DEEP in the grass outstretched I lie,Motionless on the hill;Above me is a cloudless sky,Around me all is still:There is no breath, no sound, no stir,The drowsy peace to break;I close my tired eyes—it wereSo simple not to wake.
DEEP in the grass outstretched I lie,Motionless on the hill;Above me is a cloudless sky,Around me all is still:There is no breath, no sound, no stir,The drowsy peace to break;I close my tired eyes—it wereSo simple not to wake.
DEEP in the grass outstretched I lie,Motionless on the hill;Above me is a cloudless sky,Around me all is still:
There is no breath, no sound, no stir,The drowsy peace to break;I close my tired eyes—it wereSo simple not to wake.
TO B. T.
DEAD-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid dayFails and slackens and fades away.—The sky that was so blue beforeWith sudden clouds is shrouded o’er.Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise,Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.* * * * * *All day we have plied the oar; all dayEager and keen have said our sayOn life and death, on love and art,On good or ill at Nature’s heart.Now, grown so tired, we scarce can liftThe lazy oars, but onward drift.And the silence is only stirredHere and there by a broken word.* * * * * *O, sweeter far than strain and stressIs the slow, creeping weariness.And better far than thought I findThe drowsy blankness of the mind.More than all joys of soul or senseIs this divine indifference;Where grief a shadow grows to be,And peace a possibility.
DEAD-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid dayFails and slackens and fades away.—The sky that was so blue beforeWith sudden clouds is shrouded o’er.Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise,Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.* * * * * *All day we have plied the oar; all dayEager and keen have said our sayOn life and death, on love and art,On good or ill at Nature’s heart.Now, grown so tired, we scarce can liftThe lazy oars, but onward drift.And the silence is only stirredHere and there by a broken word.* * * * * *O, sweeter far than strain and stressIs the slow, creeping weariness.And better far than thought I findThe drowsy blankness of the mind.More than all joys of soul or senseIs this divine indifference;Where grief a shadow grows to be,And peace a possibility.
DEAD-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid dayFails and slackens and fades away.—The sky that was so blue beforeWith sudden clouds is shrouded o’er.Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise,Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.* * * * * *All day we have plied the oar; all dayEager and keen have said our sayOn life and death, on love and art,On good or ill at Nature’s heart.Now, grown so tired, we scarce can liftThe lazy oars, but onward drift.And the silence is only stirredHere and there by a broken word.* * * * * *O, sweeter far than strain and stressIs the slow, creeping weariness.And better far than thought I findThe drowsy blankness of the mind.More than all joys of soul or senseIs this divine indifference;Where grief a shadow grows to be,And peace a possibility.
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vainWhile Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vainWhile Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vainWhile Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane
I lounge in the doorway and languish in vainWhile Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane
MY spirit rises to the music’s beat;There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here,In other ages, on another sphere,I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.In perfect motion did our bodies sway,To perfect music that was heard alway;Woe’s me, that am so dull of foot to-day!To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet;My spirit rises to the music’s beat—But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet!
MY spirit rises to the music’s beat;There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here,In other ages, on another sphere,I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.In perfect motion did our bodies sway,To perfect music that was heard alway;Woe’s me, that am so dull of foot to-day!To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet;My spirit rises to the music’s beat—But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet!
MY spirit rises to the music’s beat;There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet.
Somewhere, I think, some other where, not here,In other ages, on another sphere,I danced with you, and you with me, my dear.
In perfect motion did our bodies sway,To perfect music that was heard alway;Woe’s me, that am so dull of foot to-day!
To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet;My spirit rises to the music’s beat—But, ah, the leaden demon in my feet!
A WALTZ SONG.
OSWAY, and swing, and sway,And swing, and sway, and swing!Ah me, what bliss like unto this,Can days and daylight bring?A rose beneath your feetHas fallen from my head;Its odour rises sweet,All crushed it lies, and dead.O Love is like a rose,Fair-hued, of fragrant breath;A tender flow’r that lives an hour,And is most sweet in death.O swing, and sway, and swing,And rise, and sink, and fall!There is no bliss like unto this,This is the best of all.
OSWAY, and swing, and sway,And swing, and sway, and swing!Ah me, what bliss like unto this,Can days and daylight bring?A rose beneath your feetHas fallen from my head;Its odour rises sweet,All crushed it lies, and dead.O Love is like a rose,Fair-hued, of fragrant breath;A tender flow’r that lives an hour,And is most sweet in death.O swing, and sway, and swing,And rise, and sink, and fall!There is no bliss like unto this,This is the best of all.
OSWAY, and swing, and sway,And swing, and sway, and swing!Ah me, what bliss like unto this,Can days and daylight bring?
A rose beneath your feetHas fallen from my head;Its odour rises sweet,All crushed it lies, and dead.
O Love is like a rose,Fair-hued, of fragrant breath;A tender flow’r that lives an hour,And is most sweet in death.
O swing, and sway, and swing,And rise, and sink, and fall!There is no bliss like unto this,This is the best of all.
WITH fruit and flowers the board is deckt,The wine and laughter flow;I’ll not complain—could one expectSo dull a world to know?You look across the fruit and flowers,My glance your glances find.—It is our secret, only ours,Since all the world is blind.
WITH fruit and flowers the board is deckt,The wine and laughter flow;I’ll not complain—could one expectSo dull a world to know?You look across the fruit and flowers,My glance your glances find.—It is our secret, only ours,Since all the world is blind.
WITH fruit and flowers the board is deckt,The wine and laughter flow;I’ll not complain—could one expectSo dull a world to know?
You look across the fruit and flowers,My glance your glances find.—It is our secret, only ours,Since all the world is blind.
ERE all the world had grown so drear,When I was young and you were here,’Mid summer roses in summer weather,What pleasant times we’ve had together!We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet,And Corydon; we did not meetBy brook or meadow, but amongA Philistine and flippant throngWhich much we scorned; (less rigorousIt had no scorn at all for us!)How many an eve of sweet July,Heedless of Mrs. Grundy’s eye,We’ve scaled the stairway’s topmost height,And sat there talking half the night;And, gazing on the crowd below,Thanked Fate and Heaven that made us so;—To hold the pure delights of brainAbove light loves and sweet champagne.For, you and I, we did eschewThe egoistic “I” and “you;”And all our observations ranOn Art and Letters, Life and Man.Proudly we sat, we two, on high,Throned in our Objectivity;Scarce friends, not lovers (each avers),But sexless, safe Philosophers.* * * * * *Dear Friend, you must not deem me lightIf, as I lie and muse to-night,I give a smile and not a sighTo thoughts of our Philosophy.
ERE all the world had grown so drear,When I was young and you were here,’Mid summer roses in summer weather,What pleasant times we’ve had together!We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet,And Corydon; we did not meetBy brook or meadow, but amongA Philistine and flippant throngWhich much we scorned; (less rigorousIt had no scorn at all for us!)How many an eve of sweet July,Heedless of Mrs. Grundy’s eye,We’ve scaled the stairway’s topmost height,And sat there talking half the night;And, gazing on the crowd below,Thanked Fate and Heaven that made us so;—To hold the pure delights of brainAbove light loves and sweet champagne.For, you and I, we did eschewThe egoistic “I” and “you;”And all our observations ranOn Art and Letters, Life and Man.Proudly we sat, we two, on high,Throned in our Objectivity;Scarce friends, not lovers (each avers),But sexless, safe Philosophers.* * * * * *Dear Friend, you must not deem me lightIf, as I lie and muse to-night,I give a smile and not a sighTo thoughts of our Philosophy.
ERE all the world had grown so drear,When I was young and you were here,’Mid summer roses in summer weather,What pleasant times we’ve had together!
We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet,And Corydon; we did not meetBy brook or meadow, but amongA Philistine and flippant throng
Which much we scorned; (less rigorousIt had no scorn at all for us!)How many an eve of sweet July,Heedless of Mrs. Grundy’s eye,
We’ve scaled the stairway’s topmost height,And sat there talking half the night;And, gazing on the crowd below,Thanked Fate and Heaven that made us so;—
To hold the pure delights of brainAbove light loves and sweet champagne.For, you and I, we did eschewThe egoistic “I” and “you;”
And all our observations ranOn Art and Letters, Life and Man.Proudly we sat, we two, on high,Throned in our Objectivity;
Scarce friends, not lovers (each avers),But sexless, safe Philosophers.* * * * * *Dear Friend, you must not deem me lightIf, as I lie and muse to-night,I give a smile and not a sighTo thoughts of our Philosophy.
WHAT wonder that I should be dreamingOut here in the garden to-day?The light through the leaves is streaming,—Paulina cries, “Play!”The birds to each other are calling,The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet;To Teddy’s dismay, comes fallingThe ball at my feet.“Your stroke should be over, not under!”“But that’s such a difficult way!”The place is a springtide wonderOf lilac and may;Of lilac, and may, and laburnum,Of blossom,—We’er losing the set!“Those volleys of Jenny’s,—return them;“Stand close to the net!”* * * * * *You are so fond of the Maytime,My friend, far away;Small wonder that I should be dreamingOf you in the garden to-day.
WHAT wonder that I should be dreamingOut here in the garden to-day?The light through the leaves is streaming,—Paulina cries, “Play!”The birds to each other are calling,The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet;To Teddy’s dismay, comes fallingThe ball at my feet.“Your stroke should be over, not under!”“But that’s such a difficult way!”The place is a springtide wonderOf lilac and may;Of lilac, and may, and laburnum,Of blossom,—We’er losing the set!“Those volleys of Jenny’s,—return them;“Stand close to the net!”* * * * * *You are so fond of the Maytime,My friend, far away;Small wonder that I should be dreamingOf you in the garden to-day.
WHAT wonder that I should be dreamingOut here in the garden to-day?The light through the leaves is streaming,—Paulina cries, “Play!”
The birds to each other are calling,The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet;To Teddy’s dismay, comes fallingThe ball at my feet.
“Your stroke should be over, not under!”“But that’s such a difficult way!”The place is a springtide wonderOf lilac and may;
Of lilac, and may, and laburnum,Of blossom,—We’er losing the set!“Those volleys of Jenny’s,—return them;“Stand close to the net!”* * * * * *You are so fond of the Maytime,My friend, far away;Small wonder that I should be dreamingOf you in the garden to-day.
THE mountains in fantastic linesSweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shinesBlue as blue gems; athwart the pinesThe lake gleams blue.We three were here, three years gone by;Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,You, steeped in learned lore, and I,A poet too.Our Poet brought us books and flowers,He read usFaust; he talked for hoursPhilosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),Beneath the trees:And do you mind that sunny day,When he, as on the sward he lay,Told of Lassalle who bore awayThe false Louise?Thrice-favoured bard! to him aloneThat green and snug retreat was shown,Where to the vulgar herd unknown,Our pens we plied.(For, in those distant days, it seems,We cherished sundry idle dreams,And with our flowing foolscap reamsThe Fates defied.)And after, when the day was gone,And the hushed, silver night came on,He showed us where the glow-worm shone;—We stooped to see.There, too, by yonder moon we sworePlatonic friendship o’er and o’er;No folk, we deemed, had been beforeSo wise and free.* * * * * * *And do I sigh or smile to-day?Dead love or dead ambition, say,Which mourn we most? Not much we weighPlatonic friends.On you the sun is shining free;Our Poet sleeps in Italy,Beneath an alien sod; on meThe cloud descends.
THE mountains in fantastic linesSweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shinesBlue as blue gems; athwart the pinesThe lake gleams blue.We three were here, three years gone by;Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,You, steeped in learned lore, and I,A poet too.Our Poet brought us books and flowers,He read usFaust; he talked for hoursPhilosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),Beneath the trees:And do you mind that sunny day,When he, as on the sward he lay,Told of Lassalle who bore awayThe false Louise?Thrice-favoured bard! to him aloneThat green and snug retreat was shown,Where to the vulgar herd unknown,Our pens we plied.(For, in those distant days, it seems,We cherished sundry idle dreams,And with our flowing foolscap reamsThe Fates defied.)And after, when the day was gone,And the hushed, silver night came on,He showed us where the glow-worm shone;—We stooped to see.There, too, by yonder moon we sworePlatonic friendship o’er and o’er;No folk, we deemed, had been beforeSo wise and free.* * * * * * *And do I sigh or smile to-day?Dead love or dead ambition, say,Which mourn we most? Not much we weighPlatonic friends.On you the sun is shining free;Our Poet sleeps in Italy,Beneath an alien sod; on meThe cloud descends.
THE mountains in fantastic linesSweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shinesBlue as blue gems; athwart the pinesThe lake gleams blue.
We three were here, three years gone by;Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,You, steeped in learned lore, and I,A poet too.
Our Poet brought us books and flowers,He read usFaust; he talked for hoursPhilosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),Beneath the trees:
And do you mind that sunny day,When he, as on the sward he lay,Told of Lassalle who bore awayThe false Louise?
Thrice-favoured bard! to him aloneThat green and snug retreat was shown,Where to the vulgar herd unknown,Our pens we plied.
(For, in those distant days, it seems,We cherished sundry idle dreams,And with our flowing foolscap reamsThe Fates defied.)
And after, when the day was gone,And the hushed, silver night came on,He showed us where the glow-worm shone;—We stooped to see.
There, too, by yonder moon we sworePlatonic friendship o’er and o’er;No folk, we deemed, had been beforeSo wise and free.* * * * * * *And do I sigh or smile to-day?Dead love or dead ambition, say,Which mourn we most? Not much we weighPlatonic friends.
On you the sun is shining free;Our Poet sleeps in Italy,Beneath an alien sod; on meThe cloud descends.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LONDON, E.C.