Francis Joseph Sherman: Verses about Tears

When in the old years I had dreams of thee
Thy dark walls stood in a most barren place;
And he within (was his wan face my face?)
Wandered alone and wept continually.
There was no bird to hear, nor sun to see,

Nor green thing growing; nor for his release
Came sleep; neither forgetfulness nor peace:
Whereby I knew that none had sinned as he.
To-day I met him where white lilies gleam;
Across our path we watched the sparrows flit;


Until—the sunlight strong in our dry eyes—
He paused with me beside a green-edged stream,
Moaning, “I know, where its young waters rise,
Remembering, one leaneth over it.”

I wonder why my love for him
Should grow so much these last three days,
While he but stares as if some whim
Had been discovered to his gaze;

Some foolish whim that brings but shame


Whatever time he thinks thereof,—
To him my name is now the name
Of some old half-forgotten love.

And yet I starve for his least kiss
And faint because my love is great;


I, who am now no more than this,—
An unseen beggar at his gate. . . .

She watched the moon and spake aloud.
The moon seemed not to rise, but hung
Just underneath the long straight cloud


That low across the heavens swung,

As if to press the old moon back
Into its place behind the trees.
The trees stood where the hill was black;
They were not vexed by any breeze.



The moon was not as it had been
Before, when she had watched it rise;
It was misshapen now, and thin,
As if some trouble in the skies

Had happened more than it could bear.


Its color, too, was no more red;
Nor was it like her yellow hair;―
It looked as if its soul were dead.

I, who was once well-loved of him,
Am as a beggar by his gate


Whereon black carvèd things look grim
At one who thinks to penetrate.

I do not ask if I may stray
Once more in those desirèd lands;
Another night, yet one more day,


For these I do not make demands;

For when the ripened hour is past
Things such as these are asked in vain:
His first day’s love,—were that the last
I were repaid for this new pain.



Out of his love great joy I had
For many days; and even now
I do not dare to be but glad
When I remember, often, how

He said he had great joy of me.


The while he loved, no man, I think,
Exceeded him in constancy;
My passion, even, seemed to shrink

Almost to nothing, when he came
And told me all of love’s strange things:


The paths love trod, loves eyes of flame,
Its silent hours, its rapid wings. . . .

The moon still waited, watching her
(The cloud still stretched there, close above;
The trees beneath): it could not stir,


And yet it seemed the shape thereof,

Since she looked first, some change had known.
In places it had burned away,
And one side had much thinner grown;
—What light that came from it was gray.



It was not curved from east to west,
But lay upon its back; life one
Wounded, or weary of some quest,
Or by strong enemies undone.

Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;


She knew they were burned out and dead
Because no clouds went, drifting by,
Across the light the strange moon shed.

Now I can hope for naught but death.
I would not stay to give him pain,


Or say the words a woman saith
When love hath called aloud in vain

And got no answer anywhere.
It were far better I should die,
And have rough strangers come to bear


My body far away, where I

Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
That they should leave me, with no tears,
To think and think within the gloom
For many years, for many years.


The thought of that strange, narrow place
Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
I do not fear cold Death’s embrace,
And where black worms draw nigh to feed

On my white body, then, I know


That I shall make no mournful cry:
But that I should be hidden so
Where I no more may see the sky,―

The wide sky filled with many a star,
Or all around the yellow sun,


Or even the sky where great clouds are
That wait until the rain be done,

―That is an evil thing for me. . . .
Across the sky the cloud swung still
And pressed the moon down heavily


Where leafless trees grew on the hill.

The pale moon now was very thin.
There was no water near the place,
Else would the moon that slept therein
Have frightened her with its gray face.



How shall I wish to see the sky!
For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
I care not where they make me lie,
Nor if my grave be diggèd deep,

So they leave loose my coffin’s lid


And throw on me no mouldy clay,
That the white stars may not be hid:
This little thing is all I pray.

Then I shall move me wearily,
And clasp each bone that was my wrist,


Around each slender bony knee;
And wind my hair, that once he kissed,

Around my body wasted think,
To keep me from the grave’s cold breath;
And on my knees rest my poor chin,


And think of what I lose by death.

I shall be happy, being dead. . . .
The moon, by now, had nearly gone,
As if it knew its time was sped
And feared the coming of the dawn.



It had not risen; one could see
The cloud was strong to keep it back;
It merely faded utterly,
And where it was the sky grew black.

Till suddenly the east turned gray,


Although no stars were overhead;
And though the moon had died away,
There came faint glimmerings of red;

Then larger waves of golden light
Heralded that the day was born,


And on the furthest eastern height
With swift feet came the waited morn.

With swift feet came the morn, but lo!
Just as its triumph was begun,
The fist wild onset of the snow


Strangled the glad imperial sun!

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
Against the open quiet of the sky,
I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

In the great wood behind me. Where I lie
They may not see me; for the grasses grow

As though no foot save June’s had wandered by;

Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
As I have waited them, they yearn for me
To lead them whither they are fain to go.

Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!


Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
Gather about thy wall and would be free!

With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,


And from thy peace are we still separate.

Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
And search across the shadows for my face,
Until the pines murmur of your despair,

I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,


For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
So weary are ye of each ancient way―
Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;


And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
Crying at noontime, “Let us see the sun!”
And with the even, “O for rest, we pray!”

O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won
At last this little portion of content,

Yield all to be with you again undone?

Because ye languish in your prisonment
Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,

My vision of the far-off open sky?

Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.

O covering grasses! O unchanging trees!
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind

Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find?
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noon-time over you and me?

O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers


Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,

Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.


Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
In the old years found I this present ease,
Though I have known the fellowship of kings

And tarried long in splendid palaces.
The worship of vast peoples has been mine,

The homage of uncounted pageantries.

Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
And woven cloths of wonderful design

Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,


Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
Long caravans have toiled on wearily—

Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales―
Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,


Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen’s hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golden dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.

—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things


Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust

Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.

The color of her eyes, her hair outspread


In the most wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
The gracious odors that her garments shed.

And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
Follows a little while her devious way


Across the twilight; where no voice replies

When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
Is even as yesterday and all days were.
Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir


The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her

Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease


And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

But what have I to do with her and death


Who hold these living grasses in my hands,―
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

(For it shall chance, however close the bands
Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
She must remember alway the old lands


She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
―Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
My soul leans over to the wind’s caress,

One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea’s
Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet


It has no yearning to remix with these.

For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
On it forever; and of its edges, set

With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,


The alder trees bend over, until one
Forgets the color of the unseen skies

And loses all remembrance of the sun.
No echo there of the sea’s loss and pain;
Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run


Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
Comes in with quiet covering of rain:

Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
The pool’s gray breast; and with the fall of even,


The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.

And as the sea has not the strength to win
Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye―
In the wood lost, and seeking me therein―


Are not less impotent than all the sea!

My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.

Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,


Aware and unaware if Time be done.

Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth’s message on:
“In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?

“Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn


To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone

“The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease
Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,


“And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way

“Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know
The old glad things and sorrowful its share


Until at last Time’s legions overthrow
The House they days have builded unaware.”

Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
Earth’s message plain to-day, and so I cry
Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,



That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
That beat against the far, unclouded sky:

Who worships me always, who alway cleaves
Close unto me till his last call rings clear


Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives
My peace continually and shall not fear.

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
Against the open quiet of the sky,
I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

In the great wood behind me. Where I lie
They may not see me; for the grasses grow


As though no foot save June’s had wandered by;

Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
As I have waited them, they yearn for me
To lead them whither they are fain to go.

Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!

Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
Gather about thy wall and would be free!

With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,


And from thy peace are we still separate.

Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
And search across the shadows for my face,
Until the pines murmur of your despair,

I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,


For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
So weary are ye of each ancient way―
Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;

And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
Crying at noontime, “Let us see the sun!”
And with the even, “O for rest, we pray!”

O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won
At last this little portion of content,


Yield all to be with you again undone?

Because ye languish in your prisonment
Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,

My vision of the far-off open sky?


Nay! Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.

O covering grasses! O unchanging trees!
Is it not good to feel the odorous wind


Come down upon you with such harmonies

Only the giant hills can ever find?
O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

That falls at noon-time over you and me?


O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
Let your high treble chime in silverly

Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers


Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines;

Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,


Until the sound of their far feet who stray

About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
I hear a robin singing—not as one
That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
But as one sings a welcome to the sun.



Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
In the old years found I this present ease,
Though I have known the fellowship of kings

And tarried long in splendid palaces.
The worship of vast peoples has been mine,


The homage of uncounted pageantries.

Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
And woven cloths of wonderful design

Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,


Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
Long caravans have toiled on wearily—

Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales―
Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,



Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen’s hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golden dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.

—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things


Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust

Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.

The color of her eyes, her hair outspread


In the most wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
The gracious odors that her garments shed.

And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
Follows a little while her devious way


Across the twilight; where no voice replies

When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
Is even as yesterday and all days were.
Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir


The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her

Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease


And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

But what have I to do with her and death


Who hold these living grasses in my hands,―
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

(For it shall chance, however close the bands
Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
She must remember alway the old lands



She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
―Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
My soul leans over to the wind’s caress,

One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea’s
Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet


It has no yearning to remix with these.

For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
On it forever; and of its edges, set

With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,


The alder trees bend over, until one
Forgets the color of the unseen skies

And loses all remembrance of the sun.
No echo there of the sea’s loss and pain;
Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run



Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
Comes in with quiet covering of rain:

Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
The pool’s gray breast; and with the fall of even,


The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.

And as the sea has not the strength to win
Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye―
In the wood lost, and seeking me therein―


Are not less impotent than all the sea!

My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.

Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,


Aware and unaware if Time be done.

Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth’s message on:
“In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?

“Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn


To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone

“The way of all blown dust? Shall Beauty cease
Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,



“And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way

“Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know
The old glad things and sorrowful its share

155
Until at last Time’s legions overthrow
The House they days have builded unaware.”

Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
Earth’s message plain to-day, and so I cry
Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,



That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
That beat against the far, unclouded sky:

Who worships me always, who alway cleaves
Close unto me till his last call rings clear


Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives
My peace continually and shall not fear.

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! "