The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCollected Poems: Volume TwoThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Collected Poems: Volume TwoAuthor: Alfred NoyesRelease date: December 4, 2009 [eBook #30599]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS: VOLUME TWO ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Collected Poems: Volume TwoAuthor: Alfred NoyesRelease date: December 4, 2009 [eBook #30599]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
Title: Collected Poems: Volume Two
Author: Alfred Noyes
Author: Alfred Noyes
Release date: December 4, 2009 [eBook #30599]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLLECTED POEMS: VOLUME TWO ***
NEW YORKFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANYPUBLISHERSCOPYRIGHT, 1913, BYFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1906, 1907, 1908, BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1909, 1910, 1911, BYFREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1906, 1909, BYALFRED NOYES
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian. All dramatic and acting rights, both professional and amateur, are reserved. Application for the right of performing should be made to the publishers.
October, 1913
PageMist in the Valley1A Song of the Plough4The Banner6Rank and File6The Sky-Lark Caged11The Lovers' Flight13The Rock Pool16The Island Hawk20The Admiral's Ghost26Edinburgh29In a Railway Carriage30An East-End Coffee-Stall32Red of the Dawn33The Dream-Child's Invitation35The Tramp Transfigured37On the Downs50A May-Day Carol52The Call of the Spring53A Devonshire Ditty55Bacchus and the Pirates56The Newspaper Boy64The Two Worlds66Gorse68For the Eightieth Birthday of George Meredith69In Memory of Swinburne70On the Death of Francis Thompson72In Memory of Meredith74The Testimony of Art76The Scholars76Resurrection77A Japanese Love-Song78The Two Painters79The Enchanted Island88Unity92The Hill-Flower93Actæon95Lucifer's Feast101Veterans107The Quest Renewed108The Lights of Home109'Tween the Lights110Creation113The Peacemaker115The Sailor-King117The Fiddler's Farewell118To a Pessimist119Mount Ida120The Electric Tram127Sherwood128Tales of the Mermaid TavernIA Knight of the Ocean-Sea274IIA Coiner of Angels285IIIBlack Bill's Honey-moon303IVThe Sign of the Golden Shoe322VThe Companion of a Mile340VIBig Ben351VIIThe Burial of a Queen361VIIIFlos Mercatorum386IXRaleigh411A Watchword of the Fleet434New Wars for Old435The Prayer for Peace436The Sword of England438The Dawn of Peace438The Bringers of Good News440The Lonely Shrine442To a Friend of Boyhood Lost at Sea443Our Lady of the Twilight444The Hill-Flowers445The Carol of the Fir-Tree447Lavender450
IMist in the valley, weeping mistBeset my homeward way.No gleam of rose or amethystHallowed the parting day;A shroud, a shroud of awful greyWrapped every woodland brow,And drooped in crumbling disarrayAround each wintry bough.IIAnd closer round me now it clungUntil I scarce could seeThe stealthy pathway overhungBy silent tree and treeWhich floated in that mysteryAs—poised in waveless deeps—Branching in worlds below the sea,The grey sea-forest sleeps.IIIMist in the valley, mist no lessWithin my groping mind!The stile swam out: a wildernessRolled round it, grey and blind.A yard in front, a yard behind,So strait my world was grown,I stooped to win once more some kindGlimmer of twig or stone.IVI crossed and lost the friendly stileAnd listened. Never a soundCame to me. Mile on mile on mileIt seemed the world aroundBeneath some infinite sea lay drownedWith all that e'er drew breath;Whilst I, alone, had strangely foundA moment's life in death.VA universe of lifeless greyOppressed me overhead.Below, a yard of clinging clayWith rotting foliage redGlimmered. The stillness of the dead,Hark!—was it broken nowBy the slow drip of tears that bledFrom hidden heart or bough.VIMist in the valley, mist no lessThat muffled every cryAcross the soul's grey wildernessWhere faith lay down to die;Buried beyond all hope was I,Hope had no meaning there:A yard above my head the skyCould only mock at prayer.VIIE'en as I groped along, the gloomSuddenly shook at my feet!O, strangely as from a rending tombIn resurrection, sweetSwift wings tumultuously beatAway! I paused to hark—O, birds of thought, too fair, too fleetTo follow across the dark!VIIIYet, like a madman's dream, there cameOne fair swift flash to meOf distances, of streets a-flameWith joy and agony,And further yet, a moon-lit seaFoaming across its bars,And further yet, the infinityOf wheeling suns and stars,IXAnd further yet ... O, mist of sunsI grope amidst your light,O, further yet, what vast responseFrom what transcendent height?Wild wings that burst thro' death's dim nightI can but pause and hark;For O, ye are too swift, too white,To follow across the dark!XMist in the valley, yet I saw,And in my soul I knewThe gleaming City whence I drawThe strength that then I drew,My misty pathway to pursueWith steady pulse and breathThrough these dim forest-ways of dewAnd darkness, life and death.
I
Mist in the valley, weeping mistBeset my homeward way.No gleam of rose or amethystHallowed the parting day;A shroud, a shroud of awful greyWrapped every woodland brow,And drooped in crumbling disarrayAround each wintry bough.
II
And closer round me now it clungUntil I scarce could seeThe stealthy pathway overhungBy silent tree and treeWhich floated in that mysteryAs—poised in waveless deeps—Branching in worlds below the sea,The grey sea-forest sleeps.
III
Mist in the valley, mist no lessWithin my groping mind!The stile swam out: a wildernessRolled round it, grey and blind.A yard in front, a yard behind,So strait my world was grown,I stooped to win once more some kindGlimmer of twig or stone.
IV
I crossed and lost the friendly stileAnd listened. Never a soundCame to me. Mile on mile on mileIt seemed the world aroundBeneath some infinite sea lay drownedWith all that e'er drew breath;Whilst I, alone, had strangely foundA moment's life in death.
V
A universe of lifeless greyOppressed me overhead.Below, a yard of clinging clayWith rotting foliage redGlimmered. The stillness of the dead,Hark!—was it broken nowBy the slow drip of tears that bledFrom hidden heart or bough.
VI
Mist in the valley, mist no lessThat muffled every cryAcross the soul's grey wildernessWhere faith lay down to die;Buried beyond all hope was I,Hope had no meaning there:A yard above my head the skyCould only mock at prayer.
VII
E'en as I groped along, the gloomSuddenly shook at my feet!O, strangely as from a rending tombIn resurrection, sweetSwift wings tumultuously beatAway! I paused to hark—O, birds of thought, too fair, too fleetTo follow across the dark!
VIII
Yet, like a madman's dream, there cameOne fair swift flash to meOf distances, of streets a-flameWith joy and agony,And further yet, a moon-lit seaFoaming across its bars,And further yet, the infinityOf wheeling suns and stars,
IX
And further yet ... O, mist of sunsI grope amidst your light,O, further yet, what vast responseFrom what transcendent height?Wild wings that burst thro' death's dim nightI can but pause and hark;For O, ye are too swift, too white,To follow across the dark!
X
Mist in the valley, yet I saw,And in my soul I knewThe gleaming City whence I drawThe strength that then I drew,My misty pathway to pursueWith steady pulse and breathThrough these dim forest-ways of dewAnd darkness, life and death.
I(Morning.)Idle, comfortless, bare,The broad bleak acres lie:The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshareSteadily nigh.The big plough-horses liftAnd climb from the marge of the sea,And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind driftOver the fallow lea.Streaming up with the yoke,Brown as the sweet-smelling loam,Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smokeThe two great horses come.Up thro' the raw cold mornThey trample and drag and swing;And my dreams are waving with ungrown cornIn a far-off spring.It is my soul lies bareBetween the hills and the sea:Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare,And plough the field for me.II(Evening.)Over the darkening plainAs the stars regain the sky,Steals the chime of an unseen reinSteadily nigh.Lost in the deepening redThe sea has forgotten the shore:The great dark steeds with their muffled treadDraw near once more.To the furrow's end they sweepLike a sombre wave of the sea,Lifting its crest to challenge the deepHush of Eternity.Still for a moment they stand,Massed on the sun's red death,A surge of bronze, too great, too grand,To endure for more than a breath.Only the billow and streamOf muscle and flank and maneLike darkling mountain-cataracts gleamGripped in a Titan's rein.Once more from the furrow's endThey wheel to the fallow lea,And down the muffled slope descendTo the sleeping sea.And the fibrous knots of clay,And the sun-dried clots of earthCleave, and the sunset cloaks the greyWaste and the stony dearth!O, broad and dusky and sweet,The sunset covers the weald;But my dreams are waving with golden wheatIn a still strange field.My soul, my soul lies bare,Between the hills and the sea;Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare,And plough the field for me.
I
(Morning.)
Idle, comfortless, bare,The broad bleak acres lie:The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshareSteadily nigh.
The big plough-horses liftAnd climb from the marge of the sea,And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind driftOver the fallow lea.
Streaming up with the yoke,Brown as the sweet-smelling loam,Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smokeThe two great horses come.
Up thro' the raw cold mornThey trample and drag and swing;And my dreams are waving with ungrown cornIn a far-off spring.
It is my soul lies bareBetween the hills and the sea:Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare,And plough the field for me.
II
(Evening.)
Over the darkening plainAs the stars regain the sky,Steals the chime of an unseen reinSteadily nigh.
Lost in the deepening redThe sea has forgotten the shore:The great dark steeds with their muffled treadDraw near once more.
To the furrow's end they sweepLike a sombre wave of the sea,Lifting its crest to challenge the deepHush of Eternity.
Still for a moment they stand,Massed on the sun's red death,A surge of bronze, too great, too grand,To endure for more than a breath.
Only the billow and streamOf muscle and flank and maneLike darkling mountain-cataracts gleamGripped in a Titan's rein.
Once more from the furrow's endThey wheel to the fallow lea,And down the muffled slope descendTo the sleeping sea.
And the fibrous knots of clay,And the sun-dried clots of earthCleave, and the sunset cloaks the greyWaste and the stony dearth!
O, broad and dusky and sweet,The sunset covers the weald;But my dreams are waving with golden wheatIn a still strange field.
My soul, my soul lies bare,Between the hills and the sea;Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare,And plough the field for me.
Who in the gorgeous vanguard of the yearsWith wingèd helmet glistens, let him holdEre he pluck down this banner, crying "It bearsAn old device"; for, though it seem the old,It is the new! No rent shroud of the past,But its transfigured spirit that still shinesTriumphantly before the foremost lines,Even from the first prophesying the last.And whoso dreams to pluck it down shall standBewildered, while the great host thunders by;And he shall show the rent shroud in his handAnd "Lo, I lead the van!" he still shall cry;While leagues away, the spirit-banner shinesRushing in triumph before the foremost lines.
Who in the gorgeous vanguard of the yearsWith wingèd helmet glistens, let him holdEre he pluck down this banner, crying "It bearsAn old device"; for, though it seem the old,
It is the new! No rent shroud of the past,But its transfigured spirit that still shinesTriumphantly before the foremost lines,Even from the first prophesying the last.
And whoso dreams to pluck it down shall standBewildered, while the great host thunders by;And he shall show the rent shroud in his handAnd "Lo, I lead the van!" he still shall cry;
While leagues away, the spirit-banner shinesRushing in triumph before the foremost lines.
IDrum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching,Marching past in the night? Ah, hark,Draw your curtains aside and seeEndless ranks of the stars o'er-archingEndless ranks of an army marching,Marching out of the measureless dark,Marching away to Eternity.IISee the gleam of the white sad facesMoving steadily, row on row,Marching away to their hopeless wars:Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching?Terrible, beautiful, human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars.IIIIs it the last rank readily, steadilySwinging away to the unknown doom?Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beatLouder, and here they come marching, marching,Great new level locked ranks of them readilySteadily swinging out of the gloomMarching endlessly down the street.IVUnregarded imperial regimentsWhite from the roaring intricate placesDeep in the maw of the world's machine,Well content, they are marching, marching,Unregarded imperial regiments,Ay, and there are those terrible facesGreat world-heroes that might have been.VHints and facets of One—the Eternal,Faces of grief, compassion and pain,Faces of hunger, faces of stone,Faces of love and of labour, marching,Changing facets of One—the Eternal,Streaming up thro' the wind and the rain,All together and each alone.VIYou that doubt of the world's one Passion,You for whose science the stars are a-stray,Hark—to their orderly thunder-tread!These, in the night, with the stars are marchingOne to the end of the world's one Passion!You that have taken their Master away,Where have you laid Him, living or dead?VIIYou whose laws have hidden the One Law,You whose searchings obscure the goal,You whose systems from chaos begun,Chance-born, order-less, hark, they are marching,Hearts and tides and stars to the One Law,Measured and orderly, rhythmical, whole,Multitudinous, welded and one.VIIISplit your threads of the seamless purple,Round you marches the world-wide host,Round your skies is the marching sky,Out in the night there's an army marching,Clothed with the night's own seamless purple,Making death for the King their boast,Marching straight to Eternity.IXWhat do you know of the shot-riddled bannersRoyally surging out of the gloom,You whose denials their souls despise?Out in the night they are marching, marching!Treasure your wisdom, and leave them their banners!Then—when you follow them down to the tombPray for one glimpse of the faith in their eyes.XPray for one gleam of the white sad faces,Moving steadily, row on row,Marching away to their hopeless wars,Doomed to be trodden like dung, but marching,Terrible, beautiful human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars.XIWhat of the end? Will your knowledge escape it?What of the end of their dumb dark tears?You who mock at their faith and sing,Look, for their ragged old banners are marchingDown to the end—will your knowledge escape it?—Down to the end of a few brief years!What should they care for the wisdom you bring.XIICount as they pass, their hundreds, thousands,Millions, marching away to a doomYounger than London, older that Tyre!Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching,Regiments, nations, empires, marching?Down thro' the jaws of a world-wide tomb,Doomed or ever they sprang from the mire!XIIIDoomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden,Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road,Father and little one, lover and friend,Out in the night they are marching, marching,Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden,Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load,Love that—marched to the self-same end.XIVWhat of the end?—O, not of your glory,Not of your wealth or your fame that will liveHalf as long as this pellet of dust!—Out in the night there's an army marching,Nameless, noteless, empty of glory,Ready to suffer and die and forgive,Marching onward in simple trust,XVWearing their poor little toy love-tokensUnder the march of the terrible skies!Is it a jest for a God to play?—Whose is the jest of these millions marching,Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens,Waving their voicelessly grand good-byes,Secretly trying, sometimes, to pray.XVIDare you dream their trust in EternityBroken, O you to whom prayers are vain,You who dream that their God is dead?Take your answer—these millions marchingOut of Eternity, into Eternity,These that smiled "We shall meet again,"Even as the life from their loved one fled.XVIIThis is the answer, not of the sages,Not of the loves that are ready to part,Ready to find their oblivion sweet!Out in the night there's an army marching,Men that have toiled thro' the endless ages,Men of the pit and the desk and the mart,Men that remember, the men in the street,XVIIIThese that into the gloom of EternityStream thro' the dream of this lamp-starred townLondon, an army of clouds to-night!These that of old came marching, marching,Out of the terrible gloom of Eternity,Bowing their heads at Rameses' frown,Streaming away thro' Babylon's light;XIXThese that swept at the sound of the trumpetOut thro' the night like gonfaloned clouds,Exiled hosts when the world was Rome,Tossing their tattered old eagles, marchingDown to sleep till the great last trumpet,London, Nineveh, rend your shrouds,Rally the legions and lead them home,XXLead them home with their glorious facesMoving steadily, row on rowMarching up from the end of wars,Out of the Valley of Shadows, marching,Terrible, beautiful, human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars,XXIMarching out of the endless ages,Marching out of the dawn of time,Endless columns of unknown men,Endless ranks of the stars o'er-archingEndless ranks of an army marchingNumberless out of the numberless ages,Men out of every race and clime,Marching steadily, now as then.
I
Drum-taps! Drum-taps! Who is it marching,Marching past in the night? Ah, hark,Draw your curtains aside and seeEndless ranks of the stars o'er-archingEndless ranks of an army marching,Marching out of the measureless dark,Marching away to Eternity.
II
See the gleam of the white sad facesMoving steadily, row on row,Marching away to their hopeless wars:Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching?Terrible, beautiful, human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars.
III
Is it the last rank readily, steadilySwinging away to the unknown doom?Ere you can think it, the drum-taps beatLouder, and here they come marching, marching,Great new level locked ranks of them readilySteadily swinging out of the gloomMarching endlessly down the street.
IV
Unregarded imperial regimentsWhite from the roaring intricate placesDeep in the maw of the world's machine,Well content, they are marching, marching,Unregarded imperial regiments,Ay, and there are those terrible facesGreat world-heroes that might have been.
V
Hints and facets of One—the Eternal,Faces of grief, compassion and pain,Faces of hunger, faces of stone,Faces of love and of labour, marching,Changing facets of One—the Eternal,Streaming up thro' the wind and the rain,All together and each alone.
VI
You that doubt of the world's one Passion,You for whose science the stars are a-stray,Hark—to their orderly thunder-tread!These, in the night, with the stars are marchingOne to the end of the world's one Passion!You that have taken their Master away,Where have you laid Him, living or dead?
VII
You whose laws have hidden the One Law,You whose searchings obscure the goal,You whose systems from chaos begun,Chance-born, order-less, hark, they are marching,Hearts and tides and stars to the One Law,Measured and orderly, rhythmical, whole,Multitudinous, welded and one.
VIII
Split your threads of the seamless purple,Round you marches the world-wide host,Round your skies is the marching sky,Out in the night there's an army marching,Clothed with the night's own seamless purple,Making death for the King their boast,Marching straight to Eternity.
IX
What do you know of the shot-riddled bannersRoyally surging out of the gloom,You whose denials their souls despise?Out in the night they are marching, marching!Treasure your wisdom, and leave them their banners!Then—when you follow them down to the tombPray for one glimpse of the faith in their eyes.
X
Pray for one gleam of the white sad faces,Moving steadily, row on row,Marching away to their hopeless wars,Doomed to be trodden like dung, but marching,Terrible, beautiful human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars.
XI
What of the end? Will your knowledge escape it?What of the end of their dumb dark tears?You who mock at their faith and sing,Look, for their ragged old banners are marchingDown to the end—will your knowledge escape it?—Down to the end of a few brief years!What should they care for the wisdom you bring.
XII
Count as they pass, their hundreds, thousands,Millions, marching away to a doomYounger than London, older that Tyre!Drum-taps, drum-taps, where are they marching,Regiments, nations, empires, marching?Down thro' the jaws of a world-wide tomb,Doomed or ever they sprang from the mire!
XIII
Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden,Trodden and kneaded as clay in the road,Father and little one, lover and friend,Out in the night they are marching, marching,Doomed to be shovelled like dung to the midden,Bodies that bowed beneath Christ's own load,Love that—marched to the self-same end.
XIV
What of the end?—O, not of your glory,Not of your wealth or your fame that will liveHalf as long as this pellet of dust!—Out in the night there's an army marching,Nameless, noteless, empty of glory,Ready to suffer and die and forgive,Marching onward in simple trust,
XV
Wearing their poor little toy love-tokensUnder the march of the terrible skies!Is it a jest for a God to play?—Whose is the jest of these millions marching,Wearing their poor little toy love-tokens,Waving their voicelessly grand good-byes,Secretly trying, sometimes, to pray.
XVI
Dare you dream their trust in EternityBroken, O you to whom prayers are vain,You who dream that their God is dead?Take your answer—these millions marchingOut of Eternity, into Eternity,These that smiled "We shall meet again,"Even as the life from their loved one fled.
XVII
This is the answer, not of the sages,Not of the loves that are ready to part,Ready to find their oblivion sweet!Out in the night there's an army marching,Men that have toiled thro' the endless ages,Men of the pit and the desk and the mart,Men that remember, the men in the street,
XVIII
These that into the gloom of EternityStream thro' the dream of this lamp-starred townLondon, an army of clouds to-night!These that of old came marching, marching,Out of the terrible gloom of Eternity,Bowing their heads at Rameses' frown,Streaming away thro' Babylon's light;
XIX
These that swept at the sound of the trumpetOut thro' the night like gonfaloned clouds,Exiled hosts when the world was Rome,Tossing their tattered old eagles, marchingDown to sleep till the great last trumpet,London, Nineveh, rend your shrouds,Rally the legions and lead them home,
XX
Lead them home with their glorious facesMoving steadily, row on rowMarching up from the end of wars,Out of the Valley of Shadows, marching,Terrible, beautiful, human faces,Common as dirt, but softer than snow,Coarser than clay, but calm as the stars,
XXI
Marching out of the endless ages,Marching out of the dawn of time,Endless columns of unknown men,Endless ranks of the stars o'er-archingEndless ranks of an army marchingNumberless out of the numberless ages,Men out of every race and clime,Marching steadily, now as then.
IBeat, little breast, against the wires.Strive, little wings and misted eyesWhich one wild gleam of memory firesBeseeching still the unfettered skies,Whither at dewy dawn you sprangQuivering with joy from this dark earth and sang.IIAnd still you sing—your narrow cageShall set at least your music free!Its rapturous wings in glorious rageMount and are lost in liberty,While those who caged you creep on earthBlind prisoners from the hour that gave them birth.IIISing! The great City surges round.Blinded with light, thou canst not know.Dream! 'Tis the fir-woods' windy soundRolling a psalm of praise below.Sing, o'er the bitter dust and shame,And touch us with thine own transcendent flame.IVSing, o'er the City dust and slime;Sing, o'er the squalor and the gold,The greed that darkens earth with crime,The spirits that are bought and sold.O, shower the healing notes like rain,And lift us to the height of grief again.VSing! The same music swells your breast,And the wild notes are still as sweetAs when above the fragrant nestAnd the wide billowing fields of wheatYou soared and sang the livelong day,And in the light of heaven dissolved away.VIThe light of heaven! Is it not here?One rapture, one ecstatic joy,One passion, one sublime despair,One grief which nothing can destroy,You—though your dying eyes are wetRemember, 'tis our blunted hearts forget.VIIBeat, little breast, still beat, still beat,Strive, misted eyes and tremulous wings;Swell, little throat, yourSweet! Sweet! Sweet!Thro' which such deathless memory rings:Better to break your heart and die,Than, like your gaolers, to forget your sky.
I
Beat, little breast, against the wires.Strive, little wings and misted eyesWhich one wild gleam of memory firesBeseeching still the unfettered skies,Whither at dewy dawn you sprangQuivering with joy from this dark earth and sang.
II
And still you sing—your narrow cageShall set at least your music free!Its rapturous wings in glorious rageMount and are lost in liberty,While those who caged you creep on earthBlind prisoners from the hour that gave them birth.
III
Sing! The great City surges round.Blinded with light, thou canst not know.Dream! 'Tis the fir-woods' windy soundRolling a psalm of praise below.Sing, o'er the bitter dust and shame,And touch us with thine own transcendent flame.
IV
Sing, o'er the City dust and slime;Sing, o'er the squalor and the gold,The greed that darkens earth with crime,The spirits that are bought and sold.O, shower the healing notes like rain,And lift us to the height of grief again.
V
Sing! The same music swells your breast,And the wild notes are still as sweetAs when above the fragrant nestAnd the wide billowing fields of wheatYou soared and sang the livelong day,And in the light of heaven dissolved away.
VI
The light of heaven! Is it not here?One rapture, one ecstatic joy,One passion, one sublime despair,One grief which nothing can destroy,You—though your dying eyes are wetRemember, 'tis our blunted hearts forget.
VII
Beat, little breast, still beat, still beat,Strive, misted eyes and tremulous wings;Swell, little throat, yourSweet! Sweet! Sweet!Thro' which such deathless memory rings:Better to break your heart and die,Than, like your gaolers, to forget your sky.
ICome, the dusk is lit with flowers!Quietly take this guiding hand:Little breath to waste is oursOn the road to lovers' land.Time is in his dungeon-keep!Ah, not thither, lest he hear,Starting from his old grey sleep,Rosy feet upon the stair.IIAh, not thither, lest he heedEre we reach the rusty door!Nay, the stairways only leadBack to his dark world once more:There's a merrier way we knowLeading to a lovelier night—See, your casement all a-glowDiamonding the wonder-light.IIIFling the flowery lattice wide,Let the silken ladder down,Swiftly to the garden glideGlimmering in your long white gown,Rosy from your pillow, sweet,Come, unsandalled and divine;Let the blossoms stain your feetAnd the stars behold them shine.IVSwift, our pawing palfreys wait,And the page—Dan Cupid—frets,Holding at the garden gateReins that chime like castanets,Bits a-foam with fairy flakesFlung from seas whence Venus rose:Come, for Father Time awakesAnd the star of morning glows.VSwift—one satin foot shall swayHalf a heart-beat in my hand,Swing to stirrup and swift awayDown the road to lovers' land:Ride—the moon is dusky gold,Ride—our hearts are young and warm,Ride—the hour is growing old,And the next may break the charm.VISwift, ere we that thought the songFull—for others—of the truth,We that smiled, contented, strong,Dowered with endless wealth of youth,Find that like a summer cloudYouth indeed has crept away,Find the robe a clinging shroudAnd the hair be-sprent with grey.VIIRide—we'll leave it all behind,All the turmoil and the tears,All the mad vindictive blindYelping of the heartless years!Ride—the ringing world's in chase,Yet we've slipped old Father Time,By the love-light in your faceAnd the jingle of this rhyme.VIIIRide—for still the hunt is loud!Ride—our steeds can hold their own!Yours, a satin sea-wave, proud,Queen, to be your living throne,Glittering with the foam and fireChurned from seas whence Venus rose,Tow'rds the gates of our desireGloriously burning flows.IXHe, with streaming flanks a-smoke,Needs no spur of blood-stained steel:Only that soft thudding strokeOnce, o' the little satin heel,Drives his mighty heart, your slave,Bridled with these bells of rhyme,Onward, like a crested waveThundering out of hail of Time.XOn, till from a rosy sparkFairy-small as gleams your hand,Broadening as we cleave the dark,Dawn the gates of lovers' land,Nearing, sweet, till breast and browLifted through the purple nightCatch the deepening glory nowAnd your eyes the wonder-light.XIE'en as tow'rd your face I leanSwooping nigh the gates of bliss,I the king and you the queenCrown each other with a kiss.Riding, soaring like a songBurn we tow'rds the heaven above,You the sweet and I the strongAnd in both the fire of love.XIIRide—though now the distant chaseKnows that we have slipped old Time,Lift the love-light of your face,Shake the bridle of this rhyme,See, the flowers of night and dayStreaming past on either hand,Ride into the eternal May,Ride into the lovers' land.
I
Come, the dusk is lit with flowers!Quietly take this guiding hand:Little breath to waste is oursOn the road to lovers' land.Time is in his dungeon-keep!Ah, not thither, lest he hear,Starting from his old grey sleep,Rosy feet upon the stair.
II
Ah, not thither, lest he heedEre we reach the rusty door!Nay, the stairways only leadBack to his dark world once more:There's a merrier way we knowLeading to a lovelier night—See, your casement all a-glowDiamonding the wonder-light.
III
Fling the flowery lattice wide,Let the silken ladder down,Swiftly to the garden glideGlimmering in your long white gown,Rosy from your pillow, sweet,Come, unsandalled and divine;Let the blossoms stain your feetAnd the stars behold them shine.
IV
Swift, our pawing palfreys wait,And the page—Dan Cupid—frets,Holding at the garden gateReins that chime like castanets,Bits a-foam with fairy flakesFlung from seas whence Venus rose:Come, for Father Time awakesAnd the star of morning glows.
V
Swift—one satin foot shall swayHalf a heart-beat in my hand,Swing to stirrup and swift awayDown the road to lovers' land:Ride—the moon is dusky gold,Ride—our hearts are young and warm,Ride—the hour is growing old,And the next may break the charm.
VI
Swift, ere we that thought the songFull—for others—of the truth,We that smiled, contented, strong,Dowered with endless wealth of youth,Find that like a summer cloudYouth indeed has crept away,Find the robe a clinging shroudAnd the hair be-sprent with grey.
VII
Ride—we'll leave it all behind,All the turmoil and the tears,All the mad vindictive blindYelping of the heartless years!Ride—the ringing world's in chase,Yet we've slipped old Father Time,By the love-light in your faceAnd the jingle of this rhyme.
VIII
Ride—for still the hunt is loud!Ride—our steeds can hold their own!Yours, a satin sea-wave, proud,Queen, to be your living throne,Glittering with the foam and fireChurned from seas whence Venus rose,Tow'rds the gates of our desireGloriously burning flows.
IX
He, with streaming flanks a-smoke,Needs no spur of blood-stained steel:Only that soft thudding strokeOnce, o' the little satin heel,Drives his mighty heart, your slave,Bridled with these bells of rhyme,Onward, like a crested waveThundering out of hail of Time.
X
On, till from a rosy sparkFairy-small as gleams your hand,Broadening as we cleave the dark,Dawn the gates of lovers' land,Nearing, sweet, till breast and browLifted through the purple nightCatch the deepening glory nowAnd your eyes the wonder-light.
XI
E'en as tow'rd your face I leanSwooping nigh the gates of bliss,I the king and you the queenCrown each other with a kiss.Riding, soaring like a songBurn we tow'rds the heaven above,You the sweet and I the strongAnd in both the fire of love.
XII
Ride—though now the distant chaseKnows that we have slipped old Time,Lift the love-light of your face,Shake the bridle of this rhyme,See, the flowers of night and dayStreaming past on either hand,Ride into the eternal May,Ride into the lovers' land.