Classic Poem

Autumn to winter, winter drew to spring,
And comfortable became her ways, like all
Love-service wrought by customary hands.
Sap in the vein, soft-stirring with the year,
And kindling at her presence, human love;
Strange wants unrealized, hungers of heart,
Mystical poverties of soul, she filled;
Even as common field-flowers casually
Borrow the sun and use the earth and sky,
The household without reckoning dwelt with her.
But when to autumn the year turned again
And the old poignant beauty filled the world,
The mother Metaneira, spirit-quick,
Felt the home troubled with awe wonderful.
She pondered long these motions of vague fear,
Still troubled more, till in a twilight mood
She broke them to her husband and the boy,
Under the spell of her strange insight rising
Maenad-mad, — wild eyes and haunted face;
With the intense flame of passionate thought
Her fragile body quivered as she spoke —
" Who is this phantom, this weird wayfarer,
Ye two brought in to aid me? Know ye not
The Shining Ones oft hide in human forms,
And darker spirits, brooding mischief, oft
Resemble to betray us? "
Celeus frowned;
" She is a quiet phantom, grant her that!
All that haunt us, the gods make old like her,
So quiet and so wise! Summer and winter
Has not her faithful toil prospered the year?
What strangeness has she done? "
Poised among fears,
Perplexed to choose, the mother hesitated,
Then answered not his question but her own thoughts —
" She loves the child, she loves, but not as we
Love it, not with a simple heart; secrets
We cannot guess at, her deep manner hides;
Her service steals upon us like a spell,
Yet something fugitive in all she does,
Some touch of marvel, some too perfect skill,
Makes helpless those she helps. Oft she escapes,
As though her mood were hampered by our eyes,
And strangely broods or dreams or works alone.
Now for two nights, with the first dusk, I saw her
Stealthily watch me, — then the cradled babe
She lifted to her breast and made pretense
To soothe, though it slept sound, — then to the hall
Yonder carried the child, and slyly drew
The bolts, I heard them creak, in the closed door. "
Celeus, still unpersuaded, comforted her —
" The skill of old hands is another youth;
Youth is the earliest magic, and the last
Is practice, nothing more; this woman's skill
Came with her years, but sorrow makes her strange. "
Instant upon the word, as at the return
Of half-forgotten fear, the mother cried —
" What is this sorrow, then, that shadows her?
A human grief with time unfolds to love,
And tears that are not shame are shared at last,
But all the kindness of our house melts not
The silence from her lips; she may not will
Mischief, but power she has, she brings on fate —
Were not her words prophetic for the boy
That named him master of meadows and of fields,
Whom the earth should obey? Did not the grain
Ripen miraculous where she bade him sow?
Did not the grove she planted, the young trees,
Thrive beyond hope? Weird blessings fall on us,
Yet rather would I lose the alien gift
Than dread the lurking debt still to be paid. "
Wondering at his mother, the young boy
Pleaded, suddenly eloquent out of love —
" All that she taught me, of earth and sun and showers,
Of seed and tilth and gathering of the grain,
To others I could teach — no weird secret,
But simple knowledge waiting to be used.
The things that beauty touches become strange,
I heard her say; the strangeness thou dost fear,
Is it not beauty? "
The mother, following her dread,
Hearing him not — " " Only a little while,
A little while ago I found her gazing
On the bare fields as one looks on the dead,
And from her moving lips came soft, wild words:
" O loveliness (she whispered) rapt away!
Who now, thy face beholding, gathers joy?
Ay me, the joy that from eternal love
Up from my bosom flowing bloomed in thee!
The wheat, the poppy languish meadow-shorn,
The summer dies. O thou that canst not languish,
Maiden lost, Immortal One!" " —
The voice
Of Metaneira faltered and grew faint,
Uttering the remembered cry; but Celeus
With deeper pity reproved her perverse mood —
" Hast thou not heard of lost loves in the world,
Of hearths vacant, of hopes precious but vain?
She in her years is wounded with old sorrows;
This babe of ours, soft-breathing on her breast,
Brings back through tears the frail unburied ghost,
Some girl long dead, whom grief hath made divine.
Ah, Metaneira, that having lost no child
Knowest not the faithful pain, the abiding grief! "
" And wouldst thou lose him, " Metaneira cried,
" The babe that helpless lies on her strange heart?
Have I not said, when the day ends she carries
To yonder room the sleeping child away,
Stealing with furtive glances, and with guile
Barring the door? Now hearken! Underneath
And over, by the hinges, through the latch,
Sharp gleams shoot out, long blades of eerie light,
That all but pierce the nailed and paneled wood.
After a space the light fades, stealthily
The latch withdraws, and with too perfect care
She enters crooning slumber-songs — O clear
The triumph in her face, the evil shining!
And when I take the child, dim meadow-scent,
Damp odors, flood ethereal o'er my brain,
And the child's eyes, on more than infant depths
Brooding, grow wonderful with calm — Celeus!
See now, " she cried, " the light streams through the door! "
Flinging her fragile body, she burst the latch,
And frenzied saw the woman holding outstretched
The child, and waves of weird light washing it,
Fire that from the hearth seemed not to flame,
But like a rolling sea filled the whole room.
One glimpse — and Metaneira, crazed with love,
Tore fiercely from those hands the flame-wrapped babe.
Then from the earth the woman rose, a queen
Celestial, young and fair; the glowing sea
Ebbed from the room into her burning heart,
As to its source, and beautiful was her wrath,
Light-giving. And Metaneira stood aghast.