Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS: 6, by JOHN MASEFIELD Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The rider lingered at the fence a moment Last Line: While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils. Alternate Author Name(s): Masefield, John Edward Subject(s): Homecoming; Love; Regret; Unfaithfulness; Infidelity; Adultery; Inconstancy | ||||||||
The rider lingered at the fence a moment, Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low, Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment, Down the vast grey-green pampas sloping slow. Michael's last news had come so long ago, He wondered who had written now; the hand Thrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand. He opened it with one eye on the hut, Lest she within were watching him, but she Was combing out her hair, the door was shut, The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see. Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which he Had had embroidered with his name for her; It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender. Something remained: a paper, crossed with blue, Where he should read; he stood there in the sun, Reading of Mary's wedding till he knew What he had cast away, what he had done. He was rejected, Lion was the one. Lion, the godly and the upright, he. The black lines in the paper showed how it could be. He pocketed the love gift and took horse, And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings. Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course, Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings. Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings; An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud; Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood. And with the bitterness, the outcast felt A passion for those old kind Shropshire places, The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt; High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases, The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces, By Wrekin and by Zine, and country town. The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down. He could remember Mary now; her crying Night after night alone through weary years, Had touched him now and set the cords replying; He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears, The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears, The arm stretched out for one not there, the slow Loss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go. "Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the ford He caught a fresh horse and rode on. The night Found him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board, Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight; Drawing his gun, he shot away the light, And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse, And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse. At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry, And all day long he steamed between great banks Which smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry. Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks, Mast upon mast arose; the river's flanks Were filled with English ships, and one he found Needing another stoker, being homeward bound. And all the time the trouble in his head Ran like a whirlwind moving him; he knew Since she was lost that he was better dead. He had no project outlined, what to do, Beyond go home; he joined the steamer's crew. She sailed that night: he dulled his maddened soul, Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal. Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind; Passion takes colour from the nature's core; His misery was as his nature, blind. Life was still turmoil when he went ashore. To see his old love married lay before; To see another have her, drink the gall, Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all. Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the place Whither, from over sea, his heart had turned Often at evening-ends in times of grace. But little outward change his eye discerned; A red rose at her bedroom window burned, Just as before. Even as of old the wasps Poised at the yellow plums: the gate creaked on its hasps, And the white fantails sidled on the roof Just as before; their pink feet, even as of old, Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof. Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould; The apples on the withered boughs were gold. Men and the times were changed: "And I," said he, "Will go and not return, since she is not for me. "I'll go, for it would be a scurvy thing To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares For that half-priest she married with the ring. Small joy for me in seeing how she wears, Or seeing what he takes and what she shares. That beauty and those ways: she had such ways, There in the daffodils in those old April days." So with an impulse of good will he turned, Leaving that place of daffodils; the road Was paven sharp with memories which burned; He trod them strongly under as he strode. At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed; Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled soft Fold from the fire's heart; down clanged the hammers oft. That was a bitter place to pass, for there Mary and he had often, often stayed To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare. It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed. There was a stile beside the forge; he laid His elbows on it, leaning, looking down The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown. Infinite, too, because it reached the sky, And distant spires arose and distant smoke; The whiteness on the blue went stilly by; Only the clinking forge the stillness broke. Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oak Where the White Woman walked; the black firs showed Around the Occleve homestead Mary's new abode. A long, long time he gazed at that fair place, So well remembered from of old; he sighed. "I will go down and look upon her face, See her again, whatever may betide. Hell is my future; I shall soon have died, But I will take to hell one memory more; She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before; "Before they turn the dogs upon me, even. I do not mean to speak; but only see. Even the devil gets a peep at heaven; One peep at her shall come to hell with me; One peep at her, no matter what may be." He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope. Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope. A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared. Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond; Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared. He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered. The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail Black like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail. The garden with its autumn flowers was there; Few that his wayward memory linked with her. Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare, But honey-hunting bees still made a stir. Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender, And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised; The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced. He could not see her there. Windows were wide, Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook. Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed; Among the trembling firs strange ways it took. But still no Mary's presence blessed his look; The house was still as if deserted, hushed. Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed. Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hint Of times long past, of reapers in the corn, Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint, When first the berry reddens on the thorn. Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn That vigil of the watching outcast grew; He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew. The windows of the kitchen opened wide. Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke; Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside. A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke. Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke; Pourri was being made; the listener heard Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred. While an old woman made remarks to one Who was not the beloved: Michael learned That Roger's wife at Upton had a son, And that the red geraniums should be turned; A hen was missing, and a rick was burned; Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke; The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke. Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door; A dairy-maid, whom he remembered well, Lined, now, with age, and greyer than before, Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell. He saw the dining-room; he could not tell If Mary were within: inly he knew That she was coming now, that she would be in blue, Blue with a silver locket at the throat, And that she would be there, within there, near, With the little blushes that he knew by rote, And the grey eyes so steadfast and so dear, The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear, Speaking to her belov'd within the room. The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom, Watching intently from below the boughs, While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay, Eyed the high clouds and went within the house. His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray. Dinner began within with much to say. Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke. Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke. Nor could her lover see her from the yew; She was not there at table; she was ill, Ill, or away perhaps he wished he knew. Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still. "If sick," he thought, "the maid or Lion will Take food to her." He watched; the dinner ended. The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended. "Not here," he thought; but wishing to be sure, He waited till the Occleves went to field, Then followed, round the house, another lure, Using the well-known privet as his shield. He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled. He knew of old which bedroom would be hers; He crouched upon the north front in among the firs. The house stared at him with its red-brick blank, Its vacant window-eyes; its open door, With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank, Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore. Nothing had changed; the house was as before, The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide: "I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside. None could have seen him coming; all was still; He listened in the doorway for a sign. Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line. "Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine," He muttered, listening. "Hush." A silence brooded. Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded. Still, to his right, the best room door was locked. Another door was at his left; he stayed. Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked, To one who slumbered breathing deep; it made An image of Time's going and man's trade. He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep, Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep. He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked. The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted grey, Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act. The nodding frames seemed ready to betray. The east room had been closed in Michael's day, Being the best; but now he guessed it hers; The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs. Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried, Somewhere below, "I'll get it." Lion's feet Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride. "He's coming up," thought Michael, "we shall meet." He snatched the nearest door for his retreat, Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close, But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose, Running two steps at once, while Michael stood, Not breathing, only knowing that the room Was someone's bedroom smelling of old wood, Hung with engravings of the day of doom. The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom? A gentle question, tapping at a door, And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor. The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked; Within an eastern room the footsteps passed. Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked, Chattels were thrust aside and overcast. What could the thing be that he sought. At last His voice said, "Here it is." The wormèd floor Creaked with returning footsteps down the corridor. The footsteps came as though the walker read, Or added rows of figures by the way; There was much hesitation in the tread; Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay; Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway, He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always one For order," Michael muttered. "Now be swift, my son." The action seemed to break the walker's mood; The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall, Out at the door and off towards the wood. "Gone," Michael muttered. "Now to hazard all." Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall. Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to try The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply. It was the eastmost of the rooms which look Over the fields of daffodils; the bound Scanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook, Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground. Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound, Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind; The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned. A woman walked along the hall below, Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died, Listening intently still, he heard them go, Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside. The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide; The curtains streamed out like a waterfall; The pictures of the foxhunt clacked along the wall. No one was there; no one; the room was hers. A book of praise lay open on the bed; The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders, Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled. Here she found peace of soul like daily bread, Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed; He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed. He took the love-gift handkerchief again; He laid it on her table, near the glass, So opened that the broidered name was plain; "Plain," he exclaimed, "she cannot let it pass. It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass. My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this, That she is still my darling: all she was she is. "So she will know at least that she was wrong, That underneath the blindness I was true. Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong; Out from beyond life I was sealed to you. But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew; And now, the evil done, I know my need; Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed. "And now, good-bye." He closed the door behind him, Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair, Meaning to go where she would never find him; He would go down through darkness to despair. Out at the door he stept; the autumn air Came fresh upon his face; none saw him go. "Good-bye, my love," he muttered; "it is better so." Soon he was on the high road, out of sight Of valley and farm; soon he could see no more The oast-house pointing finger take the light As tumbling pigeons glittered over; nor Could he behold the wind-vane gilded o'er, Swinging above the church; the road swung round. "Now, the last look," he cried: he saw that holy ground. "Good-bye," he cried; he could behold it all, Spread out as in a picture; but so clear That the gold apple stood out from the wall; Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer. Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near, As in a vision, lay that holy ground. "Mary is there," he moaned, "and I am outward bound. "I never saw this place so beautiful, Never like this. I never saw it glow. Spirit is on this place; it fills it full. So let the die be cast; I will not go. But I will see her face to face and know From her own lips what thoughts she has of me; And if disaster come: right; let disaster be." Back, by another way, he turned. The sun Fired the yew-tops in the Roman woods. Lights in the valley twinkled one by one, The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes. Dusk fingered into one earth's many moods, Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook; A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook. He had to cross the brook, to cross a field, Where daffodils were thick when years were young. Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed. Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung; Then while the passion trembled on his tongue, Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to see A figure standing mute; a woman it was she. She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there. She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemed Planned from all time by powers in the air To change their human fates; he even deemed That in another life this thing had gleamed, This meeting by the bridge. He said, "It's you." "Yes, I," she said, "who else? You must have known; you knew "That I should come here to the brook to see, After your message." "You were out," he said. "Gone, and I did not know where you could be. Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?" "Old Mrs. Cale is dying, and I stayed Longer than usual, while I read the Word. You could have hardly gone." She paused, her bosom stirred. "Mary, I sinned," he said. "Not that, dear, no," She said; "but, oh, you were unkind, unkind, Never to write a word and leave me so, But out of sight with you is out of mind." "Mary, I sinned," he said, "and I was blind. Oh, my beloved, are you Lion's wife?" "Belov'd sounds strange," she answered, "in my present life. "But it is sweet to hear it, all the same. It is a language little heard by me Alone, in that man's keeping, with my shame. I never thought such miseries could be. I was so happy in you, Michael. He Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you. Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you." "That is untrue," he said. "I am in hell. You are my heart's beloved, Mary, you. By God, I know your beauty now too well. We are each other's, flesh and soul, we two." "That was sweet knowledge once," she said; "we knew That truth of old. Now, in a strange man's bed, I read it in my soul, and find it written red." "Is he a brute?" he asked. "No," she replied. "I did not understand what it would mean. And now that you are back, would I had died; Died, and the misery of it not have been. Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean. I was a proud one once, and now I'm tame; Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame." She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heard Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul, Love running hot on many a murmured word, Love's passionate giving into new control. Their present misery did but blow the coal, Did but entangle deeper their two wills, While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A RITUAL AS OLD AS TIME ITSELF by PETER JOHNSON THE RING AND THE CASTLE by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: TOM MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IF THERE'S A GOD... by GREGORY ORR |
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