A
MYSTERY PLAY
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CHARACTERS
The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.
Two Travellers.
* * * * *
|
5 |
THE
even settles still and deep,
In the cold sky the last gold burns,
Across the colour snowflakes creep.
Each one from grey to glory turns
Then flutters into nothingness; |
10 |
| The
frost down falls with mighty stress
Through the swift cloud that parts on high;
The great stars shrivel into less
In the hard depth of the iron sky.
* * * * * |
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The Child: |
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| What
is that light, dear father, |
15 |
| That
light in dark, dark sky? |
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The Father: |
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Those
are the lights of the city
And the villages thereby. |
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The Child: |
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There
must be fire in the city
To throw that yellow glare; |
20 |
And
fire in the little villages
On all the hearthstones there. |
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The Father, musing: |
|
Yea,
flames are on the hearthstones;
The ovens are full of bread,
But here the coals are dying
|
25 |
| And
the flames are dead. |
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The Child: |
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What
is the cold, dear father?
It stings like an angry bee.
Wherever it stings my hand turns white,
See! |
30 |
| |
The Father: |
|
The
cold is a beast, my dear one,
With his paws he tears at the thatch,
His breath is a curse and a warning,
You can see it creep on the latch. |
|
| |
The Child: |
|
| If
'tis a wolf, dear father, |
35 |
That
lies with his paw on the floor,
Let us heat the spade in the embers
And drive him away from the door. |
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Angels: |
|
God
is that power of growth,
In the snail and the tree, |
40 |
God
is the power of growth
In the heart of the man. |
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The Child: |
|
Did
you not hear the singing,
Voices overhead?
Mother's voice and Ruth's voice, |
45 |
| Voices
of the dead. |
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The Father, musing: |
|
Our
Ruth died in the springtime,
With the spade I turned the sod,
We buried her by the brier rose,
Her life is hid with God. |
50 |
| |
The Child: |
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All
summer long in the garden
No roses came to the tree.
Father, was it for sorrow,
Sorrow for thee and me? |
|
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The Father: |
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| Roses
grew in the garden, |
55 |
I
saw them at morning and even,
Shadows of earthly roses
They bloomed for fingers in heaven. |
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* * * * *
|
|
The
air is very clear and still,
The moonlight falls from half the sphere; |
60 |
The
shadow from the silver hill
Fills half the vale, and half is clear
As the moon's self with cloudless snow;
By the dead stream the alders throw
Their shadow, shot with tingling spars; |
65 |
On
the sheer height the elm trees glow:
Their tops are tangled with the stars. |
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* * * * *
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The
Child: |
|
Father,
the coals are dying,
See! I have heated the spade,
Let me throw the door wide open, |
70 |
| I
will not be afraid. |
|
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The Father: |
|
Let
me kiss you once on the forehead,
And once on your darling eyes;
We may see them both at the dawning,
In the dales of Paradise. |
75 |
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The Child: |
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And
if I only see them,
I will tell them how you smiled;
For the wolf, you know, is angry,
And I am a little child. |
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Death: |
|
| Undaunted
spirits, |
80 |
I
give thee peace,
For a world of dread—
Calm.
For desperate toil—
Rest. |
85 |
Thou
who didst say,
When the waters of poverty
Waxed deep, deep,
What we bear is best;
Just ones, |
90 |
| I
give thee sleep. |
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First Traveller: |
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Keep
up your spirits, I know
There's a cabin under the hill,
The fellow will make a roaring fire;
We'll heat our hands and drink our fill |
95 |
| And
go warm to our heart's desire! |
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Second Traveller: |
|
The
door is open,—Heigho!
This pair will claim neither crown nor groat,
The man has gripped his garden spade
As if he would dig his grave in the snow; |
100 |
The
boy has the face of a saint, I trow;
His brow says, "I was not afraid!" |
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First Traveller: |
|
Ah
well, these things must be, you know!
Gather your sables around your throat;
Give us that story about the monk, |
105 |
His
niece, and the wandering conjurer,
Just to keep our blood astir. |
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The Angels: |
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The
heart of God,
The worlds and man,
Are fashioned and moulded, |
110 |
In
a subtle plan;
Passion outsurges,
Sweeps far but converges;
Nothing is lost,
Sod or stone, |
115 |
But
comes to its own;
Bear well thy joy,
'Tis mixed with alloy,
Bear well thy grief,
'Tis a rich full sheaf: |
120 |
Gather
the souls that have passed in the night,
Theirs is the peace and the light.
* * * * *
The
moon is gone, the dawning brings
A deeper dark with silver blent,
Above the wells where, myriad, springs
|
125 |
Light
from the crimson orient;
The elms are born, the shadows creep,
Tremble and melt away—one sweep
The great soft color floods and flows,
Where under snow the roses sleep; |
130 |
| The
morn has turned the snow to rose. |
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