Collected Poems.

by Alfred Noyes.

VOL 2.

MIST IN THE VALLEY

I

Mist in the valley, weeping mist Beset my homeward way.

No gleam of rose or amethyst Hallowed the parting day; A shroud, a shroud of awful grey Wrapped every woodland brow, And drooped in crumbling disarray Around each wintry bough.

II

And closer round me now it clung Until I scarce could see The stealthy pathway overhung By silent tree and tree Which floated in that mystery As--poised in waveless deeps-- Branching in worlds below the sea, The grey sea-forest sleeps.

III

Mist in the valley, mist no less Within my groping mind!

The stile swam out: a wilderness Rolled round it, grey and blind.

A yard in front, a yard behind, So strait my world was grown, I stooped to win once more some kind Glimmer of twig or stone.

IV

I crossed and lost the friendly stile And listened. Never a sound Came to me. Mile on mile on mile It seemed the world around Beneath some infinite sea lay drowned With all that e'er drew breath; Whilst I, alone, had strangely found A moment's life in death.

V

A universe of lifeless grey Oppressed me overhead.

Below, a yard of clinging clay With rotting foliage red Glimmered. The stillness of the dead, Hark!--was it broken now By the slow drip of tears that bled From hidden heart or bough.

VI

Mist in the valley, mist no less That m.u.f.fled every cry Across the soul's grey wilderness Where faith lay down to die; Buried beyond all hope was I, Hope had no meaning there: A yard above my head the sky Could only mock at prayer.

VII

E'en as I groped along, the gloom Suddenly shook at my feet!

O, strangely as from a rending tomb In resurrection, sweet Swift wings tumultuously beat Away! I paused to hark-- O, birds of thought, too fair, too fleet To follow across the dark!

VIII

Yet, like a madman's dream, there came One fair swift flash to me Of distances, of streets a-flame With joy and agony, And further yet, a moon-lit sea Foaming across its bars, And further yet, the infinity Of wheeling suns and stars,

IX

And further yet ... O, mist of suns I grope amidst your light, O, further yet, what vast response From what transcendent height?

Wild wings that burst thro' death's dim night I can but pause and hark; For O, ye are too swift, too white, To follow across the dark!

X

Mist in the valley, yet I saw, And in my soul I knew The gleaming City whence I draw The strength that then I drew, My misty pathway to pursue With steady pulse and breath Through these dim forest-ways of dew And darkness, life and death.

A SONG OF THE PLOUGH

I

(_Morning._)

Idle, comfortless, bare, The broad bleak acres lie: The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshare Steadily nigh.

The big plough-horses lift And climb from the marge of the sea, And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind drift Over the fallow lea.

Streaming up with the yoke, Brown as the sweet-smelling loam, Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smoke The two great horses come.

Up thro' the raw cold morn They trample and drag and swing; And my dreams are waving with ungrown corn In a far-off spring.

It is my soul lies bare Between the hills and the sea: Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare, And plough the field for me.

II

(_Evening._)

Over the darkening plain As the stars regain the sky, Steals the chime of an unseen rein Steadily nigh.

Lost in the deepening red The sea has forgotten the sh.o.r.e: The great dark steeds with their m.u.f.fled tread Draw near once more.

To the furrow's end they sweep Like a sombre wave of the sea, Lifting its crest to challenge the deep Hush of Eternity.

Still for a moment they stand, Ma.s.sed on the sun's red death, A surge of bronze, too great, too grand, To endure for more than a breath.

Only the billow and stream Of muscle and flank and mane Like darkling mountain-cataracts gleam Gripped in a t.i.tan's rein.