The scent of bramble fills the air,Amid her folded sheets she lies,The gold of evening in her hair,The blue of morn shut in her eyes.
How many a changing moon hath litThe unchanging roses of her face!Her mirror ever broods on itIn silver stillness of the days.
Oft flits the moth on filmy wingsInto his solitary lair;Shrill evensong the cricket singsFrom some still shadow in her hair.
In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood,She sleeps in lovely loneliness,Half-folded like an April budOn winter-haunted trees.
Hark! is that a horn I hear,In cloudland winding sweet—And bell-like clash of bridle-rein,And silver-shod light feet?
Is it the elfin laughterOf fairies riding faint and high,Beneath the branches of the moon,Straying through the starry sky?
Is it in the globèd dewSuch sweet melodies may fall?Wood and valley—all are still,Hushed the shepherd's call.
Out of the East a hurricaneSwept down on Captain Lean—That mariner and gentlemanWill never again be seen.
He sailed his ship against the foesOf his own country dear,But now in the trough of the billowsAn aimless course doth steer.
Powder was violets to his nostrils,Sweet the din of the fighting-line,Now he is flotsam on the seas,And his bones are bleached with brine.
The stars move up along the sky,The moon she shines so bright,And in that solitude the foamSparkles unearthly white.
This is the tomb of Captain Lean,Would a straiter please his soul?I trow he sleeps in peace,Howsoever the billows roll!
His brow is seamed with line and scar;His cheek is red and dark as wine;The fires as of a Northern starBeneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,Hangs open like an iron gin,You stoop to see his pulses move,To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitaryIn earnest thought he seems to stand,As if across a lonely seaHe gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuriesThe foolish and the fearful fade;Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.
From out the wood I watched them shine,—The windows of the haunted house,Now ruddy as enchanted wine,Now dark as flittermouse.
There went a thin voice piping airsAlong the grey and crooked walks,—A garden of thistledown and tares,Bright leaves, and giant stalks.
The twilight rain shone at its gates,Where long-leaved grass in shadow grew;And black in silence to her matesA voiceless raven flew.
Lichen and moss the lone stones greened,Green paths led lightly to its door,Keen from her hair the spider leaned,And dusk to darkness wore.
Amidst the sedge a whisper ran,The West shut down a heavy eye,And like last tapers, few and wan,The watch-stars kindled in the sky.
"Build me my tomb," the Raven said,"Within the dark yew-tree,So in the Autumn yewberriesSad lamps may burn for me.Summon the haunted beetle,From twilight bud and bloom,To drone a gloomy dirge for meAt dusk above my tomb.Beseech ye too the glowwormTo rear her cloudy flame,Where the small, flickering bats resort,Whistling in tears my name.Let the round dew a whisper make,Welling on twig and thorn;And only the grey cock at nightCall through his silver horn.And you, dear sisters, don your blackFor ever and a day,To show how true a ravenIn his tomb is laid away."
The bells chime clear,Soon will the sun behind the hills sink down;Come, little Ann, your baby brother dearLies in his christening-gown.
His godparents,Are all across the fields stepped on before,And wait beneath the crumbling monuments,This side the old church door.
Your mammie dearLeans frail and lovely on your daddie's arm;Watching her chick, 'twixt happiness and fear,Lest he should come to harm.
All to be blestFull soon in the clear heavenly water, heSleeps on unwitting of it, his little breastHeaving so tenderly.
I carried you,My little Ann, long since on this same quest,And from the painted windows a pale hueLit golden on your breast;
And then you woke,Chill as the holy water trickled down,And, weeping, cast the window a strange look,Half smile, half infant frown.
I scarce could hearThe shrill larks singing in the green meadows,'Twas summertide, and, budding far and near,The hedges thick with rose.
And now you're grownA little girl, and this same helpless miteIs come like such another bud half-grown,Out of the wintry night.
Time flies, time flies!And yet, bless me! 'tis little changed am I;May Jesu keep from tears those infant eyes,Be love their lullaby!
They dressed us up in black,Susan and Tom and me—And, walking through the fieldsAll beautiful to see,With branches high in the airAnd daisy and buttercup,We heard the lark in the clouds—In black dressed up.
They took us to the graves,Susan and Tom and me,Where the long grasses growAnd the funeral tree:We stood and watched; and the windCame softly out of the skyAnd blew in Susan's hair,As I stood close by.
Back through the fields we came,Tom and Susan and me,And we sat in the nursery together,And had our tea.And, looking out of the window,I heard the thrushes sing;But Tom fell asleep in his chair,He was so tired, poor thing.
Through the green twilight of a hedgeI peered, with cheek on the cool leaves pressed,And spied a bird upon a nest:Two eyes she had beseeching meMeekly and brave, and her brown breastThrobbed hot and quick above her heart;And then she opened her dagger bill,—'Twas not a chirp, as sparrows pipeAt break of day; 'twas not a trill,As falters through the quiet even;But one sharp solitary note,One desperate, fierce, and vivid cryOf valiant tears, and hopeless joy,One passionate note of victory;Off, like a fool afraid, I sneaked,Smiling the smile the fool smiles best,At the mother bird in the secret hedgePatient upon her lonely nest.
I prythee, Nurse, come smooth my hair,And prythee, Nurse, unloose my shoe,And trimly turn my silken sheetUpon my quilt of gentle blue.
My pillow sweet of lavenderSmooth with an amiable hand,And may the dark pass peacefully byAs in the hour-glass droops the sand.
Prepare my cornered manchet sweet,And in my little crystal cupPour out the blithe and flowering meadThat forthwith I may sup.
Withdraw my curtains from the night,And let the crispèd crescent shineUpon my eyelids while I sleep,And soothe me with her beams benign.
Dark looks the forest far-away;O, listen! through its empty dalesRings from the solemn echoing boughsThe music of its nightingales.
Now quench my silver lamp, prythee,And bid the harpers harp that tuneFairies which haunt the meadowlandsSing clearly to the stars of June.
And bid them play, though I in dreamsNo longer heed their pining strains,For I would not to silence wakeWhen slumber o'er my senses wanes.
You Angels bright who me defend,Enshadow me with curvèd wing,And keep me in the darksome night.Till dawn another day do bring.
When the light of day declines,And a swift angel through the skyKindles God's tapers clear,With ashen staff the lamplighterPasses along the darkling streetsTo light our earthly lamps;
Lest, prowling in the darkness,The thief should haunt with quiet tread,Or men on evil errands set;Or wayfarers be benighted;Or neighbors, bent from house to house,Should need a guiding torch.
He is like a needlewomanWho deftly on a sable hemStitches in gleaming jewels;Or, haply, he is like a hero,Whose bright deeds on the long journeyAre beacons on our way.
And when in the East comes morning,And the broad splendour of the sun,Then, with the tune of little birdsRings on high, the lamplighterPasses by each quiet house,And he puts out the lamps.
I met at eve the Prince of Sleep,His was a still and lovely face,He wandered through a valley steep,Lovely in a lonely place.
His garb was grey of lavender,About his brows a poppy-wreathBurned like dim coals, and everywhereThe air was sweeter for his breath.
His twilight feet no sandals wore,His eyes shone faint in their own flame,Fair moths that gloomed his steps beforeSeemed letters of his lovely name.
His house is in the mountain ways,A phantom house of misty walls,Whose golden flocks at evening graze,And witch the moon with muffled calls.
Upwelling from his shadowy springsSweet waters shake a trembling sound,There flit the hoot-owl's silent wings,There hath his web the silkworm wound.
Dark in his pools clear visions lurk,And rosy, as with morning buds,Along his dales of broom and birkDreams haunt his solitary woods.
I met at eve the Prince of Sleep,His was a still and lovely face,He wandered through a valley steep,Lovely in a lonely place.
Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul;The little mouse cheeps plaintively,The night-bird in the chestnut-tree—They sing together, bird and mouse,In starlight, in darkness, lonely, sweet,The wild notes and the faint notes meet—Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.
Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul;Amid the lilies floats the moth,The mole along his galleries goethIn the dark earth; the summer moonLooks like a shepherd through the paneSeeking his feeble lamp again—Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.
Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul;Time comes to keep night-watch with thee,Nodding with roses; and the seaSaith "Peace! Peace!" amid his foam."O be still!"The wind cries up the whispering hill—Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul.
Child, do you love the flowerAshine with colour and dewLighting its transient hour?So I love you.
The lambs in the mead are at play,'Neath a hurdle the shepherd's asleep;From height to height of the dayThe sunbeams sweep.
Evening will come. And aloneThe dreamer the dark will beguile;All the world will be goneFor a dream's brief while.
Then I shall be old; and away:And you, with sad joy in your eyes,Will brood over children at playWith as loveful surmise.
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