew well


(For I, as they, followed the close-heard beat
Of Love’s wide wings who was her sentinel)
That here had Beauty built her citadel
And only we should reach her mercy-seat.

AND Ye, are ye not with me now alway?—
Thy raiment, Glauce, shall be my attire!
East of the Sun I, too, seek my desire!
My kisses, also, quicken the well-wrought clay!
And thou, Alcestis, lest my little day

Be done, art glad to die! Upon my pyre,
O Brynhild, let thine ashes feed the fire!
And, O thou Wood Sun, pray for me, I pray!
Yea, ye are mine! Yet there remaineth one
Who maketh Summer-time of all the year,


Whose glory darkeneth the very sun.
For thee my sword was sharpened and my spear,
For thee my least poor deed was dreamed and done,
O Love, O Queen, O Golden Guenevere! [page 9]


THEN, suddenly, I was awake. Dead things
Were all about me and the year was dead.
Save where the birches grew, all leaves were shed
And nowhere fell the sound of song or wings.
The fields I deemed were graves of worshipped Kings

Had lost their bloom: no honey-bee now fed
Therein, and no white daisy bowed its head
To harken to the wind’s love-murmurings.
Yet, by my dream, I know henceforth for me
This time of year shall hold some unknown grace


When the leaves fall, and shall be sanctified:
As April only comes for memory
Of him who kissed the veil from Beauty’s face
That we might see, and passed at Easter-tide

“A little while and I shall see
His ships returned to fight for me.

He may not dream what bitter woes
I have to bear; but still he knows
April and I wait patiently.

“I pray you, sirs, that you will keep
Good watch tonight, lest they should creep


Close to the landward wall again;
You might not hear them in this rain.
And I, because I cannot sleep,

“Shall guard this other side, till morn
Show me his sails all gray and torn,


But swift to bring to Charnisay
Tidings that it is Easter Day
On earth, and Jesus Christ is born!)

“Shall he not come? Can he withstand
The beckoning of April’s hand,


The voices of the little streams
That break tonight across his dreams
Of me, alone in a north land?

“Though yesterday in Boston town
Fair women wandered up and down


Warm pathways under green-leaved trees,
Was he not sick with memories
Of April’s hair and starry gown?

“Does he not hear spring’s trumpet blow
Beyond the limits of the snow?


Hark how its silver echo fills
The hollow places of the hills,
Proclaiming winter’s overthrow!

“How glad he was in the old days
To tread those newly opened ways!


Together we would go—as we
Shall go tomorrow, joyously—
And find ten thousand things to praise,

“Things now so sad to think upon.
And yet he must return ere dawn;


Because he hears at the sea’s rim,
Calling across the night to him,
The sundering icebergs of St. John.”

…Now, when dawn broke at last, sullen and gray,
And on the sea there gleamed no distant sail,


She quietly said, “It is not Easter Day,
And in my vision I have dreamed strange dreams.”
Still drave the rain in from the east, and still
The ice churned by the bases of the cliffs,
And little noises woke among the firs.


“And yet,” she said, “beyond the outer seas,
Far off, in France, among the white, white lilies,
Today they think that Eastertide has come;
And maidens deck their bodies amorously,
And go to sing glad hymns to Christ arisen,


Within the little chapel on the hill.
Now shall I fancy it is Easter here,
And think the wasting snow great banks of lilies
And this gray cliff my chapel; and I shall go
And gather seaweed, twining it in my hair,


And know God will regard me graciously
Who fashion such sweet carols in his praise.
I must do this alone, because La Tour
Is dallying still in Boston town, where girls
Make beautiful their hair with southern blooms,—


Wood violets and odorous mayflower blossoms,
Such as come late into our northern fields.
Was it last Easter—was it years ago—
That he and I went joyously together—
(Having prayed Christ to bless us with his grace)—


Between the wasting trunks of the tall pines [page 136]
Wherein one crow called to the hidden rain?
(For here, although it rain at Easter even,
The dawn breaks golden; and a million hours
Seem flown since yesterday.) O golden France,


Long lost and nigh forgotten! do they know
Who walk today between your palaces
The gladness that we know when April comes
Into the solitude of this our north,
And the snows vanish as her flying feet


Are heard upon the hills? Their organs, now,
Do they sound unto heaven a prouder strain
Than these great pines? Hark how the wind booms through
Their topmost branches, come from the deep sea!
And how old Fundy sends its roaring tides


High up against the rocks! Yea, even in France,
I think God sees not more to make him glad
Today,—only the sunshine and the lilies”—
She paused, hearing the chapel matin bell
Clang wearily; and, like to one that finds


No welcome in some long-imagined land
Now near at last, back from the hopeless sea,
With agèd face, she turned to help them pray
Whose hearts had lost their heritage of hope….