Shingle-Short and Other Verses/The Paddock - Song of the Wind
The Paddock.
Song of the Wind.
Cool, in silver vapour vested,
On a mountain lawn
Softly yester-eve I nested;
Quietly I lay, and rested;
Quietly till Dawn,
When, sudden! a cry from the thirsty North—
And straight and eager I flung me forth!
(Blow! whistle and blow!)
Forth! forth with my streaming train!
Out of the valley we volley and flow,
Gallop and gallop across the plain....
Pause a moment....then, forth again,
Forth! we gallop and go.
Toss your tresses from side to side,
For the road is open, the way is wide,
And where is the halter or holding rein?
Forward, frolic and flow!
Here’s a rollicking beam to race....
Yonder’s a fugitive cloud to chase....
Swifter, swifter, the splendid pace!
Champing, challenging, go!
Bluster and brush, flutter and flush,
Tussle and rustle, wrestle and rush—
Hush!
Swoop....Stoop....
Low, fly low!
Here be leaves to ruffle about,
Dreamy waters to ripple and roll,
Grass to set running, as up the knoll
Swimming, I spread my fingers out;—
Sweets to snatch, Cool to catch....
Slow....Slow!
Grass of the Paddock!
Far away,
Once, as I dance with you to-day,
Over a paddock of wither’d wheat
I danced, with the snow and sleet.
Under the wasted harvest-yield,
The soil lay sodden and red,
And the floor we beat with our frolicking feet
Was, the batter’d face of the Dead.
(Sow, reap!
Slaughter, and sleep!)
I danced, and away I fled.
Leaves of the Paddock!
Far away,
Blithely, as hither I hurry to play,
Over the shimmering hyacinth-field,
Over the Sea, I sped.
A whisper spoke, and a laughter woke
And the bloomy sheen was bubbled and broke
With many a glittering head!
Glad of my lips were the gallant ships,
Speeding buoyant and bold;
The birds flew white, and the clouds blew bright,
The foam sprang into a rainbow flight,
And the jolly porpoises roll’d;
The sunbeams sparkled, the billows curl’d
—Nothing was gladder in all the world!
(Lisp, lap!
Flutter and flap!)
I laugh’d, then away I whirl’d.
Far, far, far away,
O call’d-for Water, that must not stay!
The tide lolls in a golden bay,
Languid the fever’d land,
Stirless the palm-trees stand
’Twixt torrid sky and sand.
The Sky glares, the Sea flares,
The Sun’s bared eye-ball stands and stares
Upon the staring sand.
—Clean as the salt, keen as the light,
Cool as the ocean, with all my might,
With a jubilant gush, with a ripple and rush,
I blew and I flew, over and through
Green jalousies, walls of white;
And over the bitter and barren Blue,
Merciful Blackness drew!
....Thunder crashing, rain-drops clashing,
Spray on plashing foliage slashing,
Riot, roaring, rage and lashing....
Smell of the Earth,
Blossoms’ birth
(Over the creek, over the grass,
Speed, Shadow, and quickly pass!)
I blew and brought them, lightly I blew
And left them! and off I flew!
For, high, low, buffet and blow,
Wherever I will, wherever I will,
Over the world I wander and go.
Over the miles of tangle or turf:
Through the cities that roar like surf:
Dew of a meadow, dust of the street:—
Whatsoever I meet, I garner and greet.
Fern of the forest, alley’s breath,
Kiss of a lover, rattle of Death,
Bell-bird’s music, and drunken brawl—
I travel, I travel, I travel, and taste them all!
—Or, in a spacious solitude,
Closely gather my wings, and brood;
Mix with nothing and taste my mood!
Which of you, Brothers, is half so free?
The Creek is held in its banks,
The Grass is tied to its roots,
The Leaves to the Tree.
But hither and thither, now here, now there,
Now there, now here, I voyage and veer,
Voyaging, visiting, everywhere.
You must stay, but, wandering still,
Away, away, wander I may,
Whithersoever I will.
Heigh-ho!
For weal, for woe,
The world goes round, and the wind must blow.
Soon, Brothers, soon I must go,
My wonted, my wanted way!
Tides are rising, and tides are falling,
Clouds, and cities, and seas are calling—
Hark!—and I must obey.
A breath to bring, and a song to sing,
A time to come, and a time to tarry,
A load to shift, and a load to lift,
A waited-for load to carry!
To, fro, traffic and tow!
My brother faltereth—I must flow:
My brother reapeth—and I must sow:
I am summon’d, and I must go.
The Leaves may linger, the Grass must have roots to grow—
But the Wind stay? Ah, no, no!
Mutable, mobile, made to change,
Charter’d to travel, required to range,
Lawless, limitless, unrefrain’d,
Yet bidden, ridden, bridled and rein’d
(And the Law is light, but it sitteth tight!),
The wild Wind, the wayfarer Wind,
The messenger, missioner, minister Wind,
The Wind must wander and go!
Long ago, long ago,
When the vagabond Sun on the vagrant Earth
Lovingly look’d, and I had birth,
Taught to follow the feet of the Sun,
Train’d at my mother’s side to run,
Wings was I given, to flicker and fly
Through the fleeting world, and the fugitive sky.
But Aha! those volatile wings I found
Fasten’d to Flying, to Fleeting bound,
A Rule, a Root, to my flying foot,
A ring to my restless round.—
Out thro’ Space was I whipt and whirl’d,
Back apace was I swept and swirl’d,
Hither and thither hurtled and hurl’d—
By the blow and blast of the breathing World,
By the send and suck of the seething World,
By the changing want, by the changed will,
Of the changed and changing World!
Within whose opal and iris eyes,
Birth has being, and Being dies:
By whose opening or closing hand
Growth’s green fire is foil’d or fann’d:
At whose Destiny’s deep demand,
Life is sunder’d and Death is spann’d:
Whose want and whose way the measurement is
Of my wilfulness, and my waywardness—
Its time my season, its rule my reason!
By the law of its listing
Doing, desisting,
Swift, slow, I brood or I blow,
Roar or whisper, dwindle or grow:
Captain the tempest, convoy the fog,
Out of its covering coax the leaf,
Or fell the forest into the log:
Carry the clamour of Joy, or Grief,
Fan the fire, or winnow the sheaf.
Still the same Need constraining me,
I strew the seeds that succour or sicken,
Loose the freshets that quench and quicken,
Rend the ships on the terrible Sea,
Or over the headland golden-brown
Dreamily drift the thistle-down.
All that is bound on me, I bear,
All that is shared with me, I share.
The lading that hath been lent to me,
Take it! if it be sent to thee;
The merchandise thou art apt to make,
Give it to me! for the whole World’s sake.
Give it, give it! for I must take.
Blow, blow, aloft, alow!
Giving, taking, I ebb and flow.
Trading, tallying, making weight,
Ever I speed and circulate.
Sent to balance, bidden adjust
Virgin vigour with done-with dust,
Breath unborn with departing breath,
Drouth with blossoming, Life with Death.
Some tempest, half the year away,
And here am I pull’d to the Paddock to-day,
Leaves and waters, with you to play;—
Some calm befallen, a hemisphere hence—
Off! I am required as a recompense.
Yea, blow, blow, wander and blow!
Whither the never-still Summoning summoneth me
Forth, forth on my endless errand I flee.
And where is the travel shall stain, or baffle, or tire
Me, at full flood of my destiny, my desire?
Will’d and willing, eager I speed
As is my fortune, so my need.
Monarch, yet minion, never my own:
Mate of the world, for ever alone:
Free, yet following: blowing, blown:
Call’d from before, sped from behind,
Wander! O would-be wanderer, O must-be wanderer Wind!
Ay! the route is ready, the speeding steady.
A friend, a foe, will I scatter and stow,
Further and foster, threaten and throw.
Here in your place, pretty ones, stay!
Out of my place, into my place, in my place,
Off! I wander away!
Blow, blow, whistle and blow,
Wandering over the world I go.
Would I might wander—Lo! I must wander,
Away....away....and away!
(Re-enter Janet with Hine.)
Janet.—Here, Hine, here is the place and these are the seeds, to be planted here, do you see? and here....and again along this strip by the creek. But take your time; do not tire yourself out. The day is young yet, but, oh! it is hot already.
Hine (pointing to the basket of strawberries on the ground).—You carry ripe berries, O Hanete. If there is to be gathering, must not planting come first?
Janet.—Of course it must. But for this harvest there is no such hurry; an hour or so will make no great difference; and, Hine, you are growing old, you know, and
Hine.—The young think that there are none but the young.
Janet.—No, no! Do not say that! Do not take it like that—indeed I meant nothing unkind. (Aside: I have hurt her, the poor old creature!) (To Hine) But be wise; and, when the sun does really strike down, as strike he will to-day, come in and rest awhile; I will see that the kettle boils.
Hine.—O friend, it is well! But in these hands there is still strength, not alone to receive the cup, but also to draw up the bucket.
Janet—To be sure there is; plenty of strength. Well, well, do just as you will, Hine! I must be going.
(Exit Janet.)
Hine.— Strength? Ah, Hine! but less than there was. Bitterly listening, it was truth that I heard.
(She sets to work.)