By The Fire-Side

I.     How well I know what I mean to do     When the long dark autumn-evenings come:     And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?     With the music of all thy voices, dumb     In lifes November too!     II.     I shall be found by the fire, suppose,     Oer a great wise book as beseemeth age,     While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows     And I turn the page, and I turn the page,     Not verse now, only prose!     III.     Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,     There he is at it, deep in Greek:     Now then, or never, out we slip     To cut from the hazels by the creek     A mainmast for our ship!     IV.     I shall be at it indeed, my friends:     Greek puts already on either side     Such a branch-work forth as soon extends     To a vista opening far and wide,     And I pass out where it ends.     V.     The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees:     But the inside-archway widens fast,     And a rarer sort succeeds to these,     And we slope to Italy at last     And youth, by green degrees.     VI.     I follow wherever I am led,     Knowing so well the leaders hand:     Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,     Loved all the more by earths male-lands,     Laid to their hearts instead!     VII.     Look at the ruined chapel again     Half-way up in the Alpine gorge!     Is that a tower, I point you plain,     Or is it a mill, or an iron-forge     Breaks solitude in vain?     VIII.     A turn, and we stand in the heart of things:     The woods are round us, heaped and dim;     From slab to slab how it slips and springs,     The thread of water single and slim,     Through the ravage some torrent brings!     IX.     Does it feed the little lake below?     That speck of white just on its marge     Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow,     How sharp the silver spear-heads charge     When Alp meets heaven in snow!     X.     On our other side is the straight-up rock;     And a path is kept twixt the gorge and it     By boulder-stones where lichens mock     The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit     Their teeth to the polished block.     XI.     Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,     And thorny balls, each three in one,     The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!     For the drop of the woodland fruits begun,     These early November hours,     XII.     That crimson the creepers leaf across     Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,     Oer a shield else gold from rim to boss,     And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped     Elf-needled mat of moss,     XIII.     By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged     Last evening, nay, in to-days first dew     Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,     Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew     Of toadstools peep indulged.     XIV.     And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge     That takes the turn to a range beyond,     Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge     Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond     Danced over by the midge.     XV.     The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,     Blackish-grey and mostly wet;     Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.     See here again, how the lichens fret     And the roots of the ivy strike!     XVI.     Poor little place, where its one priest comes     On a festa-day, if he comes at all,     To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,     Gathered within that precinct small     By the dozen ways one roams     XVII.     To drop from the charcoal-burners huts,     Or climb from the hemp-dressers low shed,     Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,     Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread     Their gear on the rocks bare juts.     XVIII.     It has some pretension too, this front,     With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise     Set over the porch, Arts early wont:     Tis John in the Desert, I surmise,     But has borne the weathers brunt     XIX.     Not from the fault of the builder, though,     For a pent-house properly projects     Where three carved beams make a certain show,     Dating, good thought of our architects     Five, six, nine, he lets you know.     XX.     And all day long a bird sings there,     And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;     The place is silent and aware;     It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,     But that is its own affair.     XXI.     My perfect wife, my Leonor,     Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,     Whom else could I dare look backward for,     With whom beside should I dare pursue     The path grey heads abhor?     XXII.     For it leads to a crags sheer edge with them;     Youth, flowery all the way, there stops     Not they; age threatens and they contemn,     Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,     One inch from lifes safe hem!     XXIII.     With me, youth led . . . I will speak now,     No longer watch you as you sit     Reading by fire-light, that great brow     And the spirit-small hand propping it,     Mutely, my heart knows how     XXIV.     When, if I think but deep enough,     You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme;     And you, too, find without rebuff     Response your soul seeks many a time     Piercing its fine flesh-stuff.     XXV.     My own, confirm me! If I tread     This path back, is it not in pride     To think how little I dreamed it led     To an age so blest that, by its side,     Youth seems the waste instead?     XXVI.     My own, see where the years conduct!     At first, twas something our two souls     Should mix as mists do; each is sucked     In each now: on, the new stream rolls,     Whatever rocks obstruct.     XXVII.     Think, when our one soul understands     The great Word which makes all things new,     When earth breaks up and heaven expands,     How will the change strike me and you     In the house not made with hands?     XXVIII.     Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,     Your heart anticipate my heart,     You must be just before, in fine,     See and make me see, for your part,     New depths of the divine!     XXIX.     But who could have expected this     When we two drew together first     Just for the obvious human bliss,     To satisfy lifes daily thirst     With a thing men seldom miss?     XXX.     Come back with me to the first of all,     Let us lean and love it over again,     Let us now forget and now recall,     Break the rosary in a pearly rain,     And gather what we let fall!     XXXI.     What did I say? that a small bird sings     All day long, save when a brown pair     Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings     Strained to a bell: gainst noon-day glare     You count the streaks and rings.     XXXII.     But at afternoon or almost eve     Tis better; then the silence grows     To that degree, you half believe     It must get rid of what it knows,     Its bosom does so heave.     XXXIII.     Hither we walked then, side by side,     Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,     And still I questioned or replied,     While my heart, convulsed to really speak,     Lay choking in its pride.     XXXIV.     Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,     And pity and praise the chapel sweet,     And care about the frescos loss,     And wish for our souls a like retreat,     And wonder at the moss.     XXXV.     Stoop and kneel on the settle under,     Look through the windows grated square:     Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,     The cross is down and the altar bare,     As if thieves dont fear thunder.     XXXVI.     We stoop and look in through the grate,     See the little porch and rustic door,     Read duly the dead builders date;     Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,     Take the path again, but wait!     XXXVII.     Oh moment, one and infinite!     The water slips oer stock and stone;     The West is tender, hardly bright:     How grey at once is the evening grown     One star, its chrysolite!     XXXVIII.     We two stood there with never a third,     But each by each, as each knew well:     The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,     The lights and the shades made up a spell     Till the trouble grew and stirred.     XXXIX.     Oh, the little more, and how much it is!     And the little less, and what worlds away!     How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,     Or a breath suspend the bloods best play,     And life be a proof of this!     XL.     Had she willed it, still had stood the screen     So slight, so sure, twixt my love and her:     I could fix her face with a guard between,     And find her soul as when friends confer,     Friends, lovers that might have been.     XLI.     For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,     Wanting to sleep now over its best.     Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,     But bring to the last leaf no such test!     Hold the last fast! runs the rhyme.     XLII.     For a chance to make your little much,     To gain a lover and lose a friend,     Venture the tree and a myriad such,     When nothing you mar but the year can mend:     But a last leaf, fear to touch!     XLIII.     Yet should it unfasten itself and fall     Eddying down till it find your face     At some slight wind, best chance of all!     Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place     You trembled to forestall!     XLIV.     Worth how well, those dark grey eyes,     That hair so dark and dear, how worth     That a man should strive and agonize,     And taste a veriest hell on earth     For the hope of such a prize!     XIIV.     You might have turned and tried a man,     Set him a space to weary and wear,     And prove which suited more your plan,     His best of hope or his worst despair,     Yet end as he began.     XLVI.     But you spared me this, like the heart you are,     And filled my empty heart at a word.     If two lives join, there is oft a scar,     They are one and one, with a shadowy third;     One near one is too far.     XLVII.     A moment after, and hands unseen     Were hanging the night around us fast     But we knew that a bar was broken between     Life and life: we were mixed at last     In spite of the mortal screen.     XLVIII.     The forests had done it; there they stood;     We caught for a moment the powers at play:     They had mingled us so, for once and good,     Their work was done, we might go or stay,     They relapsed to their ancient mood.     XLIX.     How the world is made for each of us!     How all we perceive and know in it     Tends to some moments product thus,     When a soul declares itself, to wit,     By its fruit, the thing it does     L.     Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,     It forwards the general deed of man,     And each of the Many helps to recruit     The life of the race by a general plan;     Each living his own, to boot.     LI.     I am named and known by that moments feat;     There took my station and degree;     So grew my own small life complete,     As nature obtained her best of me,     One born to love you, sweet!     LII.     And to watch you sink by the fire-side now     Back again, as you mutely sit     Musing by fire-light, that great brow     And the spirit-small hand propping it,     Yonder, my heart knows how!     LIII.     So, earth has gained by one man the more,     And the gain of earth must be heavens gain too;     And the whole is well worth thinking oer     When autumn comes: which I mean to do     One day, as I said before.