And he cast it down, down, on the green gra.s.s, Over the young crocuses, where the dew was-- He cast the garment of his flesh that was full of death, And like a sword his spirit showed out of the cold sheath.

He went a pace or two, he went to meet his Lord, And, as I said, his spirit looked like a clean sword, And seeing him the naked trees began shivering, And all the birds cried out aloud as it were late spring.

And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw, And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play, And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away.

The Lord held his head fast, and you could see That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free-- As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground; And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found.

The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord's word-- As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird-- So the ghost's feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord's cheek, And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak.

But the Lord went then, to show him the way, Over the young crocuses, under the green may That was not quite in flower yet--to a far-distant land; And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun's hand.

A MAN DREAMS THAT HE IS THE CREATOR

I sat in heaven like the sun Above a storm when winter was: I took the snowflakes one by one And turned their fragile shapes to gla.s.s: I washed the rivers blue with rain And made the meadows green again.

I took the birds and touched their springs, Until they sang unearthly joys: They flew about on golden wings And glittered like an angel's toys: I filled the fields with flowers' eyes, As white as stars in Paradise.

And then I looked on man and knew Him still intent on death--still proud; Whereat into a rage I flew And turned my body to a cloud: In the dark shower of my soul The star of earth was swallowed whole.

J. C. SQUIRE

RIVERS

Rivers I have seen which were beautiful, Slow rivers winding in the flat fens, With bands of reeds like thronged green swords Guarding the mirrored sky; And streams down-tumbling from the chalk hills To valleys of meadows and watercress-beds, And bridges whereunder, dark weed-coloured shadows, Trout flit or lie,

I know those rivers that peacefully glide Past old towers and shaven gardens, Where mottled walls rise from the water And mills all streaked with flour; And rivers with wharves and rusty shipping, That flow with a stately tidal motion Towards their destined estuaries Full of the pride of power;

n.o.ble great rivers, Thames and Severn, Tweed with his gateway of many grey arches, Clyde, dying at sunset westward In a sea as red as blood; Rhine and his hills in close procession, Placid Elbe, Seine slaty and swirling, And Isar, son of the Alpine snows, A furious turquoise flood.

All these I have known, and with slow eyes I have walked on their sh.o.r.es and watched them, And softened to their beauty and loved them Wherever my feet have been;

And a hundred others also Whose names long since grew into me, That, dreaming in light or darkness, I have seen, though I have not seen.

Those rivers of thought: cold Ebro, And blue racing Guadiana, Pa.s.sing white houses, high-balconied That ache in a sun-baked land, Congo, and Nile and Colorado, Niger, Indus, Zambesi, And the Yellow River, and the Oxus, And the river that dies in sand.

What splendours are theirs, what continents, What tribes of men, what basking plains, Forests and lion-hided deserts, Marshes, ravines and falls: All hues and shapes and tempers Wandering they take as they wander From those far springs that endlessly The far sea calls.

O in reverie I know the Volga That turns his back upon Europe, And the two great cities on his banks, Novgorod and Astrakhan; Where the world is a few soft colours, And under the dove-like evening The boatmen chant ancient songs, The tenderest known to man.

And the holy river Ganges, His fretted cities veiled in moonlight, Arches and b.u.t.tresses silver-shadowy In the high moon, And palms grouped in the moonlight And fanes girdled with cypresses, Their domes of marble softly shining To the high silver moon.

And that aged Brahmapootra Who beyond the white Himalayas Pa.s.ses many a lama.s.sery On rocks forlorn and frore, A block of gaunt grey stone walls With rows of little barred windows, Where shrivelled young monks in yellow silk Are hidden for evermore....

But O that great river, the Amazon, I have sailed up its gulf with eyelids closed, And the yellow waters tumbled round, And all was rimmed with sky, Till the banks drew in, and the trees' heads, And the lines of green grew higher And I breathed deep, and there above me The forest wall stood high.

Those forest walls of the Amazon Are level under the blazing blue And yield no sound but the whistles and shrieks Of the swarming bright macaws; And under their lowest drooping boughs Mud-banks torpidly bubble, And the water drifts, and logs in the water Drift and twist and pause.

And everywhere, tacitly joining, Float noiseless tributaries, Tall avenues paved with water: And as I silent fly The vegetation like a painted scene, Spars and spikes and monstrous fans And ferns from hairy sheaths up-springing, Evenly pa.s.ses by.

And stealthier stagnant channels Under low niches of drooping leaves Coil into deep recesses: And there have I entered, there To heavy, hot, dense, dim places Where creepers climb and sweat and climb, And the drip and splash of oozing water Loads the stifling air.

Rotting scrofulous steaming trunks, Great horned emerald beetles crawling, Ants and huge slow b.u.t.terflies That had strayed and lost the sun; Ah, sick I have swooned as the air thickened To a pallid brown ecliptic glow, And on the forest, fallen with languor, Thunder has begun.

Thunder in the dun dusk, thunder Rolling and battering and cracking, The caverns shudder with a terrible glare Again and again and again, Till the land bows in the darkness, Utterly lost and defenceless, Smitten and blinded and overwhelmed By the crashing rods of rain.

And then in the forests of the Amazon, When the rain has ended, and silence come, What dark luxuriance unfolds From behind the night's drawn bars: The wreathing odours of a thousand trees And the flowers' faint gleaming presences, And over the clearings and the still waters Soft indigo and hanging stars.

O many and many are rivers, And beautiful are all rivers, And lovely is water everywhere That leaps or glides or stays; Yet by starlight, moonlight, or sunlight, Long, long though they look, these wandering eyes, Even on the fairest waters of dream, Never untroubled gaze.

For whatever stream I stand by, And whatever river I dream of, There is something still in the back of my mind From very far away; There is something I saw and see not, A country full of rivers That stirs in my heart and speaks to me More sure, more dear than they.

And always I ask and wonder (Though often I do not know it): Why does this water not smell like water?

Where is the moss that grew Wet and dry on the slabs of granite And the round stones in clear brown water?

--And a pale film rises before them Of the rivers that first I knew.

Though famous are the rivers of the great world, Though my heart from those alien waters drinks Delight however pure from their loveliness, And awe however deep, Would I wish for a moment the miracle, That those waters should come to Chagford, Or gather and swell in Tavy Cleave Where the stones cling to the steep?

No, even were they Ganges and Amazon In all their great might and majesty, League upon league of wonders, I would lose them all, and more, For a light chiming of small bells, A twisting flash in the granite, The tiny thread of a pixie waterfall That lives by Vixen Tor.

Those rivers in that lost country, They were brown as a clear brown bead is Or red with the earth that rain washed down, Or white with china-clay; And some tossed foaming over boulders, And some curved mild and tranquil, In wooded vales securely set Under the fond warm day.

Okement and Erme and Avon, Exe and his ruffled shallows, I could cry as I think of those rivers That knew my morning dreams; The weir by Tavistock at evening When the circling woods were purple, And the Lowman in spring with the lent-lilies, And the little moorland streams.

For many a hillside streamlet There falls with a broken tinkle, Falling and dying, falling and dying, In little cascades and pools, Where the world is furze and heather And flashing plovers and fixed larks, And an empty sky, whitish blue, That small world rules.

There, there, where the high waste bog-lands And the drooping slopes and the spreading valleys, The orchards and the cattle-sprinkled pastures Those travelling musics fill, There is my lost Abana, And there is my nameless Pharphar That mixed with my heart when I was a boy, And time stood still.

And I say I will go there and die there: But I do not go there, and sometimes I think that the train could not carry me there, And it's possible, maybe, That it's farther than Asia or Africa, Or any voyager's harbour, Farther, farther, beyond recall....

O even in memory!