294
I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAINI never shall love the snow againSince Maurice died:With corniced drift it blocked the laneAnd sheeted in a desolate plainThe country side.The trees with silvery rime bedightTheir branches bare.By day no sun appeared; by nightThe hidden moon shed thievish lightIn the misty air.We fed the birds that flew aroundIn flocks to be fed:No shelter in holly or brake they found.The speckled thrush on the frozen groundLay frozen and dead.We skated on stream and pond; we cutThe crinching snowTo Doric temple or Arctic hut;We laughed and sang at nightfall, shutBy the fireside glow.Yet grudged we our keen delights beforeMaurice should come.We said, In-door or out-of-doorWe shall love life for a month or more,When he is home.They brought him home; 'twas two days lateFor Christmas day:Wrapped in white, in solemn state,A flower in his hand, all still and straightOur Maurice lay.And two days ere the year outgaveWe laid him low.The best of us truly were not brave,When we laid Maurice down in his graveUnder the snow.Robert Bridges
I never shall love the snow againSince Maurice died:With corniced drift it blocked the laneAnd sheeted in a desolate plainThe country side.The trees with silvery rime bedightTheir branches bare.By day no sun appeared; by nightThe hidden moon shed thievish lightIn the misty air.We fed the birds that flew aroundIn flocks to be fed:No shelter in holly or brake they found.The speckled thrush on the frozen groundLay frozen and dead.We skated on stream and pond; we cutThe crinching snowTo Doric temple or Arctic hut;We laughed and sang at nightfall, shutBy the fireside glow.Yet grudged we our keen delights beforeMaurice should come.We said, In-door or out-of-doorWe shall love life for a month or more,When he is home.They brought him home; 'twas two days lateFor Christmas day:Wrapped in white, in solemn state,A flower in his hand, all still and straightOur Maurice lay.And two days ere the year outgaveWe laid him low.The best of us truly were not brave,When we laid Maurice down in his graveUnder the snow.Robert Bridges
I never shall love the snow againSince Maurice died:With corniced drift it blocked the laneAnd sheeted in a desolate plainThe country side.
I never shall love the snow again
Since Maurice died:
With corniced drift it blocked the lane
And sheeted in a desolate plain
The country side.
The trees with silvery rime bedightTheir branches bare.By day no sun appeared; by nightThe hidden moon shed thievish lightIn the misty air.
The trees with silvery rime bedight
Their branches bare.
By day no sun appeared; by night
The hidden moon shed thievish light
In the misty air.
We fed the birds that flew aroundIn flocks to be fed:No shelter in holly or brake they found.The speckled thrush on the frozen groundLay frozen and dead.
We fed the birds that flew around
In flocks to be fed:
No shelter in holly or brake they found.
The speckled thrush on the frozen ground
Lay frozen and dead.
We skated on stream and pond; we cutThe crinching snowTo Doric temple or Arctic hut;We laughed and sang at nightfall, shutBy the fireside glow.
We skated on stream and pond; we cut
The crinching snow
To Doric temple or Arctic hut;
We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut
By the fireside glow.
Yet grudged we our keen delights beforeMaurice should come.We said, In-door or out-of-doorWe shall love life for a month or more,When he is home.
Yet grudged we our keen delights before
Maurice should come.
We said, In-door or out-of-door
We shall love life for a month or more,
When he is home.
They brought him home; 'twas two days lateFor Christmas day:Wrapped in white, in solemn state,A flower in his hand, all still and straightOur Maurice lay.
They brought him home; 'twas two days late
For Christmas day:
Wrapped in white, in solemn state,
A flower in his hand, all still and straight
Our Maurice lay.
And two days ere the year outgaveWe laid him low.The best of us truly were not brave,When we laid Maurice down in his graveUnder the snow.Robert Bridges
And two days ere the year outgave
We laid him low.
The best of us truly were not brave,
When we laid Maurice down in his grave
Under the snow.
Robert Bridges
295
THE COMFORTERSWhen I crept over the hill, broken with tears,When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak,As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.Dora Sigerson Shorter
When I crept over the hill, broken with tears,When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak,As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.Dora Sigerson Shorter
When I crept over the hill, broken with tears,When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.
When I crept over the hill, broken with tears,
When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,
I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak,As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak,
As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,
The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.
When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,
When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,
I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek,The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.Dora Sigerson Shorter
When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,
When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek,
The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
Dora Sigerson Shorter
296
THE CHILDLESS FATHER"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills made a holiday show.Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before,Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;One child did it bear, and that child was his last.Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.William Wordsworth
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills made a holiday show.Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before,Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;One child did it bear, and that child was his last.Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.William Wordsworth
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before,Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.William Wordsworth
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
William Wordsworth
297
"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"Lydia is gone this many a year,Yet when the lilacs stir,In the old gardens far or near,This house is full of her.They climb the twisted chamber stair;Her picture haunts the room;On the carved shelf beneath it there,They heap the purple bloom.A ghost so long has Lydia been,Her cloak upon the wall,Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,Seems not her cloak at all.The book, the box on mantle laid,The shells in a pale row,Are those of some dim little maid,A thousand years ago.And yet the house is full of her,She goes and comes again;And longings thrill, and memories stir,Like lilacs in the rain.Out in their yards the neighbours walk,Among the blossoms tall;Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,Of Lydia not at all.Lizette Woodworth Reese
Lydia is gone this many a year,Yet when the lilacs stir,In the old gardens far or near,This house is full of her.They climb the twisted chamber stair;Her picture haunts the room;On the carved shelf beneath it there,They heap the purple bloom.A ghost so long has Lydia been,Her cloak upon the wall,Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,Seems not her cloak at all.The book, the box on mantle laid,The shells in a pale row,Are those of some dim little maid,A thousand years ago.And yet the house is full of her,She goes and comes again;And longings thrill, and memories stir,Like lilacs in the rain.Out in their yards the neighbours walk,Among the blossoms tall;Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,Of Lydia not at all.Lizette Woodworth Reese
Lydia is gone this many a year,Yet when the lilacs stir,In the old gardens far or near,This house is full of her.
Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
This house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;Her picture haunts the room;On the carved shelf beneath it there,They heap the purple bloom.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,Her cloak upon the wall,Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,Seems not her cloak at all.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantle laid,The shells in a pale row,Are those of some dim little maid,A thousand years ago.
The book, the box on mantle laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her,She goes and comes again;And longings thrill, and memories stir,Like lilacs in the rain.
And yet the house is full of her,
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbours walk,Among the blossoms tall;Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,Of Lydia not at all.Lizette Woodworth Reese
Out in their yards the neighbours walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
Lizette Woodworth Reese
298
REMEMBRANCECold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?Now—when alone—do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From those brown hills, have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!No later light has lightened up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?Emily Brontë
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?Now—when alone—do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From those brown hills, have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!No later light has lightened up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?Emily Brontë
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now—when alone—do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Now—when alone—do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From those brown hills, have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?Emily Brontë
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
Emily Brontë
299
SONGWhen I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may rememberAnd haply may forget.Christina Rossetti
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may rememberAnd haply may forget.Christina Rossetti
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may rememberAnd haply may forget.Christina Rossetti
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember
And haply may forget.
Christina Rossetti
300
"WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST"Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?—Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.There through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!Sir Walter Scott
Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?—Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.There through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!Sir Walter Scott
Where shall the lover restWhom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breastParted for ever?—Where, through groves deep and highSounds the far billow,Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loroSoft shall be his pillow.
Where shall the lover rest
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast
Parted for ever?—
Where, through groves deep and high
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow.
Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer dayCool streams are laving:There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wakeNever, O never!Eleu loroNever, O never!Sir Walter Scott
There through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never!
Eleu loro
Never, O never!
Sir Walter Scott
301
REMEMBERRemember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.Christina Rossetti
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Christina Rossetti
302
READEN OV A HEAD-STWONEAs I wer readėn ov a stwone,In Grenley church-yard, all alwone,A little maïd ran up, wi' prideTo zee me there; an' pushed azideA bunch o' bennets, that did hideA verse her father, as she zaïd,Put up above her mother's headTo tell how much he loved her.The verse wer short, but very good,I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—"Mid[123]God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce"To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,"Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce;"An' bring thy children up, to know"His word, that they mid come an' show"Thy soul how much I loved thee.""Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?""Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile;"An' I an' brother Jem do bide"At Betty White's, o'tother zide"O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,"That's father to the fatherless,"Become thy father now, an' bless"An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."—Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,Still He don't let the thoughts o't touchHer litsome heart, by day or night;An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,Do show He'll meäke his burdens lightTo weaker souls; an' that his smile,Is sweet upon a harmless chile,When they be dead that loved it.William Barnes
As I wer readėn ov a stwone,In Grenley church-yard, all alwone,A little maïd ran up, wi' prideTo zee me there; an' pushed azideA bunch o' bennets, that did hideA verse her father, as she zaïd,Put up above her mother's headTo tell how much he loved her.The verse wer short, but very good,I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—"Mid[123]God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce"To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,"Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce;"An' bring thy children up, to know"His word, that they mid come an' show"Thy soul how much I loved thee.""Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?""Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile;"An' I an' brother Jem do bide"At Betty White's, o'tother zide"O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,"That's father to the fatherless,"Become thy father now, an' bless"An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."—Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,Still He don't let the thoughts o't touchHer litsome heart, by day or night;An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,Do show He'll meäke his burdens lightTo weaker souls; an' that his smile,Is sweet upon a harmless chile,When they be dead that loved it.William Barnes
As I wer readėn ov a stwone,In Grenley church-yard, all alwone,A little maïd ran up, wi' prideTo zee me there; an' pushed azideA bunch o' bennets, that did hideA verse her father, as she zaïd,Put up above her mother's headTo tell how much he loved her.
As I wer readėn ov a stwone,
In Grenley church-yard, all alwone,
A little maïd ran up, wi' pride
To zee me there; an' pushed azide
A bunch o' bennets, that did hide
A verse her father, as she zaïd,
Put up above her mother's head
To tell how much he loved her.
The verse wer short, but very good,I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—"Mid[123]God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce"To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,"Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce;"An' bring thy children up, to know"His word, that they mid come an' show"Thy soul how much I loved thee."
The verse wer short, but very good,
I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—
"Mid[123]God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce
"To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,
"Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce;
"An' bring thy children up, to know
"His word, that they mid come an' show
"Thy soul how much I loved thee."
"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?""Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile;"An' I an' brother Jem do bide"At Betty White's, o'tother zide"O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,"That's father to the fatherless,"Become thy father now, an' bless"An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."
"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?"
"Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile;
"An' I an' brother Jem do bide
"At Betty White's, o'tother zide
"O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,
"That's father to the fatherless,
"Become thy father now, an' bless
"An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."
—Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,Still He don't let the thoughts o't touchHer litsome heart, by day or night;An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,Do show He'll meäke his burdens lightTo weaker souls; an' that his smile,Is sweet upon a harmless chile,When they be dead that loved it.William Barnes
—Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,
Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
Her litsome heart, by day or night;
An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,
Do show He'll meäke his burdens light
To weaker souls; an' that his smile,
Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
When they be dead that loved it.
William Barnes
303
GOLDEN SLUMBERSGolden slumbers kiss your eyes,Smiles awake you when you rise.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby.Rock them, rock them, lullaby.Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;You are care, and care must keep you.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby:Rock them, rock them, lullaby.Thomas Dekker
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,Smiles awake you when you rise.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby.Rock them, rock them, lullaby.Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;You are care, and care must keep you.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby:Rock them, rock them, lullaby.Thomas Dekker
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,Smiles awake you when you rise.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby.Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;You are care, and care must keep you.Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,And I will sing a lullaby:Rock them, rock them, lullaby.Thomas Dekker
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Thomas Dekker
304
MATER DOLOROSAI'd a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he hadO it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half-turned about,"Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn."William Barnes
I'd a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he hadO it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half-turned about,"Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn."William Barnes
I'd a dream to-nightAs I fell asleep,O! the touching sightMakes me still to weep:Of my little lad,Gone to leave me sad,Ay, the child I had,But was not to keep.
I'd a dream to-night
As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Ay, the child I had,
But was not to keep.
As in heaven high,I my child did seek,There in train came byChildren fair and meek,Each in lily white,With a lamp alight;Each was clear to sight,But they did not speak.
As in heaven high,
I my child did seek,
There in train came by
Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,
With a lamp alight;
Each was clear to sight,
But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad,Came my child in turn,But the lamp he hadO it did not burn!He, to clear my doubt,Said, half-turned about,"Your tears put it out;Mother, never mourn."William Barnes
Then, a little sad,
Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had
O it did not burn!
He, to clear my doubt,
Said, half-turned about,
"Your tears put it out;
Mother, never mourn."
William Barnes
305
WEEP YOU NO MOREWeep you no more, sad fountains!What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven's sun doth gently waste!But my sun's heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets:Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
Weep you no more, sad fountains!What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven's sun doth gently waste!But my sun's heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets:Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
Weep you no more, sad fountains!What need you flow so fast?Look how the snowy mountainsHeaven's sun doth gently waste!But my sun's heavenly eyesView not your weeping,That now lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
Weep you no more, sad fountains!
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,A rest that peace begets:Doth not the sun rise smilingWhen fair at even he sets?Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!Melt not in weeping,While she lies sleepingSoftly, now softly liesSleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
306
FAERY SONGShed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Weep no more—O weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root's white core.Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes!For I was taught in ParadiseTo ease my breast of melodies—Shed no tear.Overhead—look overhead'Mong the blossoms white and red—Look up, look up—I flutter nowOn this flush pomegranate bough—See me—'tis this silvery billEver cures the good man's ill—Shed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Adieu—Adieu—I fly, adieu,I vanish in the heaven's blue—Adieu, Adieu!John Keats
Shed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Weep no more—O weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root's white core.Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes!For I was taught in ParadiseTo ease my breast of melodies—Shed no tear.Overhead—look overhead'Mong the blossoms white and red—Look up, look up—I flutter nowOn this flush pomegranate bough—See me—'tis this silvery billEver cures the good man's ill—Shed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Adieu—Adieu—I fly, adieu,I vanish in the heaven's blue—Adieu, Adieu!John Keats
Shed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Weep no more—O weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root's white core.Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes!For I was taught in ParadiseTo ease my breast of melodies—Shed no tear.
Shed no tear—O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more—O weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies—
Shed no tear.
Overhead—look overhead'Mong the blossoms white and red—Look up, look up—I flutter nowOn this flush pomegranate bough—See me—'tis this silvery billEver cures the good man's ill—Shed no tear—O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Adieu—Adieu—I fly, adieu,I vanish in the heaven's blue—Adieu, Adieu!John Keats
Overhead—look overhead
'Mong the blossoms white and red—
Look up, look up—I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough—
See me—'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill—
Shed no tear—O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu—Adieu—I fly, adieu,
I vanish in the heaven's blue—
Adieu, Adieu!
John Keats
307
THE WORLD OF LIGHTThey are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the Sun's remove.I see them walking in an Air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy hope! and high humility,High as the Heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them me,To kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the Jewel of the Just!Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may knowAt first sight if the bird be flown;But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep....Henry Vaughan
They are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the Sun's remove.I see them walking in an Air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy hope! and high humility,High as the Heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them me,To kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the Jewel of the Just!Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may knowAt first sight if the bird be flown;But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep....Henry Vaughan
They are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the Sun's remove.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the Sun's remove.
I see them walking in an Air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.
I see them walking in an Air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility,High as the Heavens above!These are your walks, and you have showed them me,To kindle my cold love.
O holy hope! and high humility,
High as the Heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me,
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the Jewel of the Just!Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
Dear, beauteous Death! the Jewel of the Just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may knowAt first sight if the bird be flown;But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know
At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep....Henry Vaughan
And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep....
Henry Vaughan
308
SILENT IS THE HOUSESilent is the house: all are laid asleep:One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,Watching every cloud, dreading every breezeThat whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.What I love shall come like visitant of air,Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.Emily Brontë
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,Watching every cloud, dreading every breezeThat whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.What I love shall come like visitant of air,Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.Emily Brontë
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,Watching every cloud, dreading every breezeThat whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!
But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air,Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.Emily Brontë
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear—
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.
Emily Brontë
309
THE MISTRESS OF VISION... Secret was the garden;Set i' the pathless aweWhere no star its breath can draw.Life, that is its warden,Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.It was a mazeful wonder;Thrice three times it was enwalledWith an emerald—Sealèd so asunder.All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.The Lady of fair weeping,At the garden's core,Sang a song of sweet and soreAnd the after-sleeping;In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.With sweet-pangèd singing,Sang she through a dream-night's day;That the bowers might stay,Birds bate their winging,Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....Her song said that no springingParadise but evermoreHangeth on a singingThat has chords of weeping,And that sings the after-sleepingTo souls which wake too sore."But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore,All its art of sweet and soreHe learns, in Elenore!"Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefor."Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake,Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.When earth and heaven lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more—Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."Where is the land of Luthany,And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefor."When to the new eyes of theeAll things by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linkèd are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake-curlèd Pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPerséan conquest; seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."So sang she, so wept she,Through a dream-night's day;And with her magic singing kept she—Mystical in music—The garden of enchantingIn visionary May;Songless from my spirits' haunting,Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....Francis Thompson
... Secret was the garden;Set i' the pathless aweWhere no star its breath can draw.Life, that is its warden,Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.It was a mazeful wonder;Thrice three times it was enwalledWith an emerald—Sealèd so asunder.All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.The Lady of fair weeping,At the garden's core,Sang a song of sweet and soreAnd the after-sleeping;In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.With sweet-pangèd singing,Sang she through a dream-night's day;That the bowers might stay,Birds bate their winging,Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....Her song said that no springingParadise but evermoreHangeth on a singingThat has chords of weeping,And that sings the after-sleepingTo souls which wake too sore."But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore,All its art of sweet and soreHe learns, in Elenore!"Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefor."Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake,Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.When earth and heaven lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more—Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."Where is the land of Luthany,And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefor."When to the new eyes of theeAll things by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linkèd are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake-curlèd Pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPerséan conquest; seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."So sang she, so wept she,Through a dream-night's day;And with her magic singing kept she—Mystical in music—The garden of enchantingIn visionary May;Songless from my spirits' haunting,Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....Francis Thompson
... Secret was the garden;Set i' the pathless aweWhere no star its breath can draw.Life, that is its warden,Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.
... Secret was the garden;
Set i' the pathless awe
Where no star its breath can draw.
Life, that is its warden,
Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.
It was a mazeful wonder;Thrice three times it was enwalledWith an emerald—Sealèd so asunder.All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.
It was a mazeful wonder;
Thrice three times it was enwalled
With an emerald—
Sealèd so asunder.
All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.
The Lady of fair weeping,At the garden's core,Sang a song of sweet and soreAnd the after-sleeping;In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.
The Lady of fair weeping,
At the garden's core,
Sang a song of sweet and sore
And the after-sleeping;
In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.
With sweet-pangèd singing,Sang she through a dream-night's day;That the bowers might stay,Birds bate their winging,Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....
With sweet-pangèd singing,
Sang she through a dream-night's day;
That the bowers might stay,
Birds bate their winging,
Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....
Her song said that no springingParadise but evermoreHangeth on a singingThat has chords of weeping,And that sings the after-sleepingTo souls which wake too sore."But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore,All its art of sweet and soreHe learns, in Elenore!"Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefor.
Her song said that no springing
Paradise but evermore
Hangeth on a singing
That has chords of weeping,
And that sings the after-sleeping
To souls which wake too sore.
"But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore,
All its art of sweet and sore
He learns, in Elenore!"
Where is the land of Luthany,
Where is the tract of Elenore?
I am bound therefor.
"Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake,Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.When earth and heaven lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more—Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
"Pierce thy heart to find the key;
With thee take
Only what none else would keep;
Learn to dream when thou dost wake,
Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.
Learn to water joy with tears,
Learn from fears to vanquish fears;
To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,
Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;
Plough thou the rock until it bear;
Know, for thou else couldst not believe;
Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;
Die, for none other way canst live.
When earth and heaven lay down their veil,
And that apocalypse turns thee pale;
When thy seeing blindeth thee
To what thy fellow-mortals see;
When their sight to thee is sightless;
Their living, death; their light, most lightless;
Search no more—
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
Where is the land of Luthany,And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefor."When to the new eyes of theeAll things by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linkèd are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake-curlèd Pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPerséan conquest; seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
Where is the land of Luthany,
And where the region Elenore?
I do faint therefor.
"When to the new eyes of thee
All things by immortal power,
Near or far,
Hiddenly
To each other linkèd are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star;
When thy song is shield and mirror
To the fair snake-curlèd Pain,
Where thou dar'st affront her terror
That on her thou may'st attain
Perséan conquest; seek no more,
O seek no more!
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
So sang she, so wept she,Through a dream-night's day;And with her magic singing kept she—Mystical in music—The garden of enchantingIn visionary May;Songless from my spirits' haunting,Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....Francis Thompson
So sang she, so wept she,
Through a dream-night's day;
And with her magic singing kept she—
Mystical in music—
The garden of enchanting
In visionary May;
Songless from my spirits' haunting,
Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....
Francis Thompson