Reuben and Other Poems/Phocas
PHOCAS
The dim blue twilight of the stars
Against the window lay,
The night wind whisper’d thro’ the trees,
The strangers slept: when from his knees
Phocas arose, and silently
Went down the garden-way.
Unto the flowers he came, and there
Paced out with equal tread,
And careful glance this way and that
(As meting yet another plat),
Six feet of earth among his flowers.
Then, looking up, he said:
“Sons, parents, friends, yea, how much more
Had I in thee, my God!
Yet, knowing that we are but dust,
And earth a little love we must,
All-pitying! lo, what fellowship
Thou brought’st me from the sod!
“Children, more every day, to tend,
Mothers, to furnish food,
Brethren, to help me praise Thee—nay
But Cherubim in coats of clay,
To guide my soul, and lead it thro’
Low gateways unto good.
“Oh, I have seen fair come of foul,
And cleanness crown the mould—
I have watch’d patience mastering ill
And Death requickening Life—until
I learn’d that in a garden yet
God walketh as of old.
“My kindly good Green Things!” he said,
“Seventy years and seven
Together, and but one night more!
For I go through a sudden door
Home . . . God forgive me! Would I have
Aught that is earth’s in heaven?
“My little comrades, fast asleep,
God be with you this night!
Yea, night and morning, storm and sun,
God walk with you! God’s will be done!
Bless ye the Lord, my well-beloved,
For all His ways are right.
“And now, the one last grace. Ye know
When your cramp’d roots did pine,
I, loving you, transplanted you:
So now will God the Gardener do
With Phocas, His poor plant—Give room,
Amid your roots, for mine.”
He girt his robe, and tenderly
Uplifted, root by root,
And planted in a neighbouring lot,
The flowers that fill’d the destin’d spot.
An olive-tree hung over it,
Bow’d down with ripening fruit.
Then, while no voice or hand of man
Comfort or courage gave
(But the serene stars in the sky
Watch’d, and the dew fell tenderly,
And sweetly rose the breath of flowers),
Did Phocas dig his grave.
Which done, he threaded here and there
The darkling garden-ground,
As through his home a blind man goes,
And where to seek and find he knows;
And store of certain other plants
He brought, and set them round.
In all the uprooting having said
To each, “Forgive it me!”
And round about the yawning space
Each one in its peculiar place
Planting, he bless’d, and said to it,
“God root and nourish thee!”
The first were naked Crocus bulbs.
Them laid he at the head.
“Ye first-fruits of the wintry mould,
Ye happy Gospels writ in gold,
Prophesy here the bright robe of
My buried flesh,” he said.
A Red Rose on the left he set,
White Lilies on the right:
“Bestain’d with blood, beset with thorn,
Good in this world is hardly born.
Yet, thorns once made a Crown, and Blood
Once wash’d a whole world white:
“So now,” he said, “tho’ scarce one bud
On my rough branches be,
One day, I dare be sure, will God
Touch all to bloom my prunèd rod—
Father! and being pure at last,
Even I shall pleasure Thee!
“ . . . Here, at my heart, white Columbine,
Show forth the holy Dove.
Yet, do not grudge a little space
To this one, with the human face,
Heart’s-ease—O excellently named
Thou little look of love!
“And do thou, here, at my left hand,
Grow thickly, bitter Rue,
And thickly from this right hand spring,
Sweet Spikenard! that its offering
My dust may still afford to God,
Of grief and worship due.
“ . . . Here, since the needs of life for me
Are over, o’er my feet
Resting (and yet not tired), below,
Ye dwarfish pair of pot-herbs, grow—
Fail not! I might not lustier take,
To rob my poor of meat.”
Then with sharp Briars he lined the pit:
“Who wore you for a Crown
A King He was—a craven, I !
How oft, all lush with victory,
Cares of this world, ye choked my life—
Dead, I shall keep you down.”
He stood: and in his gentle mind
Seem’d all the plants to tell.
“The Vine is full of mysteries.
The Gourd, the Passion-flower—but these
Let me not have,” he said, “for when
Was all indulgence well?”
When, next he lift his eyes, behold
The night was pass’d away,
And pass’d the pearly, glimmering hours;
Bright dew-drops quiver’d in the flowers,
And the first sunbeam of the morn
Upon his last work lay.
“Blessed be God!” he cried: “O Earth,
Thy shadows flit and fail!
My day is dawn’d, my dark is past.
O light that brings the Light at last!
O risen sun, O Rising Sun,
O death, O Life! All hail!”
But the barb’d Rose his raiment caught
As glad he turn’d to go.
And pausing, looking down, he said,
“Ah, my poor flowers! When I am dead,
Seeds, and the uncouth wildlings will,
How quickly! lay you low.
“Who, being perish’d—O there comes
A strange hope to my mind!
Will that good God whose mercy can
A heaven bestow on erring man
To His green world that never fell
Be less completely kind?
“I shall see Him! Ah, then I shall
Nought else desire to see!
But if your diligence ye do,
He, loving beauty, must love you:
And round the many mansions, sure
Must many gardens be?
“Nevertheless” (to the blue sky
His wither’d hands he rais’d),
“What thing soever Thee shall please,
That granting, Lord, to me and these,
Blessed be Thou! and evermore
By every creature prais’d!”
. . . Noon, coming, saw ’mid that fair close,
All fragrant, still and bright,
One barren mound, set guardian-wise
With flowers, on whose rejoicing eyes
The absolute high sun pour’d down
His strong unshadow’d light.