and he were left alone: The night was loud with water upon stone. He watched the night; then taking up his flute, He breathed a piping of this life of ours, The half-seen prize, the difficult pursuit, The passionate lusts that shut us in their towers, The love that helps us on, the fear that lowers, The pride that makes us and the pride that mars, The beauty and the truth that are our stars. [Pg 84] And man, the marvellous thing, that in the dark Works with his little strength to make a light, His wit that strikes, his hope that tends, a spark, His sorrow of soul in toil, that brings delight, His friends, who make salt sweet and blackness bright, His birth and growth and change; and death the wise, His peace, that puts a hand upon his eyes. All these his pipings breathed of, until twelve Struck on the belfry tower with tremblings numb (Such as will shudder in the axe's helve When the head strikes) to tell his hour was come. Out of the living world of Christendom He dimmed like mist till one could scarcely note The robins nestling to his old grey coat. Dimmer he grew, yet still a glimmering stayed Like light on cobwebs, but it dimmed and died. [Pg 85]Then there was naught but moonlight in the glade, Moonlight and water and an owl that cried. Far overhead a rush of birds' wings sighed, From migrants going south until the spring. The night seemed fanned by an immortal wing.  But where the juggler trudged beside his love Each felt a touching from beyond our ken, From that bright kingdom where the souls who strove, Live now forever, helping living men. And as they kissed each other; even then Their brows seemed blessed, as though a hand unseen Had crowned their loves with never-withering green. [Pg 86]

[Pg 82]

[Pg 83]

[Pg 84]

[Pg 85]

[Pg 86]

 Prev. P 38/38