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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 39797
   :PG.Title: A Prelude
   :PG.Released: 2013-06-02
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Francis Sherman
   :DC.Title: A Prelude
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1897
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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A PRELUDE
=========

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      A PRELUDE

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      Francis Sherman

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      *Privately Printed*
      *at Christmas*
      *1897*

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   A Prelude

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..

   |  Watching the tremulous flicker of the green
   |  Against the open quiet of the sky,
   |  I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

   |  In the great wood behind me.  Where I lie
   |  They may not see me; for the grasses grow
   |  As though no foot save June's had wandered by;

   |  Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,
   |  As I have waited them, they yearn for me
   |  To lead them whither they are fain to go.

   |  Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!
   |  Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,
   |  Gather about thy wall and would be free!

   |  With wounded feet we cease from wandering,
   |  And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;
   |  And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,
   |  And from thy peace are we still separate.

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..

   |  Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,
   |  And search across the shadows for my face,
   |  Until the pines murmur of your despair,

   |  I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,
   |  For ye know not the path ye would pursue,
   |  And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

   |  Too weak am I, and now not one of you—
   |  So weary are ye of each ancient way—
   |  Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;

   |  And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;
   |  Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"
   |  And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"

   |  O Blind and fearful!  Shall I, who have won
   |  At last this little portion of content,
   |  Yield all to be with you again undone?

   |  Because ye languish in your prisonment
   |  Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?
   |  Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,

   |  My vision of the far-off open sky?
   |  Nay!  Earth hath much ungiven she yet may give;
   |  And though to-day your laboring souls would die,
   |  From earth my soul gaineth the strength to live.

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   |  O covering grasses!  O Unchanging trees!
   |  Is it not good to feel the odorous wind
   |  Come down upon you with such harmonies

   |  Only the giant hills can ever find?
   |  O little leaves, are ye not glad to be?
   |  Is not the sunlight fair, the shadow kind,

   |  That falls at noon-time over you and me?
   |  O gleam of birches lost among the firs,
   |  Let your high treble chime in silverly

   |  Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
   |  A muffled organ-music from the pines!
   |  Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers

   |  Is minor.  For, behold, the loud sun shines
   |  Till the young maples are no longer gray,
   |  And stronger grow their faint, uncertain lines

   |  Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
   |  And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,
   |  Until the sound of their far feet who

   |  About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,
   |  I hear a robin singing—not as one
   |  That calls unto his mate, uncomforted—
   |  But as one sings a welcome to the sun.

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   |  Not among men, or near men-fashioned things,
   |  In the old years found I this present ease,
   |  Though I have known the fellowship of kings

   |  And tarried long in splendid palaces.
   |  The worship of vast peoples has been mine,
   |  The homage of uncounted pageantries.

   |  Sea-offerings, and fruits of field and vine
   |  Have humble folk been proud to bring to me;
   |  And woven cloths of wonderful design

   |  Have lain untouched in far lands over-sea,
   |  Till the rich traffickers beheld my sails.
   |  Long caravans have toiled on wearily—

   |  Harassed yet watchful of their costly bales—
   |  Across wide sandy places, glad to bear
   |  Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,

   |  Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,
   |  Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,
   |  Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.

   |  —O fairness quick to fade!  Ashes and rust
   |  And food for moths!  O half-remembered things
   |  Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust

   |  Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
   |  Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
   |  Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.

   |  The color of her eyes, her hair outspread
   |  In the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,
   |  Falls on unwatching eyes; and no man knows
   |  The gracious odors that her garments shed.

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   |  And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,
   |  Follows a little while her devious way
   |  Across the twilight; where no voice replies

   |  When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day
   |  Is even as yesterday and all days were.
   |  Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

   |  Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir
   |  The hangings of unhaunted passages;
   |  Until she surely knows only for her

   |  Has this House hoarded up its silences
   |  Since the beginning of the early years,
   |  And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease

   |  And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
   |  In some long-kept, unviolated room.
   |  And so the quiet city no more hears
   |  Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

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   |  But what have I to do with her and death
   |  Who hold these living grasses in my hands,—
   |  With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

   |  (For it shall chance, however close the bands
   |  Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless
   |  She must remember alway the old lands

   |  She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)
   |  —Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,
   |  My soul leans over to the wind's caress,

   |  One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea's
   |  Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet
   |  It has no yearning to remix with these.

   |  For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,
   |  Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies
   |  On it forever; and of its edges, set

   |  With maiden-hair; and how, in guardian-wise,
   |  The alder trees bend over, until one
   |  Forgets the color of the unseen skies

   |  And loses all remembrance of the sun.
   |  No echo there of the sea's loss and pain;
   |  Nor sound of little rivers, even, that run

   |  Where with the wind the hollow reeds complain;
   |  Nor the soft stir of marsh-waters, when dawn
   |  Comes in with quiet covering of rain:

   |  Only, all day, the shadow of peace upon
   |  The pool's gray breast; and with the fall of even,
   |  The noiseless gleam of scattered stars—withdrawn
   |  From the unfathomed treasuries of heaven.

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   |  And as the sea has not the strength to win
   |  Back to its love my soul, O Comrades, ye—
   |  In the wood lost, and seeking me therein—

   |  Are not less impotent than all the sea!
   |  My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
   |  And in that house shall sleep along with me.

   |  Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
   |  To day and night alike indifferent,
   |  Aware and unaware if Time be done.

   |  Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
   |  For our old love I pass Earth's message on:
   |  "In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content?

   |  "Are not my days surpassing fair, from dawn
   |  To sunset, and my nights fulfilled with peace?
   |  Shall not my strength remain when thou art gone

   |  "The way of all blown dust?  Shall Beauty cease
   |  Upon my face because thy face grows gray?
   |  Behold, thine hours, even now, fade and decrease,

   |  "And thou hast got no wisdom; yet I say
   |  This thing there is to learn ere thou must go:
   |  *Have no sad thoughts of me upon the way*

   |  "*Thou takest home coming; for thy soul shall know*
   |  *The old glad things and sorrowful its share*
   |  *Until at last Time's legions overthrow*
   |  *The House thy days have builded unaware.*"

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   |  Now therefore am I joyful who have heard
   |  Earth's message plain to-day, and so I cry
   |  Aloud to you, O Comrades, her last word,

   |  That ye may be as wise and glad as I,
   |  And the long grasses, and the broad green leaves
   |  That beat against the far, unclouded sky:

   |  *Who worships me alway, who alway cleaves*
   |  *Close unto me till his last call rings clear*
   |  *Across the pathless wood,—his soul receives*
   |  *My peace continually and shall not fear.*

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   A PRELUDE WRITTEN BY FRANCIS
   SHERMAN IS PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR
   HIM AND FOR HERBERT COPELAND
   AND F. H. DAY AND THEIR FRIENDS
   CHRISTMAS M D CCC XCVII

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