Harkening.

Rubens, Child with Bird, 1616

LEGEND

Grey, ancient abbeys, you may see them yet,

In that high plain above the western sea:

A broken arch or two, a few worn stones

Piled one upon another, and for paving

Uneven fragments with tall grass between:

Grass that is always green, winter and summer,

The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves.

It was a springtime morning long ago,

A morning of blue skies and whitest clouds,

And singing birds, and singing streams, and woods

That shone like silver, yet untouched with green:

The brethren of an abbey of the plain

—Whereof what now is ruin yet was whole—

Were labouring as holy brethren must,

Quietly, and in peace: and elder ones

Paced in the cloister, and some, older still,

Too old to work or dream, sat in the sunlight,

The sunlight which they soon should see no more.

And there came from the wood upon the hill

One clothed in the sere habit of a monk,

That passed in at the portal of the abbey:

Brighter his face than is the face of spring,

And joy was in his tread, as in his soul.

And some that paced the cloister paused to glance

    at him,

And one that went upon an errand stayed,

And some that laboured left their work, and came

Gathering round him, and he spake, and said:

    “Very fair the golden morning

        As in yonder wood I strayed,

    And I heard diviner music

        Than the greatest harpers made,

    For a sweet bird sang before me

        Songs of laughter, and of tears.

    All that I have loved and longed for,

        As I measured out my years.

    Sang of blessed shores and golden

        Where the old, dim heroes be,

    Distant isles of sunset glory,

        Set beyond the western sea.

    Sang of Christ and Mary Mother

        Hearkening unto angels seven

    Playing on their golden harp-strings

        In the far courts of high Heaven.”

So they stood by, and listened to his speech,

Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul:

But while they wondered whence he was, and who,

He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried:

“Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers?

Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they

I left behind me but an hour ago?”

Then was there whispering among the throng,

And wonder not a little, and some scorn;

Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye,

Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray.”

’Twas done, and in the golden afternoon

A brother entered, and found none within,

Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust,

As of a body crumbled in the grave.

And while they wondered what these things might be,

At last spake forth the oldest of them all,

Burdened with hundred winters in his soul:

“I can remember, when my years were young,

Hearing the old monks say, one went from here

When spring was on the earth, as it is now,

Some five-score years ago, and was not seen

Again, though search was made in all the land.”

And some believed this was the same, and all

Forgot it in a sennight’s silent toil.

Save one, that saw, and seeing understood,

And for the greater glory of High God

Wrote down the story in a mighty book,

And limned the old saint hearkening to the bird

With bright hues, and you still may read and see.

Geoffrey Bache Smith