Walter De La Mare 5

This week, five poems from the spooky world of Walter De La Mare describing two locations and three creatures. The Librivox recording I’m using for these episodes is, sadly, missing three poems out of the collection. I’ll drop back in at the second and fourth poems. Eventually I’ll stat up the Queen of Night, the witch of the road and the spirit of regret from these poems, but the backlog is edging past the length of all common sense now.

Sunken Garden

Speak not—whisper not;
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;
Softly on the evening hour,
Secret herbs their spices shower.
Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,
Lean-stalked, purple lavender;
Hides within her bosom, too,
All her sorrows, bitter rue.

Breathe not—trespass not;
Of this green and darkling spot,
Latticed from the moon’s beams,
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;
Perchance upon its darkening air,
The unseen ghosts of children fare,
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;
While, unmoved, to watch and ward,
Amid its gloomed and daisied sward,
Stands with bowed and dewy head
That one little leaden Lad.

Beware!

An ominous bird sang from its branch,
    “Beware, O Wanderer!
Night ‘mid her flowers of glamourie spilled
    Draws swiftly near:

“Night with her darkened caravans,
    Piled deep with silver and myrrh,
Draws from the portals of the East,
    O Wanderer near.”

“Night who walks plumèd through the fields
    Of stars that strangely stir—
Smitten to fire by the sandals of him
    Who walks with her.”

Haunted

From out the wood I watched them shine,—
  The windows of the haunted house,
Now ruddy as enchanted wine,
  Now dark as flittermouse.

There went a thin voice piping airs
  Along the grey and crooked walks,—
A garden of thistledown and tares,
  Bright leaves, and giant stalks.

The twilight rain shone at its gates,
  Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;
And black in silence to her mates
  A voiceless raven flew.

Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,
  Green paths led lightly to its door,
Keen from her hair the spider leaned,
  And dusk to darkness wore.

Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,
  The West shut down a heavy eye,
And like last tapers, few and wan,
  The watch-stars kindled in the sky.

The Journey

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer;
    Footsore and sad was he;
And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside,
    Looked out of sorcery.

‘Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer,’
    She peeped from her casement small;
‘Here’s shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man,
    And apples for thirst withal.’

And he looked up out of his sad reverie,
    And saw all the woods in green,
With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling,
    The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice,
    And there, alluring-wise,
Slanting through the silence of the long past,
    Dwelt the still green Witch’s eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory
    Voices seemed to cry;
‘What is the darkness of one brief life-time
    To the deaths thou hast made us die?

‘Heed not the words of the Enchantress
    Who would us still betray!’
And sad with the echo of their reproaches,
    Doubting, he turned away.

‘I may not shelter ‘neath your roof, lady,
    Nor in this wood’s green shadow seek repose,
Nor will your apples quench the thirst
    A homesick wanderer knows.’

‘”Homesick,” forsooth!’ she softly mocked him:
    And the beauty in her face
Made in the sunshine pale and trembling
    A stillness in that place.

And he sighed, as if in fear, the young Wanderer,
    Looking to left and to right,
Where the endless narrow road swept onward,
    In the distance lost to sight.

And there fell upon his sense the briar,
    Haunting the air with its breath,
And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds’ throats,
    Their tent of leaves beneath.

And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding;
    Her arbour, and fruit-filled dish,
Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask –
    All that the weary wish.

And the last gold beam across the green world
    Faltered and failed, as he
Remembered his solitude and the dark night’s
    Inhospitality.

His shoulders were bowed with his knapsack;
    His staff trailed heavy in the dust;
His eyes were dazed, and hopeless of the white road
    Which tread all pilgrims must.

And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow
    In the darkening of the day;
And turned him aside into oblivion;
    And the voices died away….

And the Witch stepped down from her casement:
    In the hush of night he heard
The calling and wailing in dewy thicket
    Of bird to hidden bird.

And gloom stole all her burning crimson;
    Remote and faint in space
As stars in gathering shadow of the evening
    Seemed now her phantom face.

And one night’s rest shall be a myriad,
    Midst dreams that come and go;
Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him
    This same strange by-way through:

To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes,
    The lips of welcome, and the eyes
More beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper
    Lone in the lightening skies:

Till once again the Witch’s guile entreat him;
    But, worn with wisdom, he
Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night’s
    Inhospitality.

The Ghost

‘Who knocks? ‘ ‘I, who was beautiful
Beyond all dreams to restore,
I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,
And knock on the door.’

‘Who speaks? ‘ ‘I — once was my speech
Sweet as the bird’s on the air,
When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
‘Tis I speak thee fair.’

‘Dark is the hour!’ ‘Aye, and cold.’
‘Lone is my house.’ ‘Ah, but mine? ‘
‘Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.’
‘Long dead these to thine.’

Silence. Still faint on the porch
Brake the flames of the stars.
In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night
In chaos of vacancy shone;
Nought but vast sorrow was there —
The sweet cheat gone.

Supposed ghost of a lost love

Faerie Might: 10 (Mentem)
Characteristics: Int +1, Per +1, Pre +1, Com +3, Str 0, Sta +1, Dex 0, Qik 0
Size: 0 (but non-physical)
Age: n/a
Virtues and Flaws: Faerie Sight, Faerie Speech, Incognizant.
Personality Traits: Forlorn +3
Reputations: None
Combat: n/a The ghost is non-physical, and so cannot be harmed by combat or harm others
in combat.
Pretenses: [Area] Lore 5 (local), Awareness 5 (home], Charm 3 [causing regret], Folk Ken 4 (hauntings), Faerie Lore 2 (ghosts), Profession (as suits) 5 (as suits)
Powers:
Kinesis, 5 points, Init 0, Terram: The creature can move an object as if she were still physically present. One expenditure of Might allows it to move one object until she puts it down again. She has no combat Abilities, so she cannot fight wielding an object as a weapon. As an exception, the creature can freely move objects to gain the attention of a single, designated victim.
Equipment: Apparently clothing.
Vis: 2 Mentem – a hair of the dead.
Appearance: Seems to be a ghost, but is actually a faerie feeding on grief.
Base Creature: Ghostly Warder (RoP:M)