He moaned, and slowly made unto the door,

  Where sat a woman spinning in the sun,

  Who oft belike had seen him there before,

  Among those bright folk not the dullest one;

  But now when she had set her eyes upon

  The wild thing hastening to her, for a space

  She sat regarding him with scared white face;

  But as he neared her, fell her rock adown.

  She rose, and fled with mouth that would have cried

  But for her terror. Then did Walter groan:

  “O wretched life! how well might I have died

  Here, where I stand, on many a happy tide,

  When folk fled not from me, nor knew me cursed,

  And yet who knoweth that I know the worst?”

  Scarce formed upon his lips, the word “Return”

  Rang in his heart once more; but a cold cloud

  Of all despair, however he might yearn,

  All pleasure of that bygone dream did shroud,

  And hopes and fears, long smothered, now ‘gan crowd

  About his heart: nor might he rest in pain,

  But needs must struggle on, howe’er in vain.

  Into the empty house he passed withal;

  As in a dream the motes did dance and grow

  Amidst the sun, that through the door did fall

  Across its gloom, and on the board did show

  A bag of silver pieces, many enow,

  The goodman’s market-silver; and a spear

  New-shafted, bright, that lay athwart it there.

  Brooding he stood, till in him purpose grew;

  Unto the peasants’ coffer, known of old,

  He turned, and raised the lid, and from it drew

  Raiment well worn by miles of wind-beat wold.

  And, casting to the floor his gauzy gold,

  Did on these things, scarce thinking in meanwhile

  How he should deal with his life’s new-born toil.

  But now, being clad, he took the spear and purse,

  And on the board his clothes begemmed he laid,

  Half wondering would their wealth turn to a curse,

  As in the tales he once deemed vainly made

  Of elves and such-like — once again he weighed

  The bright web in his hand, and a great flood

  Of evil memories fevered all his blood,

  Blinded his eyes, and wrung his heart full sore;

  Yet grew his purpose among men to dwell,

  He scarce knew why, nor said he any more

  That word “Return:” perchance the threatened hell,

  Disbelieved once, seemed all too possible

  Amid this anguish, wherefrom if the grain

  Of hope should fall, then hell would be a gain.

  He went his ways, and once more crossed the stream,

  And hastened through the wood, that scantier grew

  Till from a low hill he could see the gleam

  Of the great river that of old he knew,

  Which drank the woodland stream: ‘neath the light blue

  Of the March sky, swirling and bright it ran,

  A wonder and a tale to many a man.

  He went on wondering not; all tales were nought

  Except his tale; with min of his own life,

  To ruin the world’s life, hopeful once, seemed brought;

  The changing year seemed weary of the strife

  Ever recurring, with all vain hope rife;

  Earth, sky, and water seemed too weak and old

  To gain a little rest from waste and cold.

  He wondered not, and no pain smote on him,

  Though from a green hill on the further side,

  Above the green meads set with poplars slim,

  A white wall, buttressed well, made girdle wide

  To towers and roofs where yet his kin did bide: —

  — His father’s ancient house; yea, now he saw

  His very pennon toward the river draw.

  No pain these gave him, and no scorn withal

  Of his old self; no rage that men were glad

  And went their ways, whatso on him might fall;

  For all seemed shadows to him, good or bad;

  At most the raiment that his yearning clad,

  Yearning made blind with misery, for more life,

  If it might be, love yet should lead the strife.

  He stood a space and watched the ferry-boat

  Take in its load of bright and glittering things;

  He watched its head adown the river float,

  As o’er the water came the murmurings

  Of broken talk: and as all memory clings

  To such dumb sounds, so dreamlike came back now

  The tale of how his life and love did grow.

  He turned away and strode on, knowing not

  What purpose moved him; as the river flowed

  He hastened, where the sun of March blazed hot

  Upon the bounding wall and hard white road,

  The terraced blossoming vines, the brown abode

  Where wife and child and dog of vine-dressers

  With mingled careless clamour cursed his ears.

  — How can words measure misery, when the sun

  Shines at its brightest over plague and ill?

  How can I tell the woe of any one,

  When the soft showers with fair-hued sweetness fill,

  Before the feet of those grief may not kill,

  The tender meads of hopeful spring, that comes

  With eager hours to mock all hopeless homes?

  So let it pass, and ask me not to weigh

  Grief against grief: — ye who have ever woke

  To wondering, ere came memory back, why day,

  Bare, blank, immovable, upon you broke —

  — Untold shall ye know all — to happy folk

  All heaviest words no more of meaning bear

  Than far-off bells saddening the summer air.

  But tells my tale, that all that day he went

  Along the highway by the river side,

  Urged on by restlessness without intent;

  Until when he was caught by evening-tide,

  Worn out withal, at last must he abide

  At a small homestead, where he gat him food

  And bed of straw, among tired folk and rude.

  A weary ghost within the poor hall there,

  He sat amid their weariness, who knew

  No whit of all his case, yet half with fear

  And half with scorn gazed on him, as, with few

  And heavy words, about the fire they drew,

  The goodman and goodwife, both old and grey,

  Three stout sons, and one rough uncared-for may.

  A ghost he sat, and as a ghost he heard

  What things they spoke of; but sleep-laden night

  Seemed to have crushed all memory of their word,

  When on the morrow, in the young sun’s light,

  He plodded o’er the highway hard and white;

  Unto what end he knew not: though swift thought

  Memory of things long spoken to him brought.

  That day he needs must leave the streamside road,

  Whereon he met of wayfarers no few;

  For sight of wondering eyes now ‘gan to goad

  His misery more, as still more used he grew

  To that dull world he had returned unto;

  So into a deep-banked lane he turned aside,

  A little more his face from men to hide.

  Slowly he went, for afternoon it was,

  And with the long way was he much foreworn;

  Nor far between the deep banks did he pass,

  Ere on the wind unto his ears was borne

  A stranger sound than he had heard that morn,

  Sweet sound of mournful singing; then he stayed

  His feet, and gazed about as one afraid:

  He shuddered, feeling as in time long past,

  When mid the utter joy of his young days

  The sudden sound of music would be cast

  Upon the bright world with the sun ablaze,

  And he would look to see a strange hand raise

  The far-off blue, and God in might come down

  To judge the earth, and make all hid things known.

  And therewithal came memory of that speech

  Of yesternight, and how those folk had said,

  That now so far did wrong and misery reach,

  That soon belike earth would be visited

  At last with that supreme day of all dread;

  When right and wrong, and weal and woe of earth,

  Should change amid its fiery second birth.

  He hastened toward the road as one who thought

  God’s visible glory would be passing by,

  But, when he looked forth tremblingly, saw nought

  Of glorious dread to quench his misery;

  There was the sky, and, like a second sky,

  The broad stream, the white road, the whispering trees

  Swaying about in the sound-laden breeze.

  For nigher and nigher ever came the song,

  And presently at turning of the way

  A company of pilgrims came along,

  Mostly afoot, in garments brown and grey:

  Slowly they passed on through the windy day,

  Led on by priests who bore aloft the rood,

  Singing with knitted brows as on they strode.

  Then sank his heart adown, however sweet,

  Pensive and strange, their swinging song might be,

  For nought like this he had in heart to meet;

  But rather something was he fain to see,

  That should change all the old tale utterly; —

  — The old tale of the world, and love and death,

  And all the wild things that man’s yearning saith.

  Nathless did he abide their coming there,

  And noted of them as they drew anigh,

  That in that fellowship were women fair,

  And young men meet for joyous company,

  Besides such elders, as might look to die

  In few years now, or monks who long had striven

  With life desired and feared, life for death given.

  Way-worn they seemed, yet many there strode on,

  With flashing eyes and flushed cheeks, as though all

  Within a little space should be well won:

  Still as he gazed on them, despair did fall

  Upon his wasted heart; a fiery wall

  Of scorn and hate seemed ‘twixt their hearts and his;

  While delicate images of bygone bliss

  Grew clear before his eyes, as rood and saint

  Gleamed in the sun o’er raiment coarse and foul,

  O’er dusty limbs, and figures worn and faint:

  Well-nigh he shrieked; yet in his inmost soul

  He felt that he must ask them of their goal,

  And knew not why: so at a man he clutched,

  Who, as he passed, his shoulder well-nigh touched.

  “Where goest thou then, O pilgrim, with all these?”

  “Stay me not!” cried he; “unto life I go,

  To life at last, and hope of rest and peace;

  I whom my dreadful crime hath hunted so

  For years, though I am young — O long and slow

  The way to where the change awaiteth me —

  To Rome, where God nigh visible shall be!

  “Where He who knoweth all, shall know this too,

  That I am man — e’en that which He hath made,

  Nor be confounded at aught man can do. —

  — And thou, who seemest too with ill down-weighed,

  Come on with us, nor be too much afraid,

  Though some men deem there is but left small space,

  Or ere the world shall see the Judge’s face.”

  He answered not, nor moved; the man’s words seemed

  An echo of his thoughts, and, as he passed,

  Word and touch both might well be only dreamed.

  Yea, when the vine-clad terraced hill at last

  Had hid them all, and the slim poplars cast

  Blue shadows on the road, that scarce did show

  A trace of their passed feet, he did not know

  But all had been a dream; all save the pain,

  That, mingling with the palpable things around,

  Showed them to be not wholly vague and vain,

  And him not dead, in whatso hard bonds bound,

  Of wandering fate, whose source shall ne’er be found.

  He shivered, turned away, and down the same

  Deep lane he wandered, whence e’en now he came.

  He toward the night through hapless day-dreams passed,

  That knew no God to come, no love: he stood

  Before a little town’s grey gate at last,

  And in the midst of his lost languid mood,

  Turned toward the western sky, as red as blood,

  As bright as sudden dawn across the dark,

  And through his soul fear shot a kindling spark.

  But as he gazed, the rough-faced gate-warder,

  Who leaned anigh upon his spear, must turn

  Eyes on him, with an answering anxious fear,

  That silent, questioning, dared not to learn,

  If he too deemed more than the sun did burn

  Behind the crimson clouds that made earth grey —

  If yet perchance God’s host were on its way.

  So too, being come unto his hostelry,

  His pain was so much dulled by weariness,

  That he might hearken to men’s words, whereby

  It seemed full sure that great fear did oppress

  Men’s hearts that tide, that the world’s life, grown less

  Through time’s unnoted lapse, this thousandth year

  Since Christ was born, unto its end drew near.

  Time and again, he, listening to such word,

  Felt his heart kindle; time and again did seem

  As though a cold and hopeless tune he heard,

  Sung by grey mouths amidst a dull-eyed dream;

  Time and again across his heart would stream

  The pain of fierce desire whose aim was gone,

  Of baffled yearning loveless and alone.

  Other words heard he too, that served to show

  The meaning of that earnest pilgrim train;

  For the folk said that many a man would go

  To Rome that Easter, there more sure to gain

  Full pardon for all sins, since frail and vain,

  Cloudlike the very earth grew ‘neath men’s feet:

  Yea, many thought, that there at Rome would meet

  The half-forgotten Bridegroom with the Bride,

  Stained with the flushed feast of the world; that He,

  Through wrack and flame, would draw unto His side

  In the new earth where there is no more sea.

  So spake men got together timorously;

  Though pride slew fear in some men’s souls, that they

  Had lived to see the firm earth melt away.

  Next morn were folk about the market cross

  Gathered in throngs, and as through these he went

  He saw above them a monk’s brown arms toss

  About his strained and eager mouth, that sent

  Strong speech around, whose burden was ‘Repent;’

  He passed by toward the gate that Romeward lay,

  Yet on its other side his feet did stay.

  Upon a daisied patch of road-side grass

  He cast himself, and down the road he gazed;

  And therewithal the thought through him did pass,

  How long and wretched was the way he faced.

  Therewith the smouldering fire again outblazed

  Within him, and he moaned: “O empty earth,

  What shall I do, then, mid thy loveless dearth?”

  But as he spake, there came adown the wind

  From out the town the sound of pilgrims’ song,

  And other thoughts were borne across his mind,

  And hope strove with desire so hopeless strong,

  Till in his heart, wounded with pain and wrong,

  Something like will was born; until he knew

  Now, ere they came, what thing he meant to do.

  So through the gate at last the pilgrims came,

  Led by an old priest, fiery-eyed and grey;

  Then Walter held no parley with his shame,

  But stood before him midmost of the way.

  “Will one man’s sin so heavy on you weigh,”

  He cried, “that ye shall never reach your end?

  Unto God’s pardon with you would I wend.”

  The old man turned to him: “My son,” he said,

  “Come with us, and be of us! turn not back

  When once thine hand upon the plough is laid;

  The telling of thy sin we well may lack,

  Because the Avenger is upon our track,

  And who can say the while we tarry here,

  Amid this seeming peace, but God draws near?”

  The. crowd had stayed their song to hear the priest,

  But now, when Walter joined their company,

  Like a great shout it rose up and increased,

  And on their way they went so fervently

  That swept away from earth he seemed to be;

  And many a thought o’er which his heart had yearned

  Amid their fire to white ash now seemed burned.

  For many days they journeyed on, and still

  Whate’er he deemed that he therein should do,

  The hope of Rome his whole soul seemed to fill;

  And though the priest heard not his story through,

  Yet from him at the last so much he knew,

  That he had promised when they reached the place,

  To bring him straight before the Pope’s own face.

  Through many a town they passed; till on a night

  Long through the darkness they toiled on and on

  Down a straight road, until a blaze of light

  On the grey carving of an old gate shone;

 

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