Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HOUSE BY THE SEA, by NEWMAN HOWARD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HOUSE BY THE SEA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The clock ticks on the old oak stair
Last Line: Alone. . . . He understands.
Subject(s): Fear; Kisses; Life; Love; Sea; Ocean


PART I

THE clock ticks on the old oak stair,
The wind is on the sea,
The house is lone, the moon rides bare:
To-night he comes to me!

To-night he comes; the mansion's Head
Is far away to-night.
"Young wives," my wizened bridegroom said,
"Make darkest houses bright."

But David in his letter cries,
"Reef coral lipped! False lure!
Rock of my shipwreck, lit with eyes
Love's cressets frank and pure:

"To-night, before I sail for lands
Where death is dropped like rain,
I come, dear Fate, to kiss the hands
That cut my life amain."

I am not false! Ah, bitter word!
Yet, love, how should you know?
They lied! they forged! I took my lord
As from your arm a blow!

They said, "With David duty sways
Throned over lives and loves; --
The goodness he delights to praise
Your meek submission proves."

"Goodness," I answered, "is not twined
Of maxims thonged and trite;
It is not mail to cramp and bind,
But wings to lend us flight."

My lover's letter, brave and cold,
Came after: forged it seems!
It bade me wed a purse of gold
To aid a father's schemes.

"How could I yield?" My love! My own!
I am a helpless girl:
Not false! Ah, no! Fate sucked me down:
You stood not nigh the swirl!

Too late you come! We can but brood
Till madness crowns our loss.
Gold! Gold! They'd melt down flesh and blood
To win an ounce of dross!

I rave, who wife-like should prepare
A winter for my guest:
Kill all love's flowers, long-sown and fair,
He scattered in my breast.

My heart is filled with sweet alarms:
A wild bird flutters there. . . .
Ah, should he fold you in his arms? . . .
Nay, foolish heart, beware!

Then were I lost indeed! Ah, no,
Beloved, this shall not be.
Yet if he sail? . . . The tempests blow,
The wind is on the sea!

The marquis till the month be passed
Will sojourn far away:
David, if this wild weather last,
Whate'er befall, you stay.

For, love, I dreamt of you asleep,
And this word came to me:
"The sheets are white, the sea is deep,
There's death in both for thee."

I quail at omens void of sense:
I fear, yet feel no grief;
My bosom heaves in wild suspense;
I waver like a leaf!

Thoughtless, I wear this girlish gown,
And roses in my breast;
And let these frolic tresses down, --
As he would have me drest;

Fool! robe in russet, matron-wise, --
Restrained, not April-free!
Fool! doff thy dainty zephyr guise, --
Thy sham virginity! . . .

Alack! for once 'tis not amiss . . .
Ah, God! the love we bore!
That we must close it with a kiss,
One kiss, and meet no more!

I will be brave, and freeze like stone,
And act the better part . . .
Come now, my love! The house is lone,
A cloud is on my heart:

Come, love! I feel a tremor creep!
The wind is on the sea!
"The sheets are white, the sea is deep,
There's death therein for thee!"

PART II

Great mirrored rooms are comfortless;
My haste forgot a cloak;
How ghostly white my midnight dress!
How black the panelled oak!

Here did my resolution fail,
And here upon his knees
I sank, and here my love did sail,
Not over raging seas,

Not to the death he counted bliss
With me no longer kind, --
But, chartered by my trembling kiss
And blown on passion's wind,

Into the haven of our love . . .
Ah me, how deep his voice!
Ashamed I lay, too dazed to move, --
Ashamed, yet I rejoice

That, winnowing leaves of perished woe
With sighs from passion's bower,
I watched love's crimson petals blow
And plucked with him the flower. --

What would you think to see me, Sweet,
Beneath your chamber glide
Spectral, with noiseless naked feet?
Ah, would you think I hide

The footprints of our love in shame?
Nay, 'tis your safety, dear;
For, ere dawn sets the sky aflame
We must be far from here.

Young men have courage, old men craft:
The young must fly the old;
None knows the shooter of the shaft
Poisoned and barbed with gold.

Here is the missing note! Who'll guess
I let my lover in?
The room is clear, -- my heart not less, --
Of any mark of sin.

Sin! Is it sin to break a cord
Close woven of lies accurst?
'Twere sin to spare a name abhorred
And let a great heart burst!

And now I mount the stairs to lie
Nestling beside my dear;
Him softly wake, and with him fly
Far from our woe and fear,

Far from a land where frauds are thick
As flowers in paths of love,
Far from their snares. . . . Ah, quick! Ah, quick!
I hear a step above:

You foolish boy! You should obey;
For now you wake alone . . .
Who strides o'erhead that sudden way? . . .
Who laughed? . . . Ah, God! his groan!

PART III

Fear not, old man: he feels no spite!
His eyelids will not move.
We are but effigies in white
Froz'n on a tomb of Love.

I wept an hour, but waked him not,
Nor has one angel heard;
And when you chuckled hell forgot
To take you at your word.

The doors of heaven and hell are fast:
None knows if heaven there be;
We are all shut out alike, and cast
Into the same black sea.

Yes, I will talk, and God may hear, --
You also, if you will.
Nay, keep your cloak, you need not fear;
This night-robe is not chill.

You plead your act was natural:
Doubtless to you it was. --
My tumbled sense will not recall
How all this came to pass.

Ah, yes, you conned his letter; hence
You lurked about the place:
The journey was a mere pretence;
You witnessed "your disgrace."

I must not "fight against my fate;"
You hold it was my crime.
The deed is done: you "look for hate,
And hope for love in time."

You'll hush the deed; you "know a way:"
'Twere best for both you said.
We are not in England, as you say,
And have not much to dread.

-- 'Tis well! I deal with God alone,
And vow to speak no word.
We three will stand before His throne,
And He will hold the sword.

Murderer, you blench: there is no need.
Be still, and go not now.
You rouse the house? It is your deed:
I do not break my vow.

Be still! and hark to my discourse:
Old man, I too am old!
My name is Love Enslaved, -- and yours,
My housemate, Greed of Gold.

White-robed I sit, a marble prize,
A lurid wraith of Pain,
Love's cenotaph which money buys:
Old man, admire your gain!

Why did I bend just now, and stop?
-- (Your voice is sharp and hoarse:
Is that door closed?) -- I did but drop
The point of my discourse.

My grievous fall confessed, you say,
You pardon me. But I?
Will I forgive? No, not your way!
Yet kneel! We can but try.

Confess: by fraud you won your bride.
The phrase fits not your mind?
The means you thought "were justified":
Ah, well: I wax more kind.

The hand her husband's blood made wet
Anne took, -- you know the tale:
You are my Gloucester. Stay, for yet
My pardon may not fail.

Draw near, my lord. Kneel so! Beseech!
We slaves bow down to force,
And worship boldness. Here I reach
The point of my discourse:

I may forgive -- I cannot say.
No, sir! I will not kiss!
I do forgive you -- dog! this way!
And this -- old man -- and this!

* * * * * * *

John, move that screen. Shut out the light:
The strong sun fades and warps.
Nay, do not linger now: all's right!
Drag out my husband's corpse.

Fear not the stain upon the bed;
'Tis of the Flower of Greed.
The petals, crushed, are sour and red.
Call none: there is no need.

My dear dead mother would complain
"You are too tender, sweet!"
That is the first thing I have slain;
I am not nineteen yet.

I vowed to wake my love, and fly
With him to other lands. . . .
The poison works. . . . John, let me die
Alone. . . . He understands.





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