THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB For him she loved-the Man of Sixty Spears, And the great horror of the Wall of Man But the third time she cried and put her palms They know who watched, the doors were rent apart Broke like a flood across the Valley, washed Some say that from the Unlighted Shrine she cried And others that she sang and had no fear. Howbeit, in the morning men rose up, From the crevices the grass Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls Were gray with stains unclean, the roof-beams swelled With many-coloured growth of rottenness, Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai THE EXPLANATION (1890) OVE and Death once ceased their strife L At the Tavern of Man's Life. Called for wine, and threw-alas! Each his quiver on the grass. When the bout was o'er they found Each the loves and lives of men. Thus it was they wrought our woe Tell me, do our masters know, Old men love while young men die? THE GIFT OF THE SEA (1890) HE dead child lay in the shroud, THE And the widow watched beside; And her mother slept, and the Channel swept The gale in the teeth of the tide. But the mother laughed at all. 'I have lost my man in the sea, And the child is dead. Be still,' she said, 'What more can ye do to me?' The widow watched the dead, And the candle guttered low, And she tried to sing the Passing Song And 'Mary take you now,' she sang, Then came a cry from the sea, But the sea-rime blinded the glass, And 'Heard ye nothing, mother?' she said, "'Tis the child that waits to pass.' THE GIFT OF THE SEA And the nodding mother sighed. For why should the christened soul cry out 'O feet I have held in my hand, How should they know the road to go, They laid a sheet to the door, With the little quilt atop, That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt, But the crying would not stop. The widow lifted the latch And strained her eyes to see, And opened the door on the bitter shore To let the soul go free. There was neither glimmer nor ghost, And the nodding mother sighed: "'Tis sorrow makes ye dull; Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern, "The terns are blown inland, The gray gull follows the plough. 'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard, O mother, I hear it now!' |