The wind-swayed daisies, that on every sideThrong the wide fields in whispering companies,Serene and gently smiling like the eyesOf tender children long beatified,The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glideLike sparks of fire above the wavering grass,And swing and toss with all the airs that pass,Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown,I scarce can think of pleasure without these.Even to dream of them is to disownThe cold forlorn midwinter reveries,Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown,No longer dreams, but dear realities.
The wind-swayed daisies, that on every sideThrong the wide fields in whispering companies,Serene and gently smiling like the eyesOf tender children long beatified,The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glideLike sparks of fire above the wavering grass,And swing and toss with all the airs that pass,Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;
These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown,I scarce can think of pleasure without these.Even to dream of them is to disownThe cold forlorn midwinter reveries,Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown,No longer dreams, but dear realities.
'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have soughtTo turn men's yearning to the great and true,Yet first take heed to what your own hands do;By deeds not words the souls of men are taught;Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caughtInto the fountain of all life (wherethroughMen's souls that drink are broken or made new)Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraughtWith the clear essence of eternal youth.Even one little deed of weak untruthIs like a drop of quenchless venom cast,A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream,Woven forever with its crystal gleam,Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.
'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have soughtTo turn men's yearning to the great and true,Yet first take heed to what your own hands do;By deeds not words the souls of men are taught;Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caughtInto the fountain of all life (wherethroughMen's souls that drink are broken or made new)Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraughtWith the clear essence of eternal youth.Even one little deed of weak untruthIs like a drop of quenchless venom cast,A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream,Woven forever with its crystal gleam,Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.
Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here,Or is there now, or shall there sometime beHarbour or any rest for such as we,Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steerOur whispering barks with such keen hope and fearToward misty bournes across that coastless sea,Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee,Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near.Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mindOf many ills be marked with many a trace,Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind,Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race,Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face,And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind.
Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here,Or is there now, or shall there sometime beHarbour or any rest for such as we,Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steerOur whispering barks with such keen hope and fearToward misty bournes across that coastless sea,Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee,Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near.
Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mindOf many ills be marked with many a trace,Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind,Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race,Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face,And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind.
Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell,Changers with every hour from dawn till even,Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven,And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell,Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well,But most draw back, and know not what to say,Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray,Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell.Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth,Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man,The whole world's tangle gathered in one span,Full of this human torture and this mirth:Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss,Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is.
Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell,Changers with every hour from dawn till even,Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven,And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell,Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well,But most draw back, and know not what to say,Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray,Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell.
Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth,Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man,The whole world's tangle gathered in one span,Full of this human torture and this mirth:Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss,Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is.
Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still.Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords.He that sees clear is gentlest of his words,And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil.Dull in our age, and passionate in youth,No mind of man hath found the perfect truth,Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still.Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool,The babbler of consistency and rule:Wisest is he, who, never quite secure,Changes his thoughts for better day by day:To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure,And thou shalt see thy thought another way.
Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still.Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords.He that sees clear is gentlest of his words,And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil.Dull in our age, and passionate in youth,No mind of man hath found the perfect truth,Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still.
Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool,The babbler of consistency and rule:Wisest is he, who, never quite secure,Changes his thoughts for better day by day:To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure,And thou shalt see thy thought another way.
Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no signOf strength or help, so cast them forth, and threwYour whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,Seeing before you that divine face shine;Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,White souls whose beauty made their world divine:Yet still across life's tangled storms we see,Following the cross, your pale procession led,One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,Self-abnegation, love, humility,Your faces shining toward the bended head,The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no signOf strength or help, so cast them forth, and threwYour whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,Seeing before you that divine face shine;Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,White souls whose beauty made their world divine:
Yet still across life's tangled storms we see,Following the cross, your pale procession led,One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,Self-abnegation, love, humility,Your faces shining toward the bended head,The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sownWith restless drift, scarce broken now of any,Out of the dark thy windows dim and manyGleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shakenIn desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone.Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;More dark and strange thy veilèd agony,City of storm, in whose grey heart are hiddenWhat stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat,Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet,Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.
Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sownWith restless drift, scarce broken now of any,Out of the dark thy windows dim and manyGleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shakenIn desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone.
Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;More dark and strange thy veilèd agony,City of storm, in whose grey heart are hiddenWhat stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat,Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet,Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.
The darkness brings no quiet here, the lightNo waking: ever on my blinded brainThe flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain,The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite:I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight,Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain:I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great trainMove labouring out into the bourneless night.So many souls within its dim recesses,So many bright, so many mournful eyes:Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses;What threads of life, what hidden histories,What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses,What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!
The darkness brings no quiet here, the lightNo waking: ever on my blinded brainThe flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain,The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite:I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight,Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain:I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great trainMove labouring out into the bourneless night.
So many souls within its dim recesses,So many bright, so many mournful eyes:Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses;What threads of life, what hidden histories,What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses,What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!
What days await this woman, whose strange feetBreathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweetFrank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat,Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:How in the end, and to what man's desireShall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?One thing I know: if he be great and pure,This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:But if not this, some differing thing he be,That dream shall break in terror; he shall seeThe whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.
What days await this woman, whose strange feetBreathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine,Tall, free and slender as the forest pine,Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweetFrank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat,Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire:How in the end, and to what man's desireShall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?
One thing I know: if he be great and pure,This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure;Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:But if not this, some differing thing he be,That dream shall break in terror; he shall seeThe whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.
The hills and leafless forests slowly yieldTo the thick-driving snow. A little whileAnd night shall darken down. In shouting fileThe woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow,Where the last ploughman follows still his row,Turning black furrows through the whitening field.Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moanAbout the naked uplands. I aloneAm neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.
The hills and leafless forests slowly yieldTo the thick-driving snow. A little whileAnd night shall darken down. In shouting fileThe woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow,Where the last ploughman follows still his row,Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moanAbout the naked uplands. I aloneAm neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.
Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west,Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream,Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist,Faint and far off out of the autumn mist,Even as a pointed jewel softly setIn clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet,Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst,Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown oldHangs lowly westward darker now than gold,With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hoursMade lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes,Even as a dream out of a dream, ariseThe bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.
Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west,Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream,Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist,Faint and far off out of the autumn mist,Even as a pointed jewel softly setIn clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet,Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst,Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown oldHangs lowly westward darker now than gold,With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hoursMade lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes,Even as a dream out of a dream, ariseThe bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.
Mother of balms and soothings manifold,Quiet-breathèd night whose brooding hours are seven,To whom the voices of all rest are given,And those few stars whose scattered names are told,Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled,Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even,The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven,And under her one star—a point of gold:And all go slowly lingering toward the west,As we go down forgetfully to our rest,Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light:Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for weWere sore athirst, and had great need of thee,Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night.
Mother of balms and soothings manifold,Quiet-breathèd night whose brooding hours are seven,To whom the voices of all rest are given,And those few stars whose scattered names are told,Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled,Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even,The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven,And under her one star—a point of gold:
And all go slowly lingering toward the west,As we go down forgetfully to our rest,Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light:Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for weWere sore athirst, and had great need of thee,Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night.
Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray,Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye layFloating at rest; but that was long of yore.He was too good for earthly men; he boreTheir bitter deeds for many a patient day,And then at last he took his unseen way.He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:And now, though many hundred altering yearsHave passed, among the desolate northern meresStill must ye search and wander querulously,Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the lightWith wierd entreaties, and in agonyWith awful laughter pierce the lonely night.
Once ye were happy, once by many a shore,Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray,Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye layFloating at rest; but that was long of yore.He was too good for earthly men; he boreTheir bitter deeds for many a patient day,And then at last he took his unseen way.He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:
And now, though many hundred altering yearsHave passed, among the desolate northern meresStill must ye search and wander querulously,Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the lightWith wierd entreaties, and in agonyWith awful laughter pierce the lonely night.
Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrowsThe bells are ringing loud and strangely near,The shout of children dins upon mine earShrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrowsShowers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows,Gathered in noisy knots of one or two,To joke and chatter just as mortals doOver the days long tale of joys and sorrows;Talk before bed-time of bold deeds togetherOf thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather,Till sleep disarm them, to each little brainBringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream,Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream,And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain.
Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrowsThe bells are ringing loud and strangely near,The shout of children dins upon mine earShrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrowsShowers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows,Gathered in noisy knots of one or two,To joke and chatter just as mortals doOver the days long tale of joys and sorrows;
Talk before bed-time of bold deeds togetherOf thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather,Till sleep disarm them, to each little brainBringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream,Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream,And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain.
How still it is here in the woods. The treesStand motionless, as if they did not dareTo stir, lest it should break the spell. The airHangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.Even this little brook, that runs at ease,Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,Seems but to deepen with its curling threadOf sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpeckerStartles the stillness from its fixèd moodWith his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hearThe dreamy white-throat from some far off treePipe slowly on the listening solitudeHis five pure notes succeeding pensively.
How still it is here in the woods. The treesStand motionless, as if they did not dareTo stir, lest it should break the spell. The airHangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.Even this little brook, that runs at ease,Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,Seems but to deepen with its curling threadOf sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpeckerStartles the stillness from its fixèd moodWith his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hearThe dreamy white-throat from some far off treePipe slowly on the listening solitudeHis five pure notes succeeding pensively.
The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey?Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name,Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame;And some with softer woe that day by day,So sweet and brief, should go the westward way,Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame,That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose;Others for wrath have turned a rusty red,And some that knew not either grief or dread,Ere the old year should find its iron close,Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold,Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.
The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey?Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name,Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame;And some with softer woe that day by day,So sweet and brief, should go the westward way,Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame,
That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose;Others for wrath have turned a rusty red,And some that knew not either grief or dread,Ere the old year should find its iron close,Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold,Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.
"Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him,For there he stood, supreme in his conceit,With short ears close together and queer feetPlanted irregularly: first we tried himWith jokes, but they were lost; we then defied himWith bantering questions and loose criticism:He did not like, I'm sure, our catechism,But whisked and snuffed a little as we eyed him.Then flung we balls, and out and clear away,Up the white slope, across the crusted snow,To where a broken fence stands in the way,Against the sky-line, a mere row of pegs,Quicker than thought we saw him flash and go,A straight mad scuttling of four crooked legs.
"Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him,For there he stood, supreme in his conceit,With short ears close together and queer feetPlanted irregularly: first we tried himWith jokes, but they were lost; we then defied himWith bantering questions and loose criticism:He did not like, I'm sure, our catechism,But whisked and snuffed a little as we eyed him.
Then flung we balls, and out and clear away,Up the white slope, across the crusted snow,To where a broken fence stands in the way,Against the sky-line, a mere row of pegs,Quicker than thought we saw him flash and go,A straight mad scuttling of four crooked legs.