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by
(contents)
(poem)
AS still as a shadow falling,
As swift as a straying leaf,
And sweet as a windless morning,
At dawn when the days are brief,
Is a snare shall be set to enfold me,
Is a net shall be cast and shall hold me,
Shall gather my soul from grief.
And spun very fine the thread is,
As gossamer webs that seal
The dews in the folded blossom,
And trembling and faint I kneel,--
For my joy in the delicate weaving
That is made for my spirit's receiving
With threads that are strong as steel.
(preface)
D. R.
HAMPSTEAD, 1910.
AS lightly as a filmy veil
That folds the April larch,
My tenderest joy drops like a dream
Down from the buds of March,
My dim sweet joy that fills the wood
From delicate arch to arch.
My frailest joy that draws my heart
Out from its prison bar,
Whose step is swifter and more sweet
Than all Spring's blossoms are,
My trembling joy that holds my soul
Up like a ransomed star.
What shall I do to keep my joy,
That has become so dear,
Who dare not stir to hold it close,
My joy that is so near,
That wraps me with a filmy veil
So woven in with fear.
IF I should lose these petals you let fall
To my stretched hand,
If through the leaf-buds I should miss them all,
And empty stand,
The April flowers their petals would recall
Throughout the land.
If I should lose these shining clouds of white
Flying like doves,
To some embowered region shut from sight
Their spirit moves,
The glory would drop out of all the light
That April loves.
If I should miss to toss my reckless heart
Up to the sky,
Through every spray your careless fingers part
As you go by,
In every budding place where blossoms start,
April would die.
AH, do not let your spirit fail me now,
Now while the winds are sweet,
Now while the sun slips through the willow-bough
In patterns to my feet,
While shadows like mad rivers run,
Over the grass to fly the sun,
Ah, do not fail me now.
Now while the burnished poplars swing and play,
Like sails that would be free
To reach the untravelled azure far away,
And take the aerial sea,
Yet are too joyous in a birth
That binds them to the radiant earth,
Ah, fail me not to-day.
Ah, do not fail me while the unbroken dews
Hang like a captive shower,
In vagrant places that my wanderings choose
To cherish into flower;
Ah, do not let your spirit fail
My spirit, while the hours prevail
That only love can use.
MUST I walk lonely underneath the seas
Of April's blossom, watch the shining drift
Of clustered bloom through all the apple-trees,
With never an azure rift,
Look upward through the glistening cherry-bough,
For ever lonely now.
Must I go empty through sweet lanes of thorn,
And see their wands flowered in fleecy white,
Stretching through all the land now Spring is born,
To fill the fields with light,
Must I stand empty for sweet April's sake
To watch the leaf-buds break.
Now when the primrose beds are palest gold,
And cuckoo-flowers stand sentinel in the grass,
Must I see all the joys of April told,
And through them joyless pass,
In all the love that drops from April's sky,
Must I go loveless by.
I CALL you through the sapphire deep
That hides the folded shrouds of sleep,
Along the amethystine way
That stretches in the wake of day.
Through all the pearly lakes that soon
Flow through the skies below the moon,
Through all the heaven's wide sea of light
I call you from the caves of night.
Through all earth's bitter prayers that press
Up from its floods of loneliness,
To find some pity for their pain,
I call you to my heart again.
OH, do you doubt the ways,
The paths of breaking fire,
My chariot wheels shall take these April days
With swift desire,
The road whose delicate shadows are ablaze
With quivering flames that neither drop nor tire.
Oh, do you doubt they strayed
Down from the heavenly hill,
My captive steeds whose passionate feet are made
To be so still,
Whose breath stirs tenderly as wind-flowers laid
In tremulous dreams the April moonlights fill.
Fear not my steeds shall fail
To keep their high estate,
Their foreheads are new-crowned with stars that pale
The moons of fate;
Ah, do not doubt my chariot shall avail
To bring you surely to the Eternal Gate.
BETWEEN the mountains and the sea,
And the river flows,
With all its prisoned water free
From the frozen snows,
Through the city's heart by night and day,
By the palaces and quiet way
That it loves and knows.
Upon its breast a crimson stain,
In the noon-day sun,
That trembles to a flower of pain,
Till the day be done,
Till its burning petals break to fire
In the passion of a great desire
That may ne'er be won.
Oh flower of joy that I have found
For my soul's relief,
Thy dews are sweet to parching ground,
Oh my flower of grief,
That I gathered with my fainting breath,
Oh my flower of life, my flower of death,
Let the hour be brief.
I give thee to the river's breast,
Where my tears are shed,
The city's heart thy place of rest,
Where my heart has bled,
And thy fire to pass me as a tide,
In a flood of crimson purple dyed,
For the joy that's dead.
Ah me, not all the city's need
May thy passion hold,
The river has no chasm freed
For thy flames of gold,
And thy fire leaps upward to the sky,
In a burning flood that will not die
Till my heart be cold.
The city and the river's brink,
Where I fear to stand,
The cup of peace my soul would drink,
To my trembling hand,
And my flower that never dies, ah me--
Between the mountains and the sea--
In the cypress land.
THE door is shut and barred upon my home,
My home that for so long has held my pain,
My home where all my tears were wept in vain,
And through the night in silence I am come,
And my tired hope that all the day was dumb,
Has dropped to perish as a wounded bird;
And through the night there is not any word
To save my hope whose wings grow cold and numb:
The darkness presses close on either hand,
Oh, I am out upon a driving sea
And strain and break to ride as I were free,
I drift on swelling tides that seek no strand,
That never more may break upon the land,
The great unchannelled floods of misery.
The future holds one plot of barren earth
That my long grief shall water into flower,
And one unborn shall gather there for dower
A perfect blossom that shall have its birth,
So rare I may not guess its shape or worth:
And there shall be one day so full of joy,
Shall heal my shattered days with sweet employ,
Shall flood their wistful patience with its mirth;
Such must there be, oh God, Who made the waste
So bare beneath the Heaven, Who hast spread
The stones upon the path that I must tread,
Who set the thorns through which I may not haste,
The bitter fruits which I must faint to taste,
Such must there be, oh God, Who art o'erhead.
For those who in Love's Service have no part,
Whose altars stand in shadow and are bare,
Whose silence never breaks to praise or prayer,
For those whose hands are empty in Love's mart,
Who through Thy night and day-time feel the smart,
The pain of pilgrims outcast from Thy grace,
Who in Love's company have found no place,
But bear Thy doom, oh God, Who made the heart
To thirst to madness with its long desire,--
For those, drop down the deep sleep of Thy might--
For those, oh God, whose pale uncertain flight
From Thy refusals may not rest nor tire,
Who drift, as smoke is drifted from the fire,
Across a mighty hope that fills the night.
A storm is passing through the night, and soon
The heavy clouds are out upon their road,
From east and west they gather up their load,
And from the night they ask not any boon
But their old right to sweep across the moon,
To blot its light and hide the paling stars,
To drop their torrents down, and leave the scars
Of their fierce passion on the unborn noon:
And deep within the night's unbroken breath
The blinding courses of their fires are bent,
Their anguish of rebellion poured and spent;
And in Night's even pulse no failing saith
How close its ancient bond is held with Death,
The brooding Night that knows its great intent.
I AM a bird that beats upon the air,
With tired wings that may not fold in death,
With eyes that may no longer pierce despair,
With broken flight that strives and faints for breath,
I fall within your gate--
Ah take me in and hold me for a day
Beside your hearth that I may feel its flame,
And when the fire has dropped and burned away,
I will fly forth again from whence I came;
You shall no know my fate.
I am a wanderer through the starless night,
With secrets of the morning in my breast,
I bear a deathless vision of the light
That flows at dawn about my waiting nest;
Enclose me with your hands--
The shining dews are hidden in mine eyes,
The sweetness of the woods is in my mouth,
And from your door I may no more arise,
So swiftly have I flown to find the South,
From out the icy lands.
Oh hasten to your door, the night is long,
The coldness clings about me like a shroud,
Are all the prison bars of sleep so strong,
You come not forth to one who calls aloud;
Has Heaven no further care
For all the pain and passion of my doom,
The gathered anguish of a storm that flings
Its cry against the silence of your room;
I am a wanderer with tired wings,
That beat upon the air.
YOU turn your face away,
Whose light would shine
On the flower of my spirit that pales,
That is sick for the comfort that fails,
Whose petals pine
And wither day by day.
Your heart so cold in sleep,
I may not wake,
And I wander and slip from your sight
To the measureless caves of the night,
And for your sake
My flower of passion keep.
You give me to the night
That chains the stars,
To the dreams that are locked in the earth,
That must anguish and die at their birth,
Whose shadowy bars
Shall ever stay their flight.
You give me to the wind
That rocks the day,
And I drift in the wrack of his wings,
In the salt of the seas that he flings.
A castaway
Unloved and left behind
You give me to my grief
That has no place
In the cities of earth or of Heaven,
That must drift as a ghost that is driven,
Shut out from grace,
In its great unbelief.
Oh you whose heart is cold,
If I should show
All the waste of my life at your side,
All the flower of my soul that has died,
You would not know
The gift of gifts you hold.
Oh you whose sleep is dear,
And long to take,
Should you dream how they sicken and die,
Who are cast from the earth and the sky,
You would awake
And keep your gift for fear.
MY passion was an angel veiled in grey,
She stood and dreamed apart on shadowy ground,
So still she was she stirred not night or day
In those dim hills her timorous feet had found;
My passion was an angel veiled in grey
Until she fled you down the immortal way.
My passion was an angel clad in white,
Her glistening wings were spread to sweep the skies,
The eternal gates were opened at her flight,
Wet with the unshaken dews of paradise;
Till God, Who had no pity for her peace,
Closed all the heavenly roads of her release.
My passion was an angel wrapt in fire,
Outcast from heaven and pilgrim from her birth,
About her flamed the torches of desire
That left no streams of healing on the earth;
Till God said she should die for pity's sake--
My angel neither heaven nor earth would take.
My angel who is dead you shall not see,
Nor how your name is scarred upon her breast,
Scorched on her whiteness for eternity,
Your tenderest name that burnt her into rest;
My angel that you killed you shall not see,
Shrouded and still she lies 'twixt you and me.
I CAME to lay my sorrow in the wood,
It had so heavy grown,
And on my way the little speedwells stood,
And claimed it as their own.
I came to let my tears in anguish fall,
They were too great to bear,
And now the little speedwells hold them all,
I have no tears to spare.
There is no other sign, by flower or leaf,
To mark the road I came,
This tiny cup of blue bears all the grief
I had not strength to name.
THE land is full of blossom, in the plain
The flowering orchards lie,
As lightly as a mist that brings the rain
Across the morning sky,
As clouds that float at sunrise from the hills,
Until the valley with their glory fills,
Again, again,
The Spring that comes in vain.
Along the green recesses of the air,
The rapture of her birth,
Is flowing as a stream that seeks to bear
All sweetness of the earth,
Through woods that hold her myriad flowers and leaves,
Such joy she has, she hears not one who grieves,
She has no care
The Spring who may not spare.
I have no place among her bowers and trees,
So soon her choice was done,
How shall I bear sweet company with these,
If love may not be won:
Oh sun and shade that fill each leafy deep,
If all the faith and promise that you keep
Send down some ease,
Some healing in your breeze.
I falter in your world so fair and new,
Beneath your laden boughs,
Oh joyous Spring, whose careless heart is true
To nought but happy vows,
Oh, Spring, who have no memory for tears,
For all the waste of joy through all the years,
So few, so few,
Your gifts that are my due.
Beyond your woods and streams my cry awakes,
Beyond your seas and strands,
Its pain shall pierce some lover's heart that breaks
For love in future lands,
And all my passion in his eyes shall shine,
And if the song he sings be his or mine,
He shall not make
One more for his dove's sake.
Across denying Heaven my song shall go,
Full burdened with my need,
And in some lover's veins my love shall flow,
My love that shall be freed;
My longing shall so melt into his sigh,
And in his prayer my own so deep shall lie,
No word shall show
If it be his or no.
Across the years my thought in his shall rest,
And he shall guard it well,
As mine to his in joy were newly prest
My heart in his shall dwell,
In dreams that hang upon the edge of night,
That float between the darkness and the light;
Oh tireless quest,
Oh search, so strangely blest.
So near, so near, the one belovèd face
That I may never see,
So wise, so sure, across the vasty space,
The eyes that pity me;
Oh friend, oh lover, whom I may not find,
Oh Spring, whose great refusals hold and bind,
I claim my place
Oh Spring, in all your grace.
HOW can I measure your sorrow,
How do I know
The weight of to-day and to-morrow,
Of days long ago,
The grief, and the burden to follow,
That speech may not show?
Deep in my heart is the measure,
Laid by the years,
To fathom, beneath all your pleasure,
The flood of your tears,
To mark all the desolate leisure
Your lonely heart fears.
SO long ago, and day by day,
I came to learn from you, to pray,
You did not hear, you did not know
The thing I craved, so long ago.
The days were always days of spring,
Hope laid her hand on every thing,
And in your spacious room, on me,
She rested it most lovingly.
Of all the season's sun and showers,
I gathered up the fairest flowers,
And brought my garlands, fresh and sweet,
To place in gladness at your feet.
And prayed to stand in strength, as you,
Through the long years untried and new,
With dauntless mien and steadfast gaze,
To bear the burden of the days.
Now many tired years are told,
My prayer long since is dead and cold,
You were too wise to grant it me,
Although I prayed so patiently.
But at your feet my flowers lie,
The happy flowers which cannot die,
I see them through my tears, and know
They are as sweet as long ago.
AH, Love, through what unfathomed deeps
Thy feet have sped,
Up what bare hills and barren steeps
Thy hands have led,
What bitter nights and burning days
Have marked thy ways.
And I have followed all the while,
So close to thee,
Hoping thou wouldest turn and smile,
To gladden me,
To tell me we should safely come
To thy fair home.
But thou dost ever onward press,
With hidden face,
Ah surely none may wear thy dress,
None take thy place;
Ah tell me it is thou indeed
With whom I speed.
Dear Love, dear Love, thy tightening hand
Is stern and cold,
I see the gates of thy great land
Grown clear and bold,
And Death, alone, comes forth in peace
To my release.
WHAT shall I do when you pass by
And gaze at me so quietly,
What shall I give of all my store,
To help you to your joy once more!
Some jewelled gift, some treasured thing,
I had not meant for offering;
Shall I not bid you take the whole
Of what I prize, to heal your soul!
For I have seen the lonely track,
The cruel chasm, bitter black,
The stony roads no pastures meet,
Which you have pressed with bleeding feet.
And heard afar the dire refrain,
That beat upon your heart and brain,
The thunders through your darkness hurled,
Big with the griefs of all the world.
For I have known the tears and strife
Which wasted all your pride of life,
The precious hoard God meant should last,
Till your perfècted years were past.
And pictured the relentless days,
Through which the sunlight never strays,
Stretching before you like a sea,
Ever more dark and drearily.
What shall I give, what shall I say,
To help you on your lonely way,
A kindly hand, a smile or so,
A gentler glance--for all I know?
Maybe a tender word or two,
At most a prayer, or tear for you,
And strength to tell you help is vain,
Dead joys do never rise again.
LAST night I lay and dreamed of you,
Through all the wind and rain,
So close a part I seemed of you,
I could not wake again;
Sunk in your spirit, deep, so deep,
In the blue caverns of my sleep.
Your face seemed full of love for me,
You knew my heart's desire,
Vague and unquiet as the sea,
For which I toil and tire
With prayer and pilgrimage and tears,
Through all the rolling of the years.
You welcomed me with gentle hands,
As one expected long,
The earth was made of heavenly lands,
And life an angel-song,
Fervent and full from rise to fall,
With God's great music through it all.
How came it to be you I sought,
In the wide realm of sleep?
Remote from all my waking thought,
As the two ways we keep
Are distant, with dark growths between,
Making each day a surer screen.
And now you draw me with a spell
I have no power to break,
My lonely heart alone knows well
How it must ache and ache:
I pray you do not pass to-day,
Till I have dreamed my dream away!
WHEN summer sweetness fills the land,
And summer sunlight floods the sea,
When ships sail by on either hand,
A richly laden argosy;
Oh may my boat, well freighted, ride,
With priceless treasures on the tide.
When cruel winds beat on the sea,
And angry clouds blot out the land,
When on the waters close to me
The shattered ships drift by unmanned,
Oh may my heart be strong to bear
Its portion, in the great despair.
MY feet had faltered in the way,
Before I was aware,
In the bleak road it was most mete
I should before the night complete,
The stony road that tore my feet--
Which were so bare.
My eyes were watchful as I went,
And steadfast night and day,
Through all the valley mists that rise
From spring to spring--I was so wise--
There were not any tearless eyes
More clear than they.
So sure upon the road I was,
My heart was cold as stone,
I would not let its passion wake,
I strove and killed it for the sake
Of that high way I thought to take,
Till Heaven were won.
So cold my heart and icy deep,
The dreams upon it cast,
My pain was like a frozen shroud
Round a dead Queen whose face is proud,
The while I said that God allowed
Such pain to last.
But came a day of all the days
That were so surely bleak,
My shroud was changed to leaping flame,
From sun and moon and stars there came
A fire to fill my heart--whose name
I dare not speak.
I did not stop for joy or fear,
I did not stay my feet,
I said "My heart is strong as fire,
My heart shall burn with its desire,
Its rapture shall not break nor tire
This is most mete."
Before I was aware, oh God,
Before my strength could choose,
I left the road so long decreed,
I faltered--and my steps were freed,
To find these flowers--for all my need--
These morning dews.
This summer bed of fragrant thyme,
For me so newly made,
These shining meadows through whose sun
Like little streams the shadows run,
Where now--before the day is done--
I am afraid.
My tears are wet upon my cheek
I have not any care,
Deep in the dews I bow my face--
To ask Thy pity in this place,
Where I have faltered by Thy grace,
So unaware.
AH, bring it not so grudgingly,
The gift thou bringest me,
Thy kind hands shining from afar
Let me in welcome see,
And know the treasure that they hold
For purest gold.
And with glad feet that linger not,
Come through the summer land,
Through the sweet fragrance of the flowers,
Swiftly to where I stand,
And in the sunshine let me wear
Thy token rare.
Fairer for me will be the day,
Fair all the days will be,
And thy rich gift upon my breast
Shall make me fair to see;
And beautiful, through all the years,
In joys and tears.
Ah come, and coming do not ask
The answering gift of mine,
Thou hast the pride of offering,
Taste now the joy divine,
And come, content to pass to-day
Empty away.
FROM falling leaf to falling leaf,
How strange it was, through all the year,
In all its joy and all its grief,
You did not know I loved you dear;
Through all the winter-time and spring,
You smiled and watched me come and go,
Through all the summer blossoming,
How strange it was you did not know!
Your face shone from my earth and sky,
Your voice was in my heart always,
Days were as dreams when you were by,
And nights of dreaming linked the days;
In my great joy I craved so much,
My life lay trembling at your hand,
I prayed you for one magic touch,
How strange you did not understand!
From leaf to leaf, the trees are bare,
The autumn wind is cold and stern,
And outlined in the clear sharp air
Lies a new world for me to learn;
Stranger than all, dear friend, to-day,
You take my hand and do not know
A thousand years have passed away,
Since last year--when I loved you so.
AH, was it all a fantasy,
You in your distant stall,
The silver stream of melody
Which floated through the hall,
And I, in my obscurer place,
Gazing upon your flower face?
Around you how the music clung
And trembled, till a sea
Of passion was unbound and swung
Between your face and me;
And you were hidden from my sight,
Plunged into waves of blackest night.
And when the strife and tumult ceased,
The music wandered far,
From all its human load released,
To moon and evening star,
Where a few notes most clear and true
Pierced the deep Heaven's deepest blue.
Ah, was it all a fantasy!
The outer world we reach,
As cold and distant as may be,
A stranger, each to each;
But in my heart a sound so sweet,
All Paradise is in the street.
IN yonder bay the waves find rest,
They die along the great shore's breast,
With one low sound
Of longing for the fuller breeze
Which rode across the trackless seas,
And swept them round.
Ah, love, if I might find their rest,
Might end my wanderings on thy breast,
I should not sigh
For fuller life, so I might stay
My heart's throb on thy heart some day,
Before I die.
AND art thou come again, Oh Night,
I know thee by thy starry crown,
And by the mists of violet light
Which gather where thy robes fall down.
I know thee by the purple clouds
Thy strong wings spread around the moon,
And by the stillness which enshrouds
Thy presence, thou art come too soon,
Too soon, for lo thy fair love Sleep
Turns not her sweet face to the skies,
She lingers where the shadows creep,
And stays to kiss our children's eyes.
But when her gentle hands have blest
Our homesteads, she will come to thee,
And through the holy hours of rest
Thine arms will hold her safe, and she
Will hear the promises again
Thou bringest from the distant spheres,
And learn the reason of our pain,
The meaning of our bitter tears.
Thine eyes are steadfast and I dare
Their mighty mystery to read,
But mine are dimmed by thought and care,
And fail me in my greatest need.
I watch for thee, wilt thou not bring
A message to my fainting heart?
Through summer-time and snow and spring
I watch for thee, must thou depart
Thus silently--when will it come,
That perfect day which we await?
For us thy lips are ever dumb,
And voiceless is thy calm estate.
Ah! tell thy fair love Sleep, that she
May touch me when she passes by,
And whisper what she hears from thee
In some sweet lullaby.
I HAVE been wandering to-day
Out on the moor, and have seen
The country stretching far away,
In stony slopes and wastes of green.
I watched the distant hill-tops lie
Out in the sun-set fair and free,
Like purple clouds across the sky,
--And further still the line of sea.
I heard the lark above me sing,
I saw the plover flying near,
And many a little hidden spring,
And twinkling water brown and clear.
And brightest sun and darkest shower,
And day and night-time come to rest,
With toiling wind and tenderest flower,
Upon the moor's untiring breast.
We falter in our smiles and tears,
We faint with joys and sorrows won,
The moors stretch out through all the years,
In perfect peace--till Time be done.
And peace is love, dear love I know
There is no greater thing than this,
It is the utmost love can show,
It is the utmost love can miss.
The love within my soul for thee,
Before the world was had its birth,
It is the part God gives to me
Of the great wisdom of the earth.
IN the light of a summer sky,
In the warmth of a noon-day sun,
With the roses in fullest bloom,
With the gold of the hours to run;
With the earth breathing deep for joy
Of the riches that deck her breast,
With her promises new and sweet,
They pass unknown to their rest.
In the busy and eager town,
In the desolate crowded street,
In a passionate great despair
For the faces they do not meet;
With the world passing heedless by
In its pleasure and pride and strife,
While its magical pulses beat
They silently slip from life.
For the need of a kindly voice
To bid theirs arise clear and strong,
To tell them the world has need,
Ever need of a poet's song;
For the sound of a healing word
In their hurts on the stony way,
For the want of their daily bread
They pass, as the chosen may.
With tears in their tired hearts,
Bitter tears which they dare not weep
In the sorrow that gave them birth,
In the watches they had to keep;
In a love which they spent for nought,
In a longing they might not quell,
In a life that they failed to live,--
And passing, for them, is well.
In the flood of a triumph song,
From the burden of words set free,
In the beautiful last release
Of a striving life melody;--
For the sake of a radiant height
They climbed ere the years were spent,
--For the joy of a moment there,
They die, and are well content.
AH, do not wake, if sleeping be so dear,
My torch of sorrow on your dream shall shine
As moonlight, when the darkening cloud is near,
More surely for a moment that is mine:
In your still dream my paling beauty shows
As dimly as a dying love that knows
The love it longs for colder than the snows,
And barren as the waste where it must pine.
But let my wandering passion find a fold
Within the spacious meadows of your sleep,
Let its sharp cry that dies not nor grows old,
Break through the walls of silence that you keep:
The loneliness of noon and summer-end,
Of prayers that tired lips no more may spend,
Oh let it stretch about you while I send
My cry into your dream that is so deep.
IF you should meet with one who strays
Beyond the walls of peace,
Who spends the passion of his days
In dreams that never cease,
Oh yell him that the outcast ways
Find no release.
If you should look into his eyes,
And see the shadow there
Of his dear City's towers and skies,
Where once his heart lay bare,
Oh tell him those who are most wise
Their vision spare.
If you should see him turn and wait,
Fast bound by his desire,
Beyond the walls disconsolate,
In dreams that never tire,
Oh tell him that the city gate
Is barred by fire.
No other torches shall divide
The roads for his release,
Oh tell him they stretch dark and wide,
Long roads that never cease,
If you should meet with one outside
The walls of peace.
LIGHT as petals in their falling,
Through a twilight summer hour,
Is your coming, and your passing
As the perfume of a flower;
And your voices by the wayside,
As a sigh the trees embower.
From the forest and the meadow,
From the mountain and the sea,
From the stars beyond the star-world,
From the visions yet to be,
As a dying song you linger
On the air, and call to me.
Stay, ah stay, and cross my threshold,
See the door is open wide,
And I listen for your coming
Through all things that do betide,
Through the weeping and the laughter,
That you may with me abide.
I will give you dainty raiment,
Jewelled o'er with fancies rare,
Through the shadow and the sunshine,
I will weave it for your wear;
Till all people see you clearly
In the town's great thoroughfare.
Ah! you call me, but to mock me,
Fairy folk who will not stay;
As I hasten to your summons
Like a mist you fade away;
Like a dream I dream, awaking,
On the border of the day.
WITH quiet step and gentle face,
With tattered cloak, and empty hands,
She came into the market place,
A traveller from many lands.
And by the costly merchandise,
Where people thronged in eager quest,
She paused awhile, with patient eyes,
And asked a little space for rest.
And where the fairest blossoms lay,
And where the rarest fruits were sent,
From earth's abundant store that day,
She turned and smiled, in her content.
And where the meagre stall was bare,
Where no exultant voice was heard,
Beside the barren basket, there
She stayed to say her sweetest word.
Around her all the people came,
Drawn by the magic of her speech,
To learn the music of her name,
And whose the country she would reach.
She looked upon them as she stood,
Until her eyes were full of tears,
She said, "My way is fair and good,
And good my service to the years."
When for her beauty men besought
To ease the sadness of her heart,
She murmured, "You can give me nought
But space to rest, ere I depart."
When for her tender healing ways
The women begged her love again,
She answered, "In these bounteous days
I may not let my love remain."
And when the children touched her hair,
And put their hands about her face,
She sighed, "There is so much to share,
I well might bide a little space."
But ere the shadows longer grew,
Or up the sky the evening stole,
She took the lonely way she knew,
And journeyed onward to her goal.
She turned away with steadfast air,
From all their choice of fair and sweet,
And, as she turned they saw how bare
And bruisèd where her pilgrim feet.
Through many a rent and tattered fold,
As she went forward on her quest,
They saw the big wounds, deep and old,
The cruel scars upon her breast.
They called to her to wait and learn
How they would cure her pain--to dwell
With them a while, she did but turn
And wave her smiling last farewell.
Then in their midst a woman rose
And said, "I do not know her name,
Nor whose the land to which she goes,
But well the roads by which she came.
"Among the lonely hills they lie,
Beyond the town's protecting wall,
Where travellers may faint and die,
And no one hearken when they call.
"Far up the barren heights they go,
Worn ever deeper night and day,
By toiling feet and tears that flow
For some sweet flower to mark the way.
"And down the stony slopes they lead,
Through many a deep and dark ravine,
Where long ago it was decreed
Nor sun, nor moonlight should be seen.
"Across the waste where no help is,
And through the winds and blinding showers,
Among the mist-bound silences
And through the cold despairing hours.
"Among the lonely, lonely hills,
Ah, me, I do not know her name,
Nor whose the bidding she fulfils,
But well the roads by which she came."
Then spake a youth who long apart
Had watched the people come and go,
With clearer eyes and wiser heart,
And cried, "Her face and name I know,
"And well the passage of her flight,
The starless plains she must ascend,
And well the darkness of the night
In which her pilgrimage shall end.
"But stronger than the years that roll,
Than travail past, or yet to be,
She presses to her hidden goal,
A crownless unknown 'Victory.'"
MY love shall be a cloud, to float
Across the purple deeps of night,
To bear you in a pearly boat,
With sails of light.
My love shall be a little breeze
That passes through the tallest fir,
To blow you o'er the leafy seas,
Like gossamer.
My love shall be a petal small
That trembles from a jasmine bower,
To bring a perfume in its fall,
From one sweet flower.
MY bird who may not lift his wing,
Nor stir in his cold nest,
Who never more may dare to sing,
Who sits with frozen breast,
My bird who in the wood alone
Is turned to stone.
How shall he find the seas of light
That flood the leafy ways,
Or watch the shadow's trembling flight
That neither goes nor stays,
How seek his dreaming mate who keeps
The pearly deeps.
How shall he learn the liquid notes
That break the passionate air,
Or hear the melody that floats
From love sung unaware,
My bird who may not raise his head--
Who now is dead.
OH, moons of longing that roll
Through the warm summer sky,
Your fires are burning my soul
That have left you so cold,
Oh nights that prison me fast,
In whose beauty I die,
Your spells about me are cast,
I am lost in your hold.
My heart is pressed to the springs,
And the passion of life,
My heart is bared to the stings
And the anguish of death,
My pang of knowledge is deep
As the seas in their strife,
And big the tears that I weep
With the salt of their breath.
IF I were in the valley-land,
And you far up the mountain blue,
Would you just turn and wave your hand,
And bid me strive to follow you?
If I were in the tossing sea,
And you upon the quiet shore,
Would you send out your help to me,
And bid me to my life once more?
If I were cast from Heaven's gate,
And you within so glad and fair,
I know you would come forth and wait
Beside me, love, in my despair.
WHY am I singing all alone,
Outside your window here?
Because the roses are all blown,
And all the sky is clear.
Because the glen I passed was fair,
And fresh with morning dew,
Because the gold shines in your hair,
Because your eyes are blue.
Because for many a sunny mile
The hills stretch out, and furled
Is every cloud: because God's smile
Is shining through the world.
AH love, the sweet spring blossoms cling
To many a broken wind-tossed bough,
And young birds among branches sing,
That mutely hung till now.
The little new-born things which lie
In dewy meadows, sleep and dream
Beside the brook that twinkles by
To some great lonely stream.
And children, now the day is told,
From many a warm and cosy nest,
Look up to see the young moon hold
The old moon to her breast.
Dear love, my pulses throb and start
To-night with longings sweet and new,
And young hopes beat within a heart
Grown old in loving you.
WHEN the sun shone on the sand there,
And the roses bloomed above,
When the blue waves kissed the land there
How I longed to see my love.
But he will not hear my calling,
And the moonbeams come and go,
And my tears are falling, falling,
Because I want him so.
SHE comes through the meadow yonder,
Her face is turned to the west,
And I divine how her clear eyes shine
With the light of a lasting rest;
And the rays of the sun-set wander
To bless her, and she is blest--
By touch of their golden splendour,
By beauty of earth and sky,
Her spirit waits at the western gates,
No music can pass her by
That Heaven or Earth may send her,
I watch where I stand, and sigh.
AMID a crown of radiant hills,
A little wood with blossoms rare
Breathes sweetly, while the young lark trills
His new learnt melody and fills
The fragrant air.
Among its boughs the fresh winds play,
And, where the spreading branches part,
The sun-light drops from spray to spray,
To seek the ferny streams which stray
Within its heart.
And there the wild bee fills his cells,
And murmurs through the golden hours,
And charmèd fancies and sweet spells,
Are woven in the tall blue-bells
And cuckoo-flowers.
There many a mossy bank entwined
With shining leaves awaits our choice,
Come swiftly, love, my soul unbind
With thy dear looks, that it may find
Its prisoned voice.
THE little songs that come and go,
In tender measures, to and fro,
Whene'er the day brings you to me,
Keep my heart full of melody.
But on my lute I strive in vain
To play the music o'er again,
And you, dear love, will never know
The little songs that come and go.
BECAUSE your treasure is near
To the touch of your hand,
And fresh and flowing and clear
Your deep well of delight,
The place is bared to the sky
Where my treasure should stand,
The rain of fountains is dry,
That was sweet to my sight.
Because your day is ablaze
With the flowers that are blown,
And glad for length of the ways
That are never to part,
I watch and tremble for grief
In the shadow alone,
And branch and blossom and leaf
Bring the pain to my heart.
Because the word is so kind
That is breathed in your ear,
And sweet the thoughts you unbind,
In your rapture of peace,
My words are laggard and late,
With the thoughts that are dear,
My thoughts that falter and wait
For their joy of release.
I PLUCKED my love from out my heart,
My love that burned like fire,
My faithful love that would not stray,
My love that scarred the night and day
My love that burned my soul away,
With its desire.
I flung it to the distant stars,
When sun and day were fled,
And from the night there fell such peace,
For comfort of that sweet release
I prayed it might not ever cease--
Till love were dead.
And with the morning's dawn, my love
Rose in a flame of light,
From every hidden star it leapt,
And through my empty heart it swept,
For joy of love's return, I wept
And veiled my sight.
OUTSIDE the hedge of roses
That walls my garden round,
And many a flower encloses,
Lies fresh unfurrowed ground.
I have not delved nor planted
In that strange land, nor come
To sow, in soil enchanted,
Fresh promises of bloom.
My labours all have ended
Within my fragrant wall,
The blossoms I have tended
Have grown so sweet and tall.
But now in silver showers
Your laughter falls on me,
And fairer than all flowers
Your flower-face I see.
And, bound no more by roses,
I break my barrier through,
And leave all it encloses,
Dear one, to follow you.
ACROSS the sea beyond the sand,
At sunrise I shall sail away,
To dwell in that enchanted land
Where Love does stay.
And up each lonely mountain peak,
Where'er the narrow path may lead,
Beneath its burning skies I'll seek
The One I need.
Across its plains by moon and star,
And darkest night my road shall be,
Until I clasp the hands which are
Held forth to me.
And if the storms be fierce and strong
To tire me ere the search be done
My peace will be more sweet and long
If peace be won.
FOR love of you my lute was strung,
When singing days were fair and young,
When life and hope and song were new,
And all were sweet for love of you.
For love of you from June to June
My heart beat to a triumph tune,
And music rose by sea and land,
In answer to a victor's hand.
For love of you from sun to sun,
I strove to sing when songs were done,
And on each failing string my tears
Burnt silence, through the empty years.
But broken now 'neath evening skies,
My lute for ever tuneless lies,
And I but mourn the songs I knew,
Which were so sweet for love of you.
I COULD not through the burning day
In hope prevail,
Beside my task I could not stay,
If love should fail.
Nor underneath the evening sky,
When labours cease,
Fold both my tired hands and lie
At last in peace.
Ah, what to me in death or life
Could then avail!
I dare not ask for rest or strife
If love should fail.
OUTSIDE your heart the lonely way
Is dark and cold,
There is no light nor guiding ray,
From any fold.
Through all the black encircling air
And blinding rain,
I stretch my hands, in my despair,
For help in vain.
The wind blows downward from the hills
In fierce unrest,
And bears me wheresoe'er it wills,
Upon its breast.
Oh let your heart be opened wide,
For pity's sake,
And bid me come again inside,
Where mine may break.
BECAUSE I built my nest so high,
Must I despair
If a fierce wind, with bitter cry,
Passes the lower branches by,
And mine makes bare?
Because I hung it, in my pride,
So near the skies,
Higher than other nests abide,
Must I lament if far and wide
It scattered lies?
I shall but build, and build my best,
Till, safety won,
I hang aloft my new-made nest,
High as of old, and see it rest
As near the sun.
MY lover's lute has golden strings,
Bright as the sunlight in the air,
My lover touches them and sings
His happy music everywhere.
My lover's eyes see very far,
Through the great toiling in the street,
To where the sea and mountains are,
And all the land lies still and sweet.
My lover's lips are very kind,
He smiles on all who pass him by,
And all who pass him, leave behind
A greeting, with a smile or sigh.
My lover's heart, ah none may say
How tenderly it beats for me,
And, if I took my love away,
How silent all its song would be.
IF all the world were right,
How fair our love could grow,
At what a radiant height
Its shining flower would blow.
Through what untroubled air
Its fragrant boughs would spread,
On fruit how sweet and rare
Might we be freely fed.
But ah, what should we tend,
In sorrow and delight,
Our hearts how could we spend,
If all the world were right!
IF my poor words were colours,
A magic brush my pen,
Ah me, what radiant pages
My songs would make you then.
The fairest tints of morning
Should picture hopes for you,
My joy in your sweet living,
The sky's divinest blue.
In purple and in crimson
My thoughts of you should twine,
And through them all my love, dear,
In purest gold would shine.
IF you will sing the songs I play,
Then you shall be my dear,
And I will cherish you alway,
And love you far and near;
If you will, in sweet singing, say
The songs I play.
And if to all the deeper strain
A surer rhyme you learn,
Ah me, to what a rich refrain
My striving chords shall turn;
If you will learn the deeper strain,
The great refrain.
THROUGH all the happy summer-time
Your fancy follows me,
As lightly as the thistle-down
Comes floating out to sea.
Frailer than any flower that grows
Beside the changing tide,
It braves the waters carelessly,
Where I, in danger, ride.
Oh bid them both fly home again,
Such fair and fragile things,
Lest I may strive to capture them,
To cheer my wanderings.
I DO not love you very much,
Only your tuneful voice,
Which, in a happy moment, takes
The music of my choice.
I do not love you, dear, at all,
Only your merry ways,
Which linger in my mind, and set
Me dreaming through the days.
In truth, I think it is dislike
You kindle in my heart,
Because you come so joyously
To steal so large a part.
ROSE that wert red,
Drop thy flower on my head,
Rose that wert red.
Leaves that were sweet,
Spill thy dews on my feet,
Leaves that were sweet.
Bird whose tired song
Broke and died the day long,
Sing thy old wrong.
Heart whose clear flame
Failed before the night came,
Hide thy sharp shame.
Rose that wert red,
Drop thy flower on my head,
Now that I am dead.
FAR so far my sweetheart is,
Long it takes to find him
Lonely miles of land and sea
Left so far behind him.
Far so far my sweet heart strays,
And my hope is dying,
Far so far, the little birds
Cannot there be flying.
If a letter that were his
Some swift bird would bear me
I should be so surely healed,
Sorrow then would spare me.
Fly to me, oh little bird,
Speak that I may hear you,
Were you in my sweetheart's land
And my sweetheart near you?
Fly to me, oh little bird,
Speak that I may hear you.
ALL the night and all the day,
In the desert I do stray,
Through the wind and through the snow,
In the darkness I must go.
When the winter days are done,
Fainting in the summer sun,
On the treeless plains I stray,
Through the night and through the day.
From your heart which is my home,
Sad and outcast I do roam,
Lost beneath an alien sky,
While the suns and moons go by.
Deep the pain that does not end,
Sharp the cry that I do send,
From the desert where I roam,
Sad and outcast from my home.
SHALL I make a song for you,
Children dear,
Not too hard or long for you,
Just as clear
As your lives which opened so,
A while ago ?
How shall I find any word
Old or new,
That the wise earth has not heard
Ages through,
Ever since her ways grew sweet
With little feet?
How you bless my day and hour,
She can say,
As the sweet and spotless flower
Of her May
Lies in fullest bloom at rest,
Upon her breast.
All the happy service done,
Well she knows,
All the longing, and the one
Prayer that goes
Trembling through the unknown years,
For you my dears.
How I love you, she repeats,
How rejoice,
All my singing she completes,
For my voice,
Of the song in her great heart,
Is but a part.
SLEEP, my little dearest one,
I will guard thy sleep,
Safely little nearest one,
I will hold thee deep,
In the dark unfathomed sea
Where sweet dreams are made for thee.
Rest my little baby dear,
I will watch thy rest,
Thou shalt feel the waters near
Only on my breast;
In the strong and tender tide,
Still my love shall be thy guide.
MY little dear, so fast asleep,
Whose arms about me cling,
What kisses shall she have to keep,
While she is slumbering?
Upon her golden baby-hair,
The golden dreams I'll kiss
Which Life spread through my morning fair,
And I have saved, for this.
Upon her baby eyes I'll press
The kiss Love gave to me,
When his great joy and loveliness
Made all things fair to see.
And on her lips with smiles astir,
Ah me, what prayer of old
May now be kissed to comfort her,
Should Love or Life grow cold.
EACH morning, as the day begins,
Her hair is sunlight to my eyes,
Each morning, as a new day wins
The changeful skies.
In silken mist the tresses wind
And float about her, while my hands
With loving care each day unbind
The yellow strands.
And then a dancing cloud of gold
Plays all around my darling's face,
Each morning while the days still hold
My hour of grace.
And lightly, from my finger-tips,
The sadness I no more can stay,
Into the golden glory slips,
And dies away.
OUT on the moor the sun is bright,
And the gorse is yellow,
The sky is blue and the air is light,
And a little fellow
May walk for miles in the grassy way,
On a holiday.
Out on the moor the wild bee dips
In the sweet fresh heather,
And through the bracken the young hare slips,
In the autumn weather,
And all around shine the tiny wings
Of a thousand things.
WHEN you are lonely, full of care,
Or sad with some new sorrow,
And when your tired fancy hides
The brightness of the morrow,
Ah, turn your footsteps to the woods
And meadows, where the rills,
Are quietly flowing, when the moon
And stars shine on the hills.
Upon your brow the great wise trees
Will breathe, and something sweet
Will reach you from the fragrant grass
You press beneath your feet,
And a fair spirit of the fields,
Peaceful and happy-eyed,
Will find a way into your heart,
I think, and there abide.
ARE your grave eyes graver growing?
Sweetheart, may I look
At the treasured thoughts which move you
In the poet's book?
Stay not in the lazy shade
With the drowsy roses;
Come into the woods and see
Where I find my posies.
Has the buried singer left us
Songs to make you weep?
Are you saddened by the sorrow
That his numbers keep?
Or were all the songs he gave us
Born in happy hours?
Come with me, he found his music
Where I find my flowers.
THE skies are blue
O'er the meadow now,
And the leaves are new
On the willow-bough,
While the glad earth sings
In one joyous tune,
All the happy things
Of the happy June.
Oh the joyous time
Of the fresh sweet June,
And the happy rhyme
That must die so soon;
But again--again--
When the years are young,
Will the sweet refrain
Be sung--be sung.
WINDS blow cold in the bright March weather,
Yet I heard her sing in the street to-day,
The tattered garments scarce hung together
Round her tiny form as she turned away;
She was too little to know or care
Why she and her mother were singing there.
Skies are fair when the buds are springing,
When the March sun rises up fresh and strong,
And a little maid, with her mother, singing,
Smiled in my face as she skipped along,
She was too happy to wonder why
She laughed and sang as she passed me by.
IS it the sunshine on my eyes
Such slumber throws,
Here as I sit, too tired to rise,
They to unclose:
Here as I sit with work undone,
In the wind and sun?
Is it the sunshine makes me weep,
My little ones,
Makes me silently pray for sleep,
While the day runs
From morn to noon and noon to night,
And the quiet star-light?
Ah sun and wind, so strong and good,
That lap me round
With all the sweetness of the wood,
From tree and ground;
You make no cheeks with sorrow wet,
No sad eyes set.
I weep for one short hour to sing,
In all the day,
The happy fancies I would bring
The children's play;
To give the gifts they ask of me,
Which should be so free.
My hand to take when sights are new,
And strange thoughts grow,
My heart to lean on, with the few
Child-dreams I know;
My loving arms throughout the years
For their smiles and tears.
And ever I go out and in
More wearily,
With shrunken life so pale and thin,
And drearily
I murmur that I must not stay,
For their grief or play.
I must not stay, the hours are fleet,
And much to do,
And much to earn for daily meat,
The days all through,
To keep the little hard won nest
For the children's rest.
Ah lady with the folded hands,
You drive in state,
So close to where my baby stands
Most desolate,
With folded hands you pass, each day,
And you look away!
HOW shall I, in my pride, array
The one I choose,
What purple and what gems display
For her to use,
What flowing silk and flowered hem,
What diadem?
What shall I, in my love, desire
Her eyes to see,
When she steps forth in her attire
So daintily,
What pathway shall I deem most meet
For her dear feet?
Each thread of gold, in Heaven wrought,
Which I receive
To fashion my divinest thought,
I will inweave,
And twine a rare and royal dress
For my princess.
In her clear sight the magic earth
Shall all be fair,
No evil thing will come to birth
In her pure air,
All paths shall turn to fragrant ways
Wherein she strays.
WE wandered in that shadowland,
My fair love, you and I,
Through all its strangeness hand in hand,
We journeyed silently.
My lyre is hanging cold and dumb,
Mute with our triumph song,
I have no voice now you are come,
Whom I have sought so long.
But I will bring you in Love's land,
Into Love's highest place,
And crown you there, and understand
The wonder of your face.
And then my joyous song shall rise
To sun and moon and star;
And all the worlds beyond the skies
Shall tell how fair you are.
THE night is full of fantasies,
And, while you play,
A light wind blows among the trees
Far, far away.
And far away the daffodils
Begin to stir,
While all the sunny woodland fills
With gossamer.
And now a starry bugle calls,
And lo, in rings
And crystal drops, the music falls
From angels' wings.
There are sweet whisperings in the air,
And softly told
Are fair forgotten things, that were
So dear of old.
And now the tale is newly said,
Of sad and sweet,
And now the unseen choir have fled
With twinkling feet.
Their floating raiment touches me
As they depart,
And new songs strive for melody
Within my heart.
THE song of songs my heart would make
Is full as the great river is,
Of summer's noon-day mysteries;
Of imaged orchards that do slake
A thirst within its flood to take
Their rapture of cool dreams.
The sun's immortal nets that strive
To catch the ripples as they move,
The pools whose deepest waters prove
A haven all the heavens contrive,
Where summer clouds may come to drive
Their cars and fleecy teams,--
The starry flowers that mark the way
By grassy margins to the wood,
The shining flowers whose quiet mood
Is as of starlight to the day,--
All these are in my song to stay
The floods of my desire.
The wandering shadows from the west
That every summer twilight brings,
To hold the stream with spreading wings,
And every fallen star whose quest
Is hidden in the river's breast,
Burn in my song like fire,--
With all the passionate tides that bear
The travail of the shrouded nights,
When hanging from their gleaming lights,
Shining like jewels set in air,
Great boats, that through the darkness fare
Sweep upwards from the sea.
So heavy in my song they lie,
These summer mysteries that break
My heart for love, that, for your sake,
If you should breathe one tiniest sigh
For love of me, the song would die,
Its burden would be free.
GIVE me thy hand, dear friend, and let me take thee
Into my palace-home and garden fair,
Beside me follow close, ah, it will make thee
Still dearer, sweetest friend, to see thee there.
Give me thy hand, dear friend, and let me show thee
The peaceful resting places in the shade,
Where the stream, flowing pleasantly below thee,
Stills each unquiet thought the day has made.
IN winter days you came to me,
When sitters all had taken flight,
When I no longer thought to see
Gay faces by my studio light;
When grave and gay long since had sought
The brightness mine no longer brought.
And when my painting, good and ill,
Discarded lay amid the gloom,
When only shadows stayed to fill
The vacant spaces of my room;
In such a dreary hour your feet
Came kindly up the lonely street.
Of silks and jewels rarely wed,
Of flower-hued embroideries,
Your flowing raiment surely shed
A heavenly fragrance for my ease;
And healing rays for me to see
And paint you by--so gratefully.
And with the cunning of my hand,
And with the passion of my heart,
With all my life at my command
Did I perform my grateful part,
And beautiful beyond compare,
I set you on my canvas there.
But you, with nought but laughing eyes,
Went forth again without a word,
From my beseeching prayers and sighs,
You turned, as though you had not heard,
You would not learn, or stay to see,
The triumph you had made for me.
And when the year had changed to spring
And, idle through the sunny day,
About you I sat wondering,
You came once more my studio way,
And with a cold indifferent face
You passed the old familiar place.
With all its former splendour gone,
In sombre folds your raiment fell,
No jewels from its dulness shone
Of all that I had loved so well,
No beauty now nor grace betrayed
Yours was the picture I had made.
Then for my gratitude's sweet sake,
With firm and patient brush I drew,
And painted out my last mistake--
The beautiful dear face I knew--
And empty now--whate'er befall
Your canvas hangs upon my wall.
MY sweetheart lays her hand in mine,
When she would have me glad,
She sings and sings, she never knows
What music makes me sad.
My sweetheart holds my heart to hers,
When she would have me rest,
She never hears the heavy sigh
That breaks within my breast.
Her sweet lips press my tired lids,
When she would have me sleep;
Alas, they have no power to stay
The burning tears I weep.
THE birds sang from the tree,
"Sweetheart
Go forth across the silent hills,
For, in the vale their shadow fills,
Thy love awaiteth thee
With lonely heart."
She wound a wreath of flowers
So sweet,
And, while the birds still sang their song
Across the hills she passed along
In the fair sunrise hours,
Her love to meet.
But when the sun, asleep
At eve,
Lay hid behind a purple cloud,
Each little bird in leafy shroud
Saw her return and weep,
"And dost thou grieve?"
"Ah no, I am not sad,"
She said,
"He did not know me when I came,
But I have crowned him all the same,
And how can I be sad?
My heart is glad."
AND will you sing the songs anew,
The songs you made for me,
When, in the sunrise and the dew,
The earth seemed made so fair, for you
To turn to melody?
And will you seek the flowers again
You gathered in the spring,
Sweet flowers, fragrant with the rain
Of tears you will not weep again,
In all your gathering?
Ah no, the morning songs are sung,
And Time treads on apace,
High overhead the sun is hung,
While in its heat your life is swung,
God grant you fullest grace:
And tuneful ear to string your lute
To every season's range,
Until your lips are cold and mute,
Till song and blossom bear their fruit
In the great changeless change.
But when the last full numbers break,
The songs you made for me
Shall stir, as when the birds awake,
And in your heart sweet singing make,
Of morning memory.
HERE Autumn, like a flying bird
That through the quivering foliage trills,
Comes swiftly in the night, and stays
A moment in these grassy ways,
Among the hills.
And with the day's awakened sun,
O'er every gold and purple mile,
A finer radiance shows where she
Folded her bright wings graciously,
To rest awhile.
Here all the earth is crystal clear,
And all its people wise and free,
Here where the orchards, each on each,
Run down the valley, till they reach
A crystal sea.
LISTEN and we shall hear the voice
Of Evening, her name she told,
When we stayed our boat by the shore to know
What wee flower shone 'neath the willow so,
And her hair was radiant gold.
Now veiled in grey with silent step,
She walks where shades are deep,
And the great trees hear, and the blossoms know
The song she sings, and her music low
Is charming them to sleep.
My unseen brother and sister
Who dwell 'neath the roofs we pass,
Are you sad and weary with toil and care,
My rest is full, I have rest to spare,
I whisper it through your grass.
THE hours of the day have departed,
They folded their wings to rest,
When the last red ray of sun-light
Faded away in the west,
And fleecy clouds cover the stars,
And beyond is a world of blue,
And my soul awakes from a slumber
To-night, and I see right through--
Away to a world of azure,
Where white-winged spirits meet,
While the clouds float and fade below them,
And the stars shine at their feet.
They hold out their hands in welcome,
And now, for a moment of time,
Limitless worlds and boundless space,
And planets--they all are mine.
I STAND upon my island home,
My island home in Regent Street,
And listen to the ceaseless foam
Of traffic breaking at my feet:
The sky above is clear and sweet,
The summer day is smiling down,
I muse upon it, and repeat
That there is nobody in town.
All day a living metronome
Keeps up a firm relentless beat,
All day the little children roam
Through airless alleys, in the heat;
All day the men and women meet
With tired eyes, and settled frown,
I marvel, in my safe retreat,
That there is nobody in town.
Ah world beneath the sky's blue dome,
In flannels white, and spotless gown,
Ah would that such a day might come,
When there was nobody in town.
YOU came to see me yesterday,
And plucked a rose-bud on your way,
Do you remember?
From the sweet bush beside your gate,
I did not know it bloomed as late
As dull November.
To-day the world is grey and old,
Around me, with the fog and cold,
A dark night closes.
And I, with thoughts akin to tears,
Travel through many bygone years
Marked by your roses.
For blossoms all will soon be done,
My latter days are nearly won
For quiet reflection.
And I am tired, and you are sad,
For all the love you might have had,
And sweet protection.
But dear, from your November rose
To-night a deeper memory grows,
Than friend's or lover's.
Deep as the knowledge is to be,
When my last slumber carefully
The brown earth covers.
YEAR after year I sit for them,
The boys and girls who come and go,
Although my beauty's diadem
Has lain for many seasons low.
When first I came my hair was bright,
How hard, they said, to paint its gold,
How difficult to catch the light
That fell upon it, fold on fold.
How hard to give my happy youth
In all its pride of white and red,
None would believe, in very truth,
A maiden was so fair, they said.
How could they know they gave to me
The daily hope which made me fair,
Sweet promises of things to be,
The happy things I was to share.
The flowers painted round my face,
The magic seas and skies above,
And many a far enchanted place
Full of the summer time and love.
They set me in a fairy-land,
So much more real than they knew,
And I was slow to understand
The pictures could not all come true.
But one by one, they died somehow,
The waking dreams which kept me glad,
And as I sat, they told me now,
None would believe a maid so sad.
They paint me still, but now I sit
Just for my neck and shoulder lines,
And for the little lingering bit
Of colour in my hair that shines.
And as a figure worn and strange
Into their groups I sometimes stray,
To break the light, to mark their range
Of sun and shade, of grave and gay.
And evermore they come and go,
With life and hope so sweet and high,
In all the world how should they know
There is no one so tired as I!
I SAW your portrait yesterday,
Set in a golden frame,
Around it twines a blossom-spray,
Beneath it is your name.
And tender smiles are round your mouth,
High thoughts are on your brow,
The world is beautiful as Youth,
You are so happy now.
The shining gates are opened wide,
Love stretches forth his hand
And bids the bridegroom bring his bride
Into the promised land.
And you and he dwell there alone,
Beneath Love's summer sky,
While all the world's great grief and moan
As a sad dream pass by.
Yet on Love's flowers strange and rare,
Your saddest tears shall fall,
And in Love's country you shall fare
The loneliest of all.
ARISING from her jewelled bower,
Dawn steps from out the flaming sky,
And in her hand are hopes that flower,
And at her feet the hours that die.
But ere the darkest shadows fall,
Sweet Evening comes from twilight lands,
She pours her peace upon us all,
And touches us with healing hands.
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London:
Printed by William Clowes and Sons,
Limited.