I struck: the serpentine slow blood In four arms soaked the moss-- Before me, by the living Christ, The blood ran in a cross.

Therefore I toil in forests here And pile the wood in stacks, And take no fee from the shivering folk Till I have cleansed the axe.

But for a curse G.o.d cleared my sight, And where each tree doth grow I see a life with awful eyes, And I must lay it low.

ART COLOURS

On must we go: we search dead leaves, We chase the sunset's saddest flames, The nameless hues that o'er and o'er In lawless wedding lost their names.

G.o.d of the daybreak! Better be Black savages; and grin to gird Our limbs in gaudy rags of red, The laughing-stock of brute and bird;

And feel again the fierce old feast, Blue for seven heavens that had sufficed, A gold like shining h.o.a.rds, a red Like roses from the blood of Christ.

THE TWO WOMEN

Lo! very fair is she who knows the ways Of joy: in pleasure's mocking wisdom old, The eyes that might be cold to flattery, kind; The hair that might be grey with knowledge, gold.

But thou art more than these things, O my queen, For thou art clad in ancient wars and tears.

And looking forth, framed in the crown of thorns, I saw the youngest face in all the spheres.

THE WILD KNIGHT

The wasting thistle whitens on my crest, The barren gra.s.ses blow upon my spear, A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faith And love of fruitless things: yea, of my love, Among the golden loves of all the knights, Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous, The love of G.o.d: I hear the crumbling creeds Like cliffs washed down by water, change, and pa.s.s; I hear a noise of words, age after age, A new cold wind that blows across the plains, And all the shrines stand empty; and to me All these are nothing: priests and schools may doubt Who never have believed; but I have loved.

Ah friends, I know it pa.s.sing well, the love Wherewith I love; it shall not bring to me Return or hire or any pleasant thing-- Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.

Earthquake and plague have burst on it in vain And rolled back shattered-- Babbling neophytes!

Blind, startled fools--think you I know it not?

Think you to teach me? Know I not His ways?

Strange-visaged blunders, mystic cruelties.

All! all! I know Him, for I love Him. Go!

So, with the wan waste gra.s.ses on my spear, I ride for ever, seeking after G.o.d.

My hair grows whiter than my thistle plume, And all my limbs are loose; but in my eyes The star of an unconquerable praise: For in my soul one hope for ever sings, That at the next white corner of a road My eyes may look on Him....

Hush--I shall know The place when it is found: a twisted path Under a twisted pear-tree--this I saw In the first dream I had ere I was born, Wherein He spoke....

But the grey clouds come down In hail upon the icy plains: I ride, Burning for ever in consuming fire.

THE WILD KNIGHT

_A dark manor-house shuttered and unlighted, outlined against a pale sunset: in front a large, but neglected, garden. To the right, in the foreground, the porch of a chapel, with coloured windows lighted. Hymns within._

_Above the porch a grotesque carved bracket, supporting a lantern.

Astride of it sits CAPTAIN REDFEATHER, a flagon in his hand_.

REDFEATHER.

I have drunk to all I know of, To every leaf on the tree, To the highest bird of the heavens, To the lowest fish of the sea.

What toast, what toast remaineth, Drunk down in the same good wine, By the tippler's cup in the tavern, And the priest's cup at the shrine?

[_A Priest comes out, stick in hand, and looks right and left._]

VOICES WITHIN.

The brawler ...

PRIEST.

He has vanished

REDFEATHER.

To the stars.

[_The Priest looks up._]

PRIEST [_angrily_].

What would you there, sir?

REDFEATHER.

Give you all a toast.

[_Lifts his flagon. More priests come out._]

I see my life behind me: bad enough-- Drink, duels, madness, beggary, and pride, The life of the unfit: yet ere I drop On Nature's rubbish heap, I weigh it all, And give you all a toast--

[_Reels to his feet and stands._]

The health of G.o.d!

[_They all recoil from him._]

Let's give the Devil of the Heavens His due!

He that made gra.s.s so green, and wine so red, Is not so black as you have painted him.

[_Drinks._]

PRIEST.