The Revisitation

&nbsp As I lay awake at night-time
In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers,
And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time
&nbsp Of my primal purple years,

&nbsp Much it haunted me that, nigh there,
I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not again;
In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there -
&nbsp A July just such as then.

&nbsp And as thus I brooded longer,
With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame,
A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger,
&nbsp That the month-night was the same,

&nbsp Too, as that which saw her leave me
On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round;
And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve me -
&nbsp I should near the once-loved ground.

&nbsp Though but now a war-worn stranger
Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard.
All was soundless, save the troopers' horses tossing at the manger,
&nbsp And the sentry keeping guard.

&nbsp Through the gateway I betook me
Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge,
Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me,
&nbsp And I bore towards the Ridge,

&nbsp With a dim unowned emotion
Saying softly: "Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here . . .
Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion
&nbsp May retrace a track so dear."

&nbsp Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered
Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre;
And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered
&nbsp As I mounted high and higher.

&nbsp Till, the upper roadway quitting,
I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed,
While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward flitting,
&nbsp And an arid wind went past.

&nbsp Round about me bulged the barrows
As before, in antique silence—immemorial funeral piles -
Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt arrows
&nbsp Mid the thyme and chamomiles;

&nbsp And the Sarsen stone there, dateless,
On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender vow,
Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated mateless
&nbsp From those far fond hours till now.

&nbsp Maybe flustered by my presence
Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and loud,
And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence
&nbsp Up against the cope of cloud,

&nbsp Where their dolesome exclamations
Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when life was green,
Though since that day uncounted frail forgotten generations
&nbsp Of their kind had flecked the scene. -

&nbsp And so, living long and longer
In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly,
That a figure broke the skyline—first in vague contour, then stronger,
&nbsp And was crossing near to me.

&nbsp Some long-missed familiar gesture,
Something wonted, struck me in the figure's pause to list and heed,
Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture
&nbsp That it might be She indeed.

&nbsp 'Twas not reasonless: below there
In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet,
And the downlands were her father's fief; she still might come and go there;
&nbsp So I rose, and said, "Agnette!"

&nbsp With a little leap, half-frightened,
She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear
In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened,
&nbsp She replied: "What—THAT voice?—here!"

&nbsp "Yes, Agnette!—And did the occasion
Of our marching hither make you think I MIGHT walk where we two—'
"O, I often come," she murmured with a moment's coy evasion,
&nbsp "('Tis not far),—and—think of you."

&nbsp Then I took her hand, and led her
To the ancient people's stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we;
And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her,
&nbsp And she spoke confidingly.

&nbsp "It is JUST as ere we parted!"
Said she, brimming high with joy.—"And when, then, came you here, and why?"
"—Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted."
&nbsp She responded, "Nor could I.

&nbsp "There are few things I would rather
Than be wandering at this spirit-hour—lone-lived, my kindred dead -
On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:
&nbsp Night or day, I have no dread . . .

&nbsp "O I wonder, wonder whether
Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no? -
Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together."
&nbsp I said, "Dear, we'll dream it so."

&nbsp Each one's hand the other's grasping,
And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,
A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,
&nbsp And contracting years to nought.

&nbsp Till I, maybe overweary
From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress
For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,
&nbsp Sank to slow unconsciousness . . .

&nbsp How long I slept I knew not,
But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise,
A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,
&nbsp Was blazing on my eyes,

&nbsp From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill
All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet
Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and mole-hill,
&nbsp And on trails the ewes had beat.

&nbsp She was sitting still beside me,
Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand;
When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me
&nbsp In her image then I scanned;

&nbsp That which Time's transforming chisel
Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well,
In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle -
&nbsp Pits, where peonies once did dwell.

&nbsp She had wakened, and perceiving
(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,
Up she started, and—her wasted figure all throughout it heaving -
&nbsp Said, "Ah, yes: I am THUS by day!

&nbsp "Can you really wince and wonder
That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone,
As if unaware a Death's-head must of need lie not far under
&nbsp Flesh whose years out-count your own?

&nbsp "Yes: that movement was a warning
Of the worth of man's devotion!—Yes, Sir, I am OLD," said she,
"And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning -
&nbsp And your new-won heart from me!"

&nbsp Then she went, ere I could call her,
With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,
And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller,
&nbsp Till I caught its course no more . . .

&nbsp True; I might have dogged her downward;
- But it MAY be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time
Disconcerted and confused me.—Soon I bent my footsteps townward,
&nbsp Like to one who had watched a crime.

&nbsp Well I knew my native weakness,
Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like physic-wine,
For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness
&nbsp A nobler soul than mine.

&nbsp Did I not return, then, ever? -
Did we meet again?—mend all?—Alas, what greyhead perseveres! -
Soon I got the Route elsewhither.—Since that hour I have seen her never:
&nbsp Love is lame at fifty years.