My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for ICan count no coins with you close by;I scorn like sailors them, when theyHave drawn on shore their deep-sea pay;Only my thoughts I value now,Which, like the simple glowworms, throwTheir beams to greet thee bravely, Love—Their glorious light in Heaven above.Since I have felt thy waves of light,Beating against my soul, the sightOf gems from Afric's continentMove me to no great wonderment.Since I, Sweet Heart, have known thine hair,The fur of ermine, sable, bear,Or silver fox, for me can keepNo more to praise than common sheep.Though ten Isaiahs' souls were mine,They could not sing such charms as thine.Two little hands that show with pride,Two timid, little feet that hide;Two eyes no dark Senoras showTheir burning like in Mexico;Two coral gates wherein is shownYour queen of charms, on a white throne;Your queen of charms, the lovely smileThat on its white throne could beguileThe mastiff from his gates in hell;Who by no whine or bark could tellHis masters what thing made him go—And countless other charms I know.October's hedge has far less huesThan thou hast charms from which to choose.
I know not why I yearn for thee again,To sail once more upon thy fickle flood;I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel's sidesIn fury, with thy many tailed whip;And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee,When Jesus walked in peace to Simon's shipAnd I have seen thy gentle breeze as softAs summer's, when it makes the cornfields run;And I have seen thy rude and lusty galeMake ships show half their bellies to the sun.Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life,Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud:I think of that Armada whose puffed sails,Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud.But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned,Lying on shore and by thy cruel hand,A seaweed beard was on his tender chin,His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand.And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again,To sail once more upon thy fickle flood:I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.
Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms,Her clouds of green, her starry flowers,And let this bird, this wandering bird,Make his fine wonder yours;He, hiding in the leaves so green,When sampling this fair world of ours,Cries cuckoo, clear; and like Lot's wife,I look, though it should cost my life.When I can hear that charmed one's voice,I taste of immortality;My joy's so great that on my heartDoth lie eternity,As light as any little flower—So strong a wonder works in me;Cuckoo! he cries, and fills my soulWith all that's rich and beautiful.
Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomedTo hear at night the clocks' hard tones;They have no beds to warm their limbs,But with those limbs must warm cold stones;Those poor weak men, whose coughs and ailingsForce them to tear at iron railings.Those helpless men that starve, my pity;Whose waking day is never done;Who, save for their own shadows, areDoomed night and day to walk alone:They know no bright face but the sun's,So cold and dark are human ones.
Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heartSo full of joy, and light,That dying children dance with itFrom early morn till night.My dreams were blossoms, hers the fruit,She was my dearest care;With gentle hand, and for it, IMade playthings of her hair.I made my fingers rings of gold,And bangles for my wrist;You should have felt the soft, warm thingI made to glove my fist.And she should have a crown, I swore,With only gold enoughTo keep together stones more richThan that fine metal stuff.Her golden hair gave me more joyThan Jason's heart could hold,When all his men cried out—Ah, look!He has the Fleece of Gold!
Thou art not always kind, O sleep:What awful secrets them dost keepIn store, and ofttimes make us know;What hero has not fallen lowIn sleep before a monster grim,And whined for mercy unto him;Knights, constables, and men-at-armsHave quailed and whined in sleep's alarms.Thou wert not kind last night to makeMe like a very coward shake—Shake like a thin red-currant bushRobbed of its fruit by a strong thrush.I felt this earth did move; more slow,And slower yet began to go;And not a bird was heard to sing,Men and great beasts were shivering;All living things knew well that whenThis earth stood still, destruction thenWould follow with a mighty crash.'Twas then I broke that awful hush:E'en as a mother, who does comeRunning in haste back to her home,And looks at once, and lo, the childShe left asleep is gone; and wildShe shrieks and loud—so did I breakWith a mad cry that dream, and wake.
I hear a merry noise indeed:Is it the geese and ducks that takeTheir first plunge in a quiet pondThat into scores of ripples break—Or children make this merry sound?I see an oak tree, its strong backCould not be bent an inch though allIts leaves were stone, or iron even:A boy, with many a lusty call,Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven.I see two children dig a holeAnd plant in it a cherry-stone:"We'll come to-morrow," one child said—"And then the tree will be full grown,And all its boughs have cherries red."Ah, children, what a life to lead:You love the flowers, but when they're pastNo flowers are missed by your bright eyes;And when cold winter comes at last,Snowflakes shall be your butterflies.
In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,And clouds like greater moons can shine;When every leafy tree doth holdA loving heart that beats with mine:Now, when the Brook has cresses green,As well as stones, to check his pace;And, if the Owl appears, he's forcedBy small birds to some hiding-place:Then, like red Robin in the spring,I shun those haunts where men are found;My house holds little joy untilLeaves fall and birds can make no sound;Let none invade that wildernessInto whose dark green depths I go—Save some fine lady, all in white,Comes like a pillar of pure snow.
My song is of that city whichHas men too poor and men too rich;Where some are sick, too richly fed,While others take the sparrows' bread:Where some have beds to warm their bones,While others sleep on hard, cold stonesThat suck away their bodies' heat.Where men are drunk in every street;Men full of poison, like those fliesThat still attack the horses' eyes.Where some men freeze for want of cloth,While others show their jewels' worthAnd dress in satin, fur or silk;Where fine rich ladies wash in milk,While starving mothers have no foodTo make them fit in flesh and blood;So that their watery breasts can giveTheir babies milk and make them live.Where one man does the work of four,And dies worn out before his hour;While some seek work in vain, and griefDoth make their fretful lives as brief.Where ragged men are seen to waitFor charity that's small and late;While others haunt in idle leisure,Theatre doors to pay for pleasure.No more I'll walk those crowded placesAnd take hot dreams from harlots' faces;I'll know no more those passions' dreams,While musing near these quiet streams;That biting state of savage lustWhich, true love absent, burns to dust.Gold's rattle shall not rob my earsOf this sweet music of the spheres.I'll walk abroad with fancy free;Each leafy, summer's morn I'll seeThe trees, all legs or bodies, whenThey vary in their shapes like men.I'll walk abroad and see againHow quiet pools are pricked by rain;And you shall hear a song as sweetAs when green leaves and raindrops meet.I'll hear the Nightingale's fine mood,Rattling with thunder in the wood,Made bolder by each mighty crash;Who drives her notes with every flashOf lightning through the summer's night.No more I'll walk in that pale lightThat shows the homeless man awake,Ragged and cold; harlot and rake,That have their hearts in rags, and dieBefore that poor wretch they pass by.Nay, I have found a life so fineThat every moment seems divine;By shunning all those pleasures full,That bring repentance cold and dull.Such misery seen in days gone by,That, made a coward, now I flyTo green things, like a bird. Alas!In days gone by I could not passTen men but what the eyes of oneWould burn me for no kindness done;And wretched women I passed bySent after me a moan or sigh.Ah, wretched days: for in that placeMy soul's leaves sought the human face,And not the Sun's for warmth and light—And so was never free from blight.But seek me now, and you will findMe on some soft green bank reclined;Watching the stately deer close by,That in a great deep hollow lieShaking their tails with all the easeThat lambs can. First, look for the trees,Then, if you seek me, find me quick.Seek me no more where men are thick,But in green lanes where I can walkA mile, and still no human folkTread on my shadow. Seek me whereThe strange oak tree is, that can bearOne white-leaved branch among the green—Which many a woodman has not seen.If you would find me, go where cowsAnd sheep stand under shady boughs;Where furious squirrels shake a treeAs though they'd like to bury meUnder a leaf shower heavy, andI laugh at them for spite, and stand.Seek me no more in human ways—Who am a coward since those daysMy mind was burned by poor men's eyes,And frozen by poor women's sighs.Then send your pearls across the sea,Your feathers, scent and ivory,You distant lands—but let my balesBe brought by Cuckoos, Nightingales,That come in spring from your far shores;Sweet birds that carry richer storesThan men can dream of, when they prizeFine silks and pearls for merchandise;And dream of ships that take the floodsSunk to their decks with such vain goods;Bringing that traitor silk, whose softSmooth tongue persuades the poor too oftFrom sweet content; and pearls, whose firesMake ashes of our best desires.For I have heard the sighs and whinesOf rich men that drink costly winesAnd eat the best of fish and fowl;Men that have plenty, and still growlBecause they cannot like kings live—"Alas!" they whine, "we cannot save."Since I have heard those rich ones sigh,Made poor by their desires so high,I cherish more a simple mind;That I am well content to findMy pictures in the open air,And let my walls and floors go bare;That I with lovely things can fillMy rooms, whene'er sweet Fancy will.I make a fallen tree my chair,And soon forget no cushion's there;I lie upon the grass or straw,And no soft down do I sigh for;For with me all the time I keepSweet dreams that, do I wake or sleep,Shed on me still their kindly beams;Aye, I am richer with my dreamsThan banks where men dull-eyed and coldWithout a tremble shovel gold.A happy life is this. I walkAnd hear more birds than people talk;I hear the birds that sing unseen,On boughs now smothered with leaves green;I sit and watch the swallows there,Making a circus in the air;That speed around straight-going crow,As sharks around a ship can go;I hear the skylark out of sight,Hid perfectly in all this light.The dappled cows in fields I pass,Up to their bosoms in deep grass;Old oak trees, with their bowels gone,I see with spring's green finery on.I watch the buzzing bees for hours,To see them rush at laughing flowers—And butterflies that lie so still.I see great houses on the hill,With shining roofs; and there shines one,It seems that heaven has dropped the sun.I see yon cloudlet sail the skies,Racing with clouds ten times its size.I walk green pathways, where love waitsTo talk in whispers at old gates;Past stiles—on which I lean, alone—Carved with the names of lovers gone;I stand on arches whose dark stonesCan turn the wind's soft sighs to groans.I hear the Cuckoo when first heMakes this green world's discovery,And re-creates it in my mind,Proving my eyes were growing blind.I see the rainbow come forth clearAnd wave her coloured scarf to cheerThe sun long swallowed by a flood—So do I live in lane and wood.Let me look forward to each springAs eager as the birds that sing;And feed my eyes on spring's young flowersBefore the bees by many hours,My heart to leap and sing her praiseBefore the birds by many days.Go white my hair and skin go dry—But let my heart a dewdrop lieInside those leaves when they go wrong,As fresh as when my life was young.
A wondrous city, that had temples thereMore rich than that one built by David's son,Which called forth Ophir's gold, when IsraelMade Lebanon half naked for her sake.I saw white towers where so-called traitors died—True men whose tongues were bells to honest hearts,And rang out boldly in false monarch's ears.Saw old black gateways, on whose arches crouchedStone lions with their bodies gnawed by age.I looked with awe on iron gates that couldTell bloody stones if they had our tongues.I saw tall mounted spires shine in the sun,That stood amidst their army of low streets.I saw in buildings pictures, statues rare,Made in those days when Rome was young, and newIn marble quarried from Carrara's hills;Statues by sculptors that could almost makeFine cobwebs out of stone—so light they worked.Pictures that breathe in us a living soul,Such as we seldom feel come from that lifeThe artist copies. Many a lovely sight—Such as the half sunk barge with bales of hay,Or sparkling coals—employed my wondering eyes.I saw old Thames, whose ripples swarmed with starsBred by the sun on that fine summer's day;I saw in fancy fowl and green banks there,And Liza's barge rowed past a thousand swans.I walked in parks and heard sweet music cryIn solemn courtyards, midst the men-at-arms;Which suddenly would leap those stony wallsAnd spring up with loud laughter into trees.I walked in busy streets where music oftWent on the march with men; and ofttimes heardThe organ in cathedral, when the boysLike nightingales sang in that thunderstorm;The organ, with its rich and solemn tones—As near a God's voice as a man conceives;Nor ever dreamt the silent miseryThat solemn organ brought to homeless men.I heard the drums and soft brass instruments,Led by the silver cornets clear and high—Whose sounds turned playing children into stones.I saw at night the City's lights shine bright,A greater milky way; how in its spellIt fascinated with ten thousand eyes;Like those sweet wiles of an enchantress whoWould still detain her knight gone cold in love;It was an iceberg with long arms unseen,That felt the deep for vessels far away.All things seemed strange, I stared like any childThat pores on some old face and sees a worldWhich its familiar granddad and his dameHid with their love and laughter until then.My feet had not yet felt the cruel rocksBeneath the pleasant moss I seemed to tread.But soon my ears grew weary of that din,My eyes grew tired of all that flesh and stone;And, as a snail that crawls on a smooth stalk,Will reach the end and find a sharpened thorn—So did I reach the cruel end at last.I saw the starving mother and her child,Who feared that Death would surely end its sleep,And cursed the wolf of Hunger with her moans.And yet, methought, when first I entered there,Into that city with my wondering mind,How marvellous its many sights and sounds;The traffic with its sound of heavy seasThat have and would again unseat the rocks.How common then seemed Nature's hills and fieldsCompared with these high domes and even streets,And churches with white towers and bodies black.The traffic's sound was music to my ears;A sound of where the white waves, hour by hour,Attack a reef of coral rising yet;Or where a mighty warship in a fog,Steams into a large fleet of little boats.Aye, and that fog was strange and wonderful,That made men blind and grope their way at noon.I saw that City with fierce human surge,With millions of dark waves that still spread outTo swallow more of their green boundaries.Then came a day that noise so stirred my soul,I called them hellish sounds, and thought red warWas better far than peace in such a town.To hear that din all day, sometimes my mindWent crazed, and it seemed strange, as I were lostIn some vast forest full of chattering apes.How sick I grew to hear that lasting noise,And all those people forced across my sight,Knowing the acres of green fields and woodsThat in some country parts outnumbered men;In half an hour ten thousand men I passed—More than nine thousand should have been green trees.There on a summer's day I saw such crowdsThat where there was no man man's shadow was;Millions all cramped together in one hive,Storing, methought, more bitter stuff than sweet.The air was foul and stale; from their green homesYoung blood had brought its fresh and rosy cheeks,Which soon turned colour, like blue streams in flood.Aye, solitude, black solitude indeed,To meet a million souls and know not one;This world must soon grow stale to one compelledTo look all day at faces strange and cold.Oft full of smoke that town; its summer's dayWas darker than a summer's night at sea;Poison was there, and still men rushed for it,Like cows for acorns that have made them sick.That town was rich and old; man's flesh was cheap,But common earth was dear to buy one foot.If I must be fenced in, then let my fenceBe some green hedgerow; under its green sprays,That shake suspended, let me walk in joy—As I do now, in these dear months I love.