No More Learning

And white-clad children by degrees
Steal out in troops among the trees,

Fair little children morning-bright,
With faces grave yet soft to sight,
Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach,
And others leapt up high to catch
The upper boughs and shake from each

A rain of dew till, wetted so,
The child who held the branch let go
And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew
The children laughed; but the laugh flew
From its own chirrup as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child
Who seemed the chief said very mild,
"Hush! keep this morning undefiled. "

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres,
His soul upon his brow appears
In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said,
"What are your palms for? " "To be spread,"
He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month, and now
The world which had been somewhat slow
In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms; they must be strown
On his new marble very soon,
In a procession of the town. "

I sighed and said, "Did he foresee
Any such honour? " "Verily
I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know, I fain would lay
My own head down, another day,
As _he_ did,--with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked,
Lay by his death-bed, which he looked
As deep down as a bee had sucked,

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed
O'er hill and river and upraised
His eyes illumined and amazed

"With the world's beauty, up to God,
Re-offering on their iris broad
The images of things bestowed

"By the chief Poet. 'God! ' he cried,
'Be praised for anguish which has tried,
For beauty which has satisfied:

"'For this world's presence half within
And half without me--thought and scene--
This sense of Being and Having Been.

"'I thank Thee that my soul hath room
For Thy grand world: both guests may come--
Beauty, to soul--Body, to tomb.
"'I am content to be so weak:
Put strength into the words I speak,
And I am strong in what I seek.

"'I am content to be so bare
Before the archers, everywhere
My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

"'I laid my soul before Thy feet
That images of fair and sweet
Should walk to other men on it.

"'I am content to feel the step
Of each pure image: let those keep
To mandragore who care to sleep.

"'I am content to touch the brink
Of the other goblet and I think
My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

"'Because my portion was assigned
Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind,
And I am blessed to my mind.

"'Gifted for giving, I receive
The maythorn and its scent outgive:
I grieve not that I once did grieve.

"'In my large joy of sight and touch
Beyond what others count for such,
I am content to suffer much.

"'_I know_--is all the mourner saith,
Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And Life is perfected by Death. '"

The child spake nobly: strange to hear,
His infantine soft accents clear
Charged with high meanings, did appear;

And fair to see, his form and face
Winged out with whiteness and pure grace
From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew;
An orient beam which pierced it through
Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown
Traced on its brightness up and down
In fine fair lines,--a shadow-crown:

Guido might paint his angels so--
A little angel, taught to go
With holy words to saints below--

Such innocence of action yet
Significance of object met
In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

And all the children, the whole band,
Did round in rosy reverence stand,
Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

"And so he died," I whispered. "Nay,
Not _so_," the childish voice did say,
"That poet turned him first to pray

"In silence, and God heard the rest
'Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west.
Then he called one who loved him best,

"Yea, he called softly through the room
(His voice was weak yet tender)--'Come,'
He said, 'come nearer! Let the bloom

"'Of Life grow over, undenied,
This bridge of Death, which is not wide--
I shall be soon at the other side.