New Year's Eve: A Waking Dream

I have not any fearful tale to tellOf fabled giant or of dragon-claw,Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sellTo those who feed, with such, a gaping maw;But what in yonder hamlet there befell,Or rather what in it my fancy saw,I will declare, albeit it may seemToo simple and too common for a dream.

Two brothers were they, and they sat aloneWithout a word, beside the winter's glow;For it was many years since they had knownThe love that bindeth brothers, till the snowOf age had frozen it, and it had grownAn icy-withered stream that would not flow;And so they sat with warmth about their feetAnd ice about their hearts that would not beat.

And yet it was a night for quiet hope:--A night the very last of all the yearTo many a youthful heart did seem to opeAn eye within the future, round and clear;And age itself, that travels down the slope,Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near,The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime,Jerking our souls into the coming time.

But they!--alas for age when it is old!The silly calendar they did not heed;Alas for age when in its bosom coldThere is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed!They thought not of the morrow, but did holdA quiet sitting as their hearts did feedInwardly on themselves, as still and muteAs if they were a-cold from head to foot.

O solemn kindly night, she looketh stillWith all her moon upon us now and then!And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill,She hath an eye unto the hearts of men!So past a corner of the window-sillShe thrust a long bright finger just as tenHad struck, and on the dial-plate it came,Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.

There is a something in the winds of heavenThat stirreth purposely and maketh men;And unto every little wind is givenA thing to do ere it is still again;So when the little clock had struck eleven,The edging moon had drawn her silver penAcross a mirror, making them awareOf something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blindAnd looked upon the sleeping town below,And on the little church which sat behindAs keeping watch upon the scanty rowOf steady tombstones--some of which inclinedAnd others upright, in the moon did showLike to a village down below the waves--It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall,Except it were some very plain remark.Ah! why should such as they be glad at all?For years they had not listened to the lark!The child was dead in them!--yet did there crawlA wish about their hearts; and as the barkOf distant sheep-dog came, they were awareOf a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spunA web of heavy cloud about their brain!And many a sun and moon had come and goneSince they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain!But now with timed pace their feet did stunThe village echoes into quiet pain:The street appeared very short and white,And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say--I knew not which was elder of the two--"Right through the churchyard is our better way.""Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew.I have not seen her grave for many a day;And it is in me that with moonlight tooIt might be pleasant thinking of old faces,And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wanSitting about a solitary stone!Stranger than many tales it is to scanThe earthy fragment of a human bone;But stranger still to see a grey old manApart from all his fellows, and aloneWith the pale night and all its giant quiet;Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hidThe priceless pulses of a mother's soul.Full sixty years it was since she had slidInto the other world through that deep hole.But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lidGrew deaf with sudden hammers!--'twas the moleNiddering about its roots.--Be still, old men,Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away,But it will stay with you till ye are dead!It is but earthy mould and quiet clay,But it hath power to turn the oldest head.Their eyes met in the moon, and they did sayMore than a hundred tongues had ever said.So they passed onwards through the rapping wicketInto the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life,An inquest held upon the death of things;And in the naked north full thick and rifeThe snow-clouds too were meeting as on wingsShorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife;And the trees seemed to gather into rings,Waiting to be made blind, as they did quailAmong their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees,And most within the quiet moony light,Therefore those aged men are on their kneesAs if they listened somewhat:--Ye are right--Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees!Although ye never heard it till to-night,The mighty mother calleth ever soTo all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways,And heard her voices in the market-place,But ye have never listened what she saysWhen the snow-moon is pressing on her face!One night like this is more than many daysTo him who hears the music and the bassOf deep immortal lullabies which calmHis troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleepTo dim the eyelids of the shining moon,But so it seemed then, for still more deepShe grew into a heavy cloud, which, soonHiding her outmost edges, seemed to keepA pressure on her; so there came a swoonAmong the shadows, which still lay togetherBut in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight groped for the chimeAs she were heavy with excess of dreams,She from the cloud's thick web a second timeMade many shadows, though with minished beams;And as she looked eastward through the rimeOf a thin vapour got of frosty steams,There fell a little snow upon the crownOf a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring,A very helpful little spring indeed,Which evermore unwound a tiny stringOf earnest water with continual speed--And so the brothers stood and heard it sing;For all was snowy-still, and not a seedHad struck, and nothing came but noises lightOf the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow--It is a grey head to the spring time mild;So as the creamy vapour bowed lowCrowning the earth with honour undefiled,Within each withered man arose a glowAs if he fain would turn into a child:There was a gladness somewhere in the groundWhich in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blushOf red voluptuous roses did it comeThat silent speaking voice, but through the slushAnd snowy quiet of the winter numb!It was a barren mound that heard the gushOf living water from two fountains dumb--Two rocky human hearts which long had strivenTo make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shoutOf lightsome voices and of merry cheer;It was a youthful group that wandered outTo do obeisance to the glad new year;And as they passed they sang with voices stoutA song which I was very fain to hear,But as they darkened on, away it died,And the two men walked homewards side by side.