Canto VI
1
The sun was high in heaven and Dymer stood
A bright speck on the endless mountain-side,
Till, blossom after blossom, that rich mood
Faded and truth rolled homeward, like a tide
Before whose edge the weak soul fled to hide
In vain, with ostrich head, through many a shape
Of coward fancy, whimpering for escape.
2
But only for a moment; then his soul
Took the full swell and heaved a dripping prow
Clear of the shattering wave-crest. He was whole.
No veils should hide the truth, no truth should cow
The dear self-pitying heart. “I’ll babble now
No longer,” Dymer said. “I’m broken in.
Pack up the dreams and let the life begin.”
3
With this he turned. “I must have food to-day,”
He muttered. Then among the cloudless hills
By winding tracks he sought the downward way
And followed the steep course of tumbling rills
—Came to the glens the wakening mountain fills
In springtime with the echoing splash and shock
Of waters leaping cold from rock to rock.
4
And still, it seemed that lark with its refrain
Sang in the sky, and wind was in his hair
And hope at heart. Then once, and once again,
He heard a gun fired off. It broke the air
As a stone breaks a pond, and everywhere
The dry crags echoed clear: and at the sound
Once a big bird rose whirring from the ground.
5
In half an hour he reached the level land
And followed the field-paths and crossed the stiles,
Then looked and saw, near by, on his left hand
An old house, folded round with billowy piles
Of dark yew hedge. The moss was on the tiles
The pigeons in the yard, and in the tower
A clock that had no hands and told no hour.
6
He hastened. In warm waves the garden scent
Came stronger at each stride. The mountain breeze
Was gone. He reached the gates; then in he went
And seemed to lose the sky—such weight of trees
Hung overhead. He heard the noise of bees
And saw, far off, in the blue shade between
The windless elms, one walking on the green.
7
It was a mighty man whose beardless face
Beneath grey hair shone out so large and mild
It made a sort of moonlight in the place.
A dreamy desperation, wistful-wild,
Showed in his glance and gait: yet like a child,
An Asian emperor’s only child, was he
With his grave looks and bright solemnity.
8
And over him there hung in the witching air,
The wilful courtesy, of the days of old,
The graces wherein idleness grows fair;
And somewhat in his sauntering walk he rolled
And toyed about his waist with seals of gold,
Or stood to ponder often in mid-stride,
Tilting his heavy head upon one side.
9
When Dymer had called twice, he turned his eye:
Then, coming out of silence (as a star
All in one moment slips into the sky
Of evening, yet we feel it comes from far),
He said, “Sir, you are welcome. Few there are
That come my way”: and in huge hands he pressed
Dymer’s cold hand and bade him into rest.
10
“How did you find this place out? Have you heard
My gun? It was but now I killed a lark.”
“What, Sir,” said Dymer; “shoot the singing bird?”
“Sir,” said the man, “they sing from dawn till dark,
And interrupt my dreams too long. But hark …
Another? Did you hear no singing? No?
It was my fancy, then … pray, let it go.
11
“From here you see my garden’s only flaw.
Stand here, Sir, at the dial.” Dymer stood.
The Master pointed; then he looked and saw
How hedges and the funeral quietude
Of black trees fringed the garden like a wood,
And only, in one place, one gap that showed
The blue side of the hills, the white hill-road.
12
“I have planted fir and larch to fill the gap,”
He said, “because this too makes war upon
The art of dream. But by some great mishap
Nothing I plant will grow there. We pass on …
The sunshine of the afternoon is gone.
Let us go in. It draws near time to sup
—I hate the garden till the moon is up.”
13
They passed from the hot lawn into the gloom
And coolness of the porch: then, past a door
That opened with no noise, into a room
Where green leaves choked the window and the floor
Sank lower than the ground. A tattered store.
Of brown books met the eye: a crystal ball:
And masks with empty eyes along the wall.
14
Then Dymer sat, but knew not how nor where,
And supper was set out before these two,
—He saw not how—with silver old and rare
But tarnished. And he ate and never knew
What meats they were. At every bite he grew
More drowsy and let slide his crumbling will.
The Master at his side was talking still.
15
And all his talk was tales of magic words
And of the nations in the clouds above,
Astral and aerish tribes who fish for birds
With angles. And by history he could prove
How chosen spirits from earth had won their love,
As Arthur, or Usheen: and to their isle
Went Helen for the sake of a Greek smile.
16
And ever in his talk he mustered well
His texts and strewed old authors round the way,
“Thus Wierus writes,” and “Thus the Hermetics tell,”
“This was Agrippa’s view,” and “Others say
With Cardan,” till he had stolen quite away
Dymer’s dull wits and softly drawn apart
The ivory gates of hope that change the heart.
17
Dymer was talking now. Now Dymer told
Of his own love and losing, drowsily.
The Master leaned towards him, “Was it cold,
This spirit, to the touch?”—“No, Sir, not she,”
Said Dymer. And his host: “Why this must be
Aethereal, not aerial! O my soul,
Be still … but wait. Tell on, Sir, tell the whole.”
18
Then Dymer told him of the beldam too,
The old, old, matriarchal dreadfulness.
Over the Master’s face a shadow drew,
He shifted in his chair and “Yes” and “Yes,”
He murmured twice. “I never looked for less!
Always the same … that frightful woman shape
Besets the dream-way and the soul’s escape.”
19
But now when
