Francis Joseph Sherman: Verses about Power

As when the tideless, barren waters lay
About the borders of the early earth;
And small, unopened buds dreamt not the worth
Of their incomparable gold array;
And tall young hemlocks were not set a-sway

By any wind; and orchards knew no mirth
At Autumn time, nor plenteousness from dearth;
And night and morning, then, were the first day,
—Even so was I. Yet, as I slept last night,
My soul surged towards thy love’s controlling power;


And, quickened now with the sun’s splendid might,
Breaks into unimaginable flower,
Knowing thy soul knows this for beacon-light—
The culmination of the harvest hour.

Come and let me make thee glad
In this house that I have made!
Nowhere ( I am unafraid!)
Canst thou find its like on Earth:
Come, and learn the perfect worth

Of the labor I have had.

I have fashioned it for thee,
Every room and pictured wall;
Every marble pillar tall,
Every door and window-place;


All were done that thy fair face
Might look kindlier on me.

Here, moreover, thou shalt find
Strange, delightful, far-brought things:
Dulcimers, whose tightened strings,


Once, dead women loved to touch;
(Deeming they could mimic much
Of the music of the wind!)

Heavy candlesticks of brass;
Chess-men carved of ivory;


Mass-books written perfectly
By some patient monk of old;
Flagons wrought of thick, red gold,
Set with gems and colored glass;

Burnished armor, once some knight


(Dead, I deem, long wars ago!)
Its great strength was glad to know
When his Lady needed him:
(Now that both his eyes are dim
Both his sword and shield are bright!)



Come, and share these things with me,
Men have died to leave to us!
We shall find life glorious
In this splendid house of love;
Come, and claim thy part thereof,―


I have fashioned it for thee!

I think you must remember
When days like this come back
That afternoon the little firs
Leaned to our snowshoe track.

O, how the wood was silent!

Save when the boughs let fall
Their snow upon the speckled drift;
No other noise at all.

And when we gained the open,
Remember how it seemed


The sun had found its ancient strength!—
How white the meadows gleamed!



Ours was a hill-temple.
The old pines in a ring
Waited around the while we prayed


For just this simple thing—

That morning might be April
And we might seek again
The sources of the hidden springs
That tarry for the rain.



To our most quiet altar
We came not as they come
Who have some burden to lay down,
Whose frightened lips are dumb;

But like to them whose courage


Faints not (although their path
Lead sheer across the pathless drift
Into the pits of wrath),

Knowing (each one) that surely
Time’s heartlessness shall cease,


And that at last his hands shall touch
The boundaries of peace.

For we are Northern children;
And when our souls have birth
The strength of the North wind comes to them—


The whiteness of the Earth;

So that we wend unfearing
On our appointed ways,
With thankfulness in our child-hearts
And lips attuned to praise.



Yea, strong enough forever
To bide our separate dooms
Tho’ our bare days and nights be filled
With dreams of Southern blooms.

O wind of the pine forests!


Can you blow down to her
Word that her ancient hills await
Their wandered worshipper?

Tell her that April lingers
Behind the low south wall


Only until the hills divide
At her accustomed call;

Say that a gray cloud gathers
Between the eastern rifts;
That great brown stones win slowly through


The purple-shadowed drifts.

And last—a last endeavor
To mar her unconcern—
Whisper, I, too, wait patiently
Her ultimate return,


Who hold the old faith ever
The years may not make less—
That her white Northern soul hath still
The pole-star’s steadfastness.


Down in your sultry garden


Where red the roses burn
I think you pause a moment now
When days like this return,

And lift your face, and wonder
How deep the drifted snow


Lies on the northern hills that watch
The little town below;

And if the old hill altar
Retains its ancient use;
If still the brooding pines abide


Their dedicated truce.

I think you pause and hearken—
About this time of year—
For the low sound on hidden plains
Of April’s feet, drawn near;



And cry to the opened lilies
That lean unto your hand,—
“Today, one waits on the white hills,
Alone, in a Northern land!”

It was quite dark within the room
Wherein the Lady Alice sat;
One had not seen, who looked thereat,
The gathered dust upon her loom,
There was such gloom.



And though the hangings on the wall
Were wrought so well and cunningly
That many had come far to see
Their glory once (for they were all
Of cardinal,


And gold, and silk, and curious glass)
The ladies with the long red hair
Thereon, the strong men fighting there,
The little river edged with grass,—
Were now, alas,



As if they had been always gray.
Likewise the lily, whose perfume
Had once been over all the room,
In which dark corner now it lay,―
What man might say?



She did not see these things, or know
That they had changed since she had seen.
She like it best to sit between
Two little firs (they used to grow,
Once, long ago!)



That stood each in an earthen pot
Upon the window’s either side.
They had been green before they died,
But like the rest fell out their lot,—
To be forgot.



Yet what cared she for such as these,
Whose window was toward the sun
At sun-rising? There was not one
Of them so strong and sure to please,
Or bring her ease,



As what she saw when she looked through
Her window just before the dawn.
These were the sights she gazed upon:
Sir John, whose silken pennon flew,
Yellow and blue,



And proud to be upon his lance;
The horse he rode being gray and white;
A few men, unafraid to fight,
Followed (there were some men in France
Were brave, perchance!)



And they were armed with swords and spears;
Their horses, too, were mostly gray.
—They seemed not sad to go away,
For they were men had lost their fears
With their child-years.



They had such hope, there was but one
Looked back: Sir John had strength to look.
His men saw not that his lance shook
A little, for though night was done,
There was no sun.



And so they rode into the dawn
That waited just behind the hill;
(In France there were some men to kill!)
These were the things she looked upon
Till they were gone.


The room was dark, and full of fear;
And so the Lady Alice stayed
Beside the window. Here she prayed
Each morning, and when night drew near,
Year after year.


Beside her lay some unused things:
A trumpet that had long been mute;
A vellum book; a little lute
That once had ten unrusted strings;
And four gold rings;


A piece of faded cloth-of-gold;
And three black pennies that were white
As silver once:—the great delight
She had of all these things of old
Was not quite cold.



Only the things that she could see
Out of the window gladdened her;
After the morning, those things were:
A ship that rode triumphantly
(This sight would be



Plainest a little ere the noon)
On wide blue waters, with the wind
Strong from the west that lay behind;
Its sail curved like a slender moon,
Born into June.



An empty ship beside the shore
Of some unconquered foreign land;
Some brave men fighting on the sand
As they had never fought before
In any war;



A few men fleeing to the hills
(This came a little after noon),
God, but the fight was ended soon!
They were not hard to wound and kill!
A trumpet shrill



Echoes, and many knights pursue!
And on the hillside dead men lie,
Who learned before they came to die
The yellow flags the victors flew
Were crossed with blue!


No wonder that this window-place
Could make the Lady Alice glad,
When sights like these were what she had!
Yet there was one that made her face
For a little space



Grow like a face that God has known.
I think she was the happiest
When the sun dropped into the west;
This was the thing she then was shown,
And this alone:



A laden ship that followed fast
The way the setting sun had led;
In the east wind her great sail spread;
A brave knight standing near the mast;
The shore at last!



Of all things, this the best did seem.
And now the gathering darkness fell;
The morn would bring him, she knew well;
She slept; and in her sleep, I deem,
She had one dream



Against the window-side she slept.
This window-place was very strange;
Since it was made it had known change.
Beneath it once no women wept,
And no vines crept



And twisted in the broken glass.
Some time ago, the little tree
That she had planted tenderly
Was not much higher than tall grass;
But now, alas,



Its branches were the greatest where
Her window looked toward the sun.
One branch, indeed, its way had won
Into her room,—it did not bear
Green leaves in there.

135

Above the window, and inside,
Great spider-webs were spun across.
Where stone was, there was wet green moss
Wherein small creeping things did hide
Until they died.

140

The leaves that looked toward the room
Were hardly anything but veins;
They had been wasted by the rains,
Like some dead naked girl in the gloom
Of some old tomb.



But those outside were broad and green,
And lived between the sun and shade.
A perfect bower they had made,—
Beneath them there should sit some queen,
Born to be seen!


It was quite dark within the place
Wherein the Lady Alice slept.
I heard the girls below who wept,
But God did not (of His good grace)
Show me her face

O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;
Ye who find nothing worthy of your love
But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;
Who, when the day is done,
Are all uncomforted

Unless the night be crowned with many a star,
Or mellow light be shed
From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,
With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;
O ye to whom the skies

Must be forever fair to free your eyes
From mortal pain; ―
Have ye not known the great exceeding worth
Of that soft peace which cometh with Rain?

Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing

That hath such title to man's worshipping
As the first sudden day [page 40]
The slumberous Earth is wakened into Spring;
When heavy clouds and gray
Come up the southern way,

And their bold challenge throw
In the face of the frightened snow
That covereth the ground.
What need they now the armies of the Sun
Whose trumpets now do sound?

25
Alas, the powerless Sun!
Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,
Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast
And leading them with slow and even paces
To assault once more the impenetrable places,

Where, crystal-bound,
The river moveth on with silent sound?
O puny, powerless Sun!
On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces
Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done?

35
On these large spaces
No footsteps are imprinted anywhere;
Still the white glare
Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still
On plain and hill;


And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.

Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face
This day beneath the cloud's gray covering;
Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace
In which thy name is holden of the Spring.


She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,
And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;
Knowing that with the clouds will come apace
The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.
A king? —Nay, queen! [page 41]

For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne
When first she cometh in the young Spring-season;
Gentle and mild,
Yet with no dread of any revolution,
And fearing not a land unreconciled,


And unafraid of treason.
In her dark hair
Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution;
And in her glance is known
The freeing of the rivers from their chainings;


And in her bosom's strainings
Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.

Behold her coming surely, calmly down,
Where late the clear skies were,
With gray clouds for a gown;


Her fragile draperies
Caught by the little breeze
Which loveth her!
She weareth yet no crown,
Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;

70
Yea, in all lands,
Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well
That it is right and good for her to come;
And that her least commands
Must be fulfilled, however wearisome;


And that they all must guard the citadel
Wherein she deigns to dwell!

And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over
The impressionable snow
That vanisheth as woe


Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,
Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know
His lady loves him so! [page 42]
(Yet not like him
Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!


It is all gray in places, and looks worn
With some most bitter pain;
As he shall look, perchance,
Some early morn
While yet the dawn is dim,


When he awakens from the enraptured trance
In which he, blind, hath lain,
And knows also that he hath loved in vain
The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.
And though her utter worthlessness is plain


He hath no joy of his deliverance,
But only asketh God to let him die,―
And getteth no reply.)
Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!

And while the rain is unabated,


Well-heads are born and streams created
On the hillsides, and set a-flowing
Across the fields. The river, knowing
That there hath surely come at last
Its freedom, and that frost is past,


Gathereth force to break its chains;
The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!
See where the shores even now were firmly bound
The slowly widening water showeth black,
As from the fields and meadows all around


Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground
The foaming streams!
Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide
Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack
Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,


Glad to be free.
And now the uneven rift is growing wide;
The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;
It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,
And moveth on its way.


Surely at last the work of the rain is done!
Surely the Spring at last is well begun,
O unavailing Sun!

O ye who worship only at the noon,
When will ye learn the glory of the rain?


Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass
Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky,
And all in vain?
Even in June
Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon


Along the roadside, where the dust, alas,
Is hard to pass?
Have ye not heard
The song cease in the throat of every bird
And know the thing all these were stricken by?



Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,
O pitiless and uncompassionate!
Yet should the weeping
Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping
Be felt of you to-night,


And all your hair
Know the soft stirring of an alien breath
From out the mouth of Death,
Would ye not then have memory of these
And how their pain was great?


Would ye not wish to hear among the trees
The wind in his great night,
And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?

For when could death be more desired by us
(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)


Than when the night
Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?
When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass
Is not yet tall,
Or when all living things are harvested

155
And with bright gold the hills are glorious,
Or when all colors have faded from our sight
And all is gray that late was gold and red?
Have ye not lain awake the long night through
And listened to the falling of the rain


On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?
Have none of you,
Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted
And made forgetful of the day's live pain?
Even Thou, who wept because the dark was great


Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,
Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing
And night a thing not wholly desolate
And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?
Did not thy hearing strain


To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,
Where great tides be,
And swift, white rain?
Did not its far exulting teach thy soul
That of all things the sea alone is free


And under no control?
Its liberty,―
Was it not most desired by thy soul?
I say,
The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea


Is glad alway
When the rain cometh; either tranquilly [page 45]
As at the first dawn of a Summer day
Or in late Autumn wildly passionate,
Or when all things are all disconsolate


Because that Winter has been long their king,
Or in the Spring.
―Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving
Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!
While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?


Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?
Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;
Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;
Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,
Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,


When ye seek out your homes because the night―
The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,
And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,
Will ye not cry aloud with that new might
One dying with great things unfinished hath,


"O God! If Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain! "