Themes and Variations/Out of Doors
OUT OF DOORS.
Eliot.—Here on the slope of this brown mountain side,
That turns, like some great beast, towards the west.
His coat, those long-haired grasses, dry and wan,
His mane a tuft of shaggy, stunted trees,—
I will see out the day. Come, Rollo, come!
There should be snipe in these high withered swamps,
And with a gun, no man is quite a fool.
That turns, like some great beast, towards the west.
His coat, those long-haired grasses, dry and wan,
His mane a tuft of shaggy, stunted trees,—
I will see out the day. Come, Rollo, come!
There should be snipe in these high withered swamps,
And with a gun, no man is quite a fool.
Not for the world would I have vexed my friend,
But something in our web has gone awry. . . .
I think I know the meaning of this change;
What brings fair Clytie to our quiet shores?
A widow now,—rich, lovely, free as air,—
Has she no men left in her London world
That she must steer her yacht to Heron Bay?
Poor sport here, truly. What, then, does she seek?
But something in our web has gone awry. . . .
I think I know the meaning of this change;
What brings fair Clytie to our quiet shores?
A widow now,—rich, lovely, free as air,—
Has she no men left in her London world
That she must steer her yacht to Heron Bay?
Poor sport here, truly. What, then, does she seek?
The same white outline, carved as if in stone;
Bright waves of hair that mock the statue’s mould;
Eyes, lifting with the sweep of brown bird’s wing;
A dimple—copied from an Angel’s head
That, set on high in some Cathedral gloom,
Bends on the changing centuries of men,
It’s changeless, sweet, expressionless repose;
I know them all by heart! I ought to know!
Once, years ago, I thought my life was spoilt
Because she left me for a richer prey.
Now I am grateful: for she taught me much.
Bright waves of hair that mock the statue’s mould;
Eyes, lifting with the sweep of brown bird’s wing;
A dimple—copied from an Angel’s head
That, set on high in some Cathedral gloom,
Bends on the changing centuries of men,
It’s changeless, sweet, expressionless repose;
I know them all by heart! I ought to know!
Once, years ago, I thought my life was spoilt
Because she left me for a richer prey.
Now I am grateful: for she taught me much.
Yesterday, when the sky was white as milk,
And all the sea-paths set with mother o’ pearl,
Pale in the afternoon’s midsummer heat,
I rowed her to the heron-haunted cove,
Pleasant it was to feel the doubting air
Whisper, and move, and then alight again;
And pleasant, too, to hear of other days:
To ask, ‘They have not all forgotten me;
There still remains a kinsman or a friend
Who holds me dearer for my father’s sake?’
While thus we talked, we passed the ruddy cliffs,
And saw the herons in their fishing-pool,
The bare-legged, happy boys upon the beach
Sent shrilly messages along the calm;
The water changed, like necks of humming birds,
Shooting from green to gold, from blue to grey.
The fisher-sails hung motionless at sea,
And whiter gulls poised silently above.
And all the sea-paths set with mother o’ pearl,
Pale in the afternoon’s midsummer heat,
I rowed her to the heron-haunted cove,
Pleasant it was to feel the doubting air
Whisper, and move, and then alight again;
And pleasant, too, to hear of other days:
To ask, ‘They have not all forgotten me;
There still remains a kinsman or a friend
Who holds me dearer for my father’s sake?’
While thus we talked, we passed the ruddy cliffs,
And saw the herons in their fishing-pool,
The bare-legged, happy boys upon the beach
Sent shrilly messages along the calm;
The water changed, like necks of humming birds,
Shooting from green to gold, from blue to grey.
The fisher-sails hung motionless at sea,
And whiter gulls poised silently above.
Here, resting on the oars, I let my thoughts
Slip dawn the long remembrance of our youth. . . .
As one who sinks in sleep’s deep dusky wave,
While shadowy dreams play round him, so was I.
Slip dawn the long remembrance of our youth. . . .
As one who sinks in sleep’s deep dusky wave,
While shadowy dreams play round him, so was I.
Once more I stood within a garden dim,
With square-cut mazes, alleys trim and green;
There was no sun; the sky was softly grey
And underneath the green of centuries
Thrice-folded in the garden’s leafy close.
A ridge of moorland showed above the wall;
The east wind blew (tho’ June’s door stood ajar),
And swept the tulips into twinkling waves;
Lifted the lids of hidden spicy stores,
Shook out the pitchers of the honey-vine,
And disarrayed the prim carnation beds.
The old grey house—a wall of braided bloom,
A girl’s scarf flitting thro’ the linden shade—
This bunch of lilacs, plucked within the hour,
And the same voice and presence there as now.
Was it all a dream, or am I now awake?
Sometimes she spoke of litttle trifling things
Long past; and asked me had I quite forgot?
With half a sigh,—I answered cheerfully.
With square-cut mazes, alleys trim and green;
There was no sun; the sky was softly grey
And underneath the green of centuries
Thrice-folded in the garden’s leafy close.
A ridge of moorland showed above the wall;
The east wind blew (tho’ June’s door stood ajar),
And swept the tulips into twinkling waves;
Lifted the lids of hidden spicy stores,
Shook out the pitchers of the honey-vine,
And disarrayed the prim carnation beds.
The old grey house—a wall of braided bloom,
A girl’s scarf flitting thro’ the linden shade—
This bunch of lilacs, plucked within the hour,
And the same voice and presence there as now.
Was it all a dream, or am I now awake?
Sometimes she spoke of litttle trifling things
Long past; and asked me had I quite forgot?
With half a sigh,—I answered cheerfully.
It may be that the Baroness finds it dull
At times, perhaps, even in her palmiest days;
We cannot always summon joy at will—
He is a rover: wild as any hawk,
And will not live, the song-bird of the breast,
Save where it pleases him to stoop and build.
Bright-wingèd traveller of a fairer sky!—
Perhaps she thinks that old-world comedy
That once we played might serve to pass the hour:
We have rehearsed it well! It should be smooth—
But not the same!—once is enough for me.
At times, perhaps, even in her palmiest days;
We cannot always summon joy at will—
He is a rover: wild as any hawk,
And will not live, the song-bird of the breast,
Save where it pleases him to stoop and build.
Bright-wingèd traveller of a fairer sky!—
Perhaps she thinks that old-world comedy
That once we played might serve to pass the hour:
We have rehearsed it well! It should be smooth—
But not the same!—once is enough for me.
Now, Esther, let this dark thought pass away
That floats between us, like a grasping cloud;
Trust me, I seek no other eyes but yours.
That floats between us, like a grasping cloud;
Trust me, I seek no other eyes but yours.
Far from the coast, and hidden misty capes,
As night draws on I hear a gathering sound.
It is the ground-swell of the southern deep,
Rebounding from our iron-fronted shores.
High answer to the Antarctic breakers’ call.
There has been wild work on the seas last night,
And will be more, to break this leaden calm;
There stings a raindrop, like a signal shot.
Come, Rollo, we must find a homeward path
Down this high shoulder of the bending hill,
Whose seaward-slanting Bush of mounded green,
Shaped by the strong South-Easter’s keenest scythe,
Will give us shelter from his coming blast.
As night draws on I hear a gathering sound.
It is the ground-swell of the southern deep,
Rebounding from our iron-fronted shores.
High answer to the Antarctic breakers’ call.
There has been wild work on the seas last night,
And will be more, to break this leaden calm;
There stings a raindrop, like a signal shot.
Come, Rollo, we must find a homeward path
Down this high shoulder of the bending hill,
Whose seaward-slanting Bush of mounded green,
Shaped by the strong South-Easter’s keenest scythe,
Will give us shelter from his coming blast.