He had retained his childhood: Death for him Had no more terror than his bed. He walked With wind and sunlight like a brother, glad Of their companionship and mutual aid.

We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soon From earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast.

Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast, Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crown Of roses from the dreaming brow. We pa.s.s Our lives in most laborious idleness.

For we have lost the meaning of the world; We have gone out into the night too soon; We have mistaken all the means of grace And over-rated our small power to learn.

And the years move so swiftly over us: We have so little time to live in worlds Unrealised and unknown realms of joy, We are so old before we learn how vain Our effort was, how fruitlessly we cast Our Bread upon the waters, and how weak Our hearts were, but our chance desires how strong!

Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays; We cannot cry to G.o.d as once we cried!

Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love, Lies dead with years that never can return.

But Michael Oaktree was a man whose love Had never waned through all his eighty years.

His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a part Of all that he believed in. He had lived In constant conversation with the sun, The wind, the silence and the heart of peace; In absolute communion with the Power That rules all action and all tides of thought, And all the secret courses of the stars; The Power that still establishes on earth Desire and worship, through the radiant laws Of Duty, Love and Beauty; for through these As through three portals of the self-same gate The soul of man attains infinity, And enters into G.o.dhead. So he gained On earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, not The void of eastern dream, but the desire And goal of all of us, whether thro' lives Innumerable, by slow degrees, we near The death divine, or from this breaking body Of earthly death we flash at once to G.o.d.

Through simple love and simple faith, this man Attained a height above the hope of kings.

Yet, as I softly shut the little gate And walked across the garden, all the scents Of mingling blossom ached like inmost pain Deep in my heart, I know not why. They seemed Distinct, distinct as distant evening bells Tolling, over the sea, a secret chime That breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heart In sorrow rather than in sound, a chime Strange as a streak of sunset to the moon, Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave, Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips; A chime of melancholy, mute as death But strong as love, uttered in plangent tones Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers, Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves, Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.

At last I tapped and entered and was drawn Into the bedroom of the dying man, Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietly Gazing; for through his open cas.e.m.e.nt far Beyond the whispers of the gilly-flowers He saw the mellow light of eventide Hallow the west once more; and, as he gazed, I think I never saw so great a peace On any human face. There was no sound Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock, The whisper of the garden and, far off, The sacred consolation of the sea.

His wife sat at his bed-side: she had pa.s.sed Her eightieth year; her only child was dead.

She had been wedded more than sixty years, And she sat gazing with the man she loved Quietly, out into that unknown Deep.

A b.u.t.terfly floated into the room And back again, pausing awhile to bask And wink its painted fans on the warm sill; A bird piped in the roses and there came Into the childless mother's ears a sound Of happy laughing children, far away.

Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin hand Between his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark, And, as he turned to her and died, he spoke Two words of perfect faith and love--_Come soon_!

O then in all the world there was no sound Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock, The whisper of the leaves and far away, The infinite compa.s.sion of the sea.

But, as I softly pa.s.sed out of the porch And walked across the garden, all the scents Of mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy, Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choir Pealing one mystic music, still and strange As voices of the holy Seraphim, One voice of adoration, mute as love, Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tones Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers, Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves, Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.

O then indeed I knew how closely knit To stars and flowers we are, how many means Of grace there are for those that never lose Their sense of membership in this divine Body of G.o.d; for those that all their days Have walked in quiet communion with the Life That keeps the common secret of the sun, The wind, the silence and the heart of man.

There is one G.o.d, one Love, one everlasting Mystery of Incarnation, one creative Pa.s.sion behind the many-coloured veil.

We have obscured G.o.d's face with partial truths, The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our wars Of force and thought, in this unheavened world.

Yet, by the battle of our partial truths, The past against the present and the swift Moment of pa.s.sing joy against the deep Eternal love, ever the weaker truth Falls to the stronger, till once more we near The enfolding splendour of the whole. Our G.o.d Has been too long a partial G.o.d. We are all Made in His image, men and birds and beasts, Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns, With those great Beings above our little world, A height beyond for every depth below, Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers, Existences that live and move in realms As far beyond our thought as Europe lies With all its little arts and sciences Beyond the comprehension of the worm.

We are all partial images, we need What lies beyond us to complete our souls; Therefore our souls are filled with a desire And love which lead us towards the Infinity Of G.o.dhead that awaits us each and all.

Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went.

The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The stars Trembled like blossoms in the purple trees.

But, as I paused upon the whispering hill The mellow light still lingered in the west, And dark and soft against that rosy depth A boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns.

Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart, Yet I was very glad; and as the moon Brightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand, Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.

Under an arch of leaves, into the gloom I went along the little woodland road, And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heard Out of the deepening night, the long low sigh Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills The sacrament and sabbath of the sea.

TOUCHSTONE ON A BUS

Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!

Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat, I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly, The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings, The madcap morning star of elfin-land, Who used to wrap his legs around his neck For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back, To see what men were doing in a world That should be wiser. He had watched a play, Read several books, heard men discourse of art And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may, Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.

_Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!_ Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine, He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:--

THE NEW DUCKLING

I

THE NEW DUCKLING

"I want to be new," said the duckling.

"O, ho!" said the wise old owl, While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling To tell all the rest of the fowl.

"I should like a more elegant figure,"

That child of a duck went on.

"I should like to grow bigger and bigger, Until I could swallow a swan.

"I _won't_ be the bond slave of habit, I _won't_ have these webs on my toes.

I want to run round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.

"I _don't_ want to waddle like mother, Or quack like my silly old dad.

I want to be utterly other, And _frightfully_ modern and mad."

"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!

There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye; And, if you're not utterly lacking, You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"

"I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift him A beautiful song, like a sheep; And when I have--as it were--biffed him, I'll give him my feathers to keep."

Now the curious end of this fable, So far as the rest ascertained, Though they searched from the barn to the stable, Was that _only his feathers remained_.

So he _wasn't_ the bond slave of habit, And he _didn't_ have webs on his toes; And _perhaps_ he runs round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.

II

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED THE USE OF A CHAIR

The man who discovered the use of a chair, _Odds--bobs-- What a wonderful man!_ He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair, Till he thought of a highly original plan.

For years he had sat on his chair, like you, _Quite--still!

But his looks were grim_ For he wished to be famous (as great men do) And n.o.body ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state _Hear! hear!

In the proud Guildhall!_ And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate; But n.o.body heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech (_Grouse! Grouse!

What a dreary bird!_) With five fair minutes allotted to each, But never a moment for him to be heard.