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As Ann came in one summer's day,She felt that she must creep,So silent was the clear cool house,It seemed a house of sleep.And sure, when she pushed open the door,Rapt in the stillness there,Her mother sat, with stooping head,Asleep upon a chair;Fast — fast asleep; her two hands laidLoose-folded on her knee,So that her small unconscious faceLooked half unreal to be:So calmly lit with sleep's pale lightEach feature was; so fairHer forehead — every trouble wasSmooth'd out beneath her hair.But though her mind in dream now moved,Still seemed her gaze to restFrom out beneath her fast-sealed lids,Above her moving breast,On Ann, as quite, quite still she stood;Yet slumber lay so deepEven her hands upon her lapSeemed saturate with sleep.And as Ann peeped, a cloudlike dreadStole over her, and then,On stealthy, mouselike feet she trod,And tiptoed out again.
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Dark frost was in the air without,The dusk was still with cold and gloom,When less than even a shadow cameAnd stood within the room.But of the three around the fire,None turned a questioning head to look,Still read a clear voice, on and on,Still stooped they o'er their book.The children watched their mother's eyesMoving on softly line to line;It seemed to listen too — that shade,Yet made no outward sign.The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,No cold wind moved the wintry tree;The children both in Faerie dreamedBeside their mother's knee.And nearer yet that spirit drewAbove that heedless one, intentOnly on what the simple wordsOf her small story meant.No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind,No memory her bosom stirred,Nor dreamed she, as she read to two,'Twas surely three who heard.Yet when, the story done, she smiledFrom face to face, serene and clear,A love, half dread, sprang up, as sheLeaned close and drew them near.
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When thin-strewn memory I look through,I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,Her nose, her hair — her muffled words,And how she'd open her green eyes,As if in some immense surprise,Whenever as we sat at tea,She made some small remark to me.It's always drowsy summer whenFrom out the past she comes again;The westering sunshine in a poolFloats in her parlour still and cool;While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,As into piercing song it breaks;Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajarDream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar;And I am sitting, dull and shy,And she with gaze of vacancy,And large hands folded on the tray,Musing the afternoon away;Her satin bosom heaving slowWith sighs that softly ebb and flow,And her plain face in such dismay,It seems unkind to look her way:Until all cheerful back will comeHer cheerful gleaming spirit home:And one would think that poor Miss LooAsked nothing else, if she had you.
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'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grassesOf the forest's ferny floor:And a bird flew up out of the turret,Above the Traveller's head:And he smote upon the door again a second time;'Is there anybody there?' he said.But no one descended to the Traveller;No head from the leaf-fringed sillLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes,Where he stood perplexed and still.But only a host of phantom listenersThat dwelt in the lone house thenStood listening in the quiet of the moonlightTo that voice from the world of men:Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,That goes down to the empty hall,Hearkening in an air stirred and shakenBy the lonely Traveller's call.And he felt in his heart their strangeness,Their stillness answering his cry,While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,'Neath the starred and leafy sky;For he suddenly smote on the door, evenLouder, and lifted his head: —'Tell them I came, and no one answered,That I kept my word,' he said.Never the least stir made the listeners,Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still houseFrom the one man left awake:Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,And the sound of iron on stone,And how the silence surged softly backward,When the plunging hoofs were gone.
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Joseph:
Mary, art thou the little maidWho plucked me flowers in Spring?I know thee not; I feel afraid:Thou'rt strange this evening.A sweet and rustic girl I wonWhat time the woods were green;No woman with deep eyes that shone,And the pale brows of a Queen.
Mary: (inattentive to his words)
A stranger came with feet of flameAnd told me this strange thing, —For all I was a village maidMy son should be a King.
Joseph:
A King, dear wife? Who ever knewOf Kings in stables born!
Mary:
Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blueThe clarion and the horn?
Joseph:
Mary, alas, lest grief and joyHave sent thy wits astray;But let me look on this my boy,And take the wraps away.
Mary:
Behold the lad.
Joseph:
I dare not gaze:Light streams from every limb.
Mary:
The winter sun has stored his rays,And passed the fire to him.Look Eastward, look! I hear a sound.O Joseph, what do you see?
Joseph:
The snow lies quiet on the groundAnd glistens on the tree;The sky is bright with a star's great light,And clearly I beholdThree Kings descending yonder hill,Whose crowns are crowns of gold.O Mary, what do you hear and seeWith your brow toward the West?
Mary:
The snow lies glistening on the treeAnd silent on Earth's breast;And strong and tall, with lifted eyesSeven shepherds walk this way,And angels breaking from the skiesDance, and sing hymns, and pray.
Joseph:
I wonder much at these bright Kings;The shepherds I despise.
Mary:
You know not what a shepherd sings,Nor see his shining eyes.
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Had I the powerTo Midas given of oldTo touch a flowerAnd leave the petals gold,I then might touch thy face,Delightful boy,And leave a metal grace,A graven joy.Thus would I slay —Ah, desperate device!The vital dayThat trembles in thine eyes,And let the red lips closeWhich sang so well,And drive away the roseTo leave a shell.Then I myself,Rising austere and dumb,On the high shelfOf my half-lighted room,Would place the shining bustAnd wait alone,Until I was but dust,Buried unknown.Thus in my loveFor nations yet unborn,I would removeFrom our two lives the morn,And muse on lovelinessIn mine armchair,Content should Time confessHow sweet you were.
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My hands were hot upon a hare,Half-strangled, struggling in a snare — -My knuckles at her warm wind-pipe —When suddenly, her eyes shot back,Big, fearful, staggering and black;And ere I knew, my grip was slack;And I was clutching empty air,Half-mad, half-glad at my lost luck ...When I awoke beside the stack.'Twas just the minute when the snipeAs though clock-wakened, every jack,An hour ere dawn, dart in and outThe mist-wreaths filling syke and slack,And flutter wheeling round about,And drumming out the Summer night.I lay star-gazing yet a bit;Then, chilly-skinned, I sat upright,To shrug the shivers from my back;And, drawing out a straw to suck,My teeth nipped through it at a bite ...The liveliest lad is out of pluckAn hour ere dawn — a tame cock-sparrow —When cold stars shiver through his marrow,And wet mist soaks his mother-wit.But, as the snipe dropped, one by one;And one by one the stars blinked out;I knew 'twould only need the sunTo send the shudders right about:And as the clear East faded white,I watched and wearied for the sun —The jolly, welcome, friendly sun —The sleepy sluggard of a sunThat still kept snoozing out of sight,Though well he knew the night was done ...And after all, he caught me dozing,And leapt up, laughing, in the skyJust as my lazy eyes were closing:And it was good as gold to lieFull-length among the straw, and feelThe day wax warmer every minute,As, glowing glad, from head to heel.I soaked, and rolled rejoicing in it ...When from, the corner of my eye,Upon a heathery knowe hard-by,With long lugs cocked, and eyes astare,Yet all serene, I saw a hare.Upon my belly in the straw,I lay, and watched her sleek her fur,As, daintily, with well-licked paw,She washed her face and neck and ears:Then, clean and comely in the sun,She kicked her heels up, full of fun,As if she did not care a pinThough she should jump out of her skin,And leapt and lolloped, free of fears,Until my heart frisked round with her.'And yet, if I but lift my head,You'll scamper off, young Puss,' I said.'Still, I can't lie, and watch you play,Upon my belly half the day.The Lord alone knows where I'm going:But, I had best be getting there.Last night I loosed you from the snare —Asleep, or waking, who's for knowing! —So, I shall thank you now for showingWhich art to take to bring me whereMy luck awaits me. When you're readyTo start, I'll follow on your track.Though slow of foot, I'm sure and steady ...'She pricked her ears, then set them back;And like a shot was out of sight:And, with a happy heart and light,As quickly I was on my feet;And following the way she went,Keen as a lurcher on the scent,Across the heather and the bent,Across the quaking moss and peat.Of course, I lost her soon enough,For moorland tracks are steep and rough;And hares are made of nimbler stuffThan any lad of seventeen,However lanky-legged and tough,However kestrel-eyed and keen:And I'd at last to stop and eatThe little bit of bread and meatLeft in my pocket overnight.So, in a hollow, snug and green,I sat beside a burn, and dippedThe dry bread in an icy pool;And munched a breakfast fresh and cool ...And then sat gaping like a fool ...For, right before my very eyes,With lugs acock and eyes astare,I saw again the selfsame hare.So, up I jumped, and off she slipped;And I kept sight of her untilI stumbled in a hole, and tripped,And came a heavy, headlong spill;And she, ere I'd the wit to rise,Was o'er the hill, and out of sight:And, sore and shaken with the tumbling,And sicker at my foot for stumbling,I cursed my luck, and went on, grumbling,The way her flying heels had fled.The sky was cloudless overhead,And just alive with larks asinging;And in a twinkling I was swingingAcross the windy hills, lighthearted.A kestrel at my footstep started,Just pouncing on a frightened mouse,And hung o'er head with wings a-hover;Through rustling heath an adder darted:A hundred rabbits bobbed to cover:A weasel, sleek and rusty-red,Popped out of sight as quick as winking:I saw a grizzled vixen slinkingBehind a clucking brood of grouseThat rose and cackled at my coming:And all about my way were flyingThe peewit, with their slow wings creaking;And little jack-snipe darted, drumming:And now and then a golden ploverOr redshank piped with reedy whistle.But never shaken bent or thistleBetrayed the quarry I was seeking;And not an instant, anywhereDid I clap eyes upon a hare.So, travelling still, the twilight caught me;And as I stumbled on, I muttered:'A deal of luck the hare has brought me!The wind and I must spend togetherA hungry night among the heather.If I'd her here ...' And as I uttered,I tripped, and heard a frightened squeal;And dropped my hands in time to feelThe hare just bolting 'twixt my feet.She slipped my clutch: and I stood thereAnd cursed that devil-littered hare,That left me stranded in the darkIn that wide waste of quaggy peatBeneath black night without a spark:When, looking up, I saw a flareUpon a far-off hill, and said:'By God, the heather is afire!It's mischief at this time of year ...'And then, as one bright flame shot higher,And booths and vans stood out quite clear,My wits came back into my head;And I remembered Brough Hill Fair.And as I stumbled towards the glareI knew the sudden kindling meantThe Fair was over for the day;And all the cattle-folk away;And gipsy folk and tinkers nowWere lighting supper-fires withoutEach caravan and booth and tent.And as I climbed the stiff hill-browI quite forgot my lucky hare.I'd something else to think about:For well I knew there's broken meatFor empty bellies after fair-time;And looked to have a royal rare timeWith something rich and prime to eat;And then to lie and toast my feetAll night beside the biggest fire.But, even as I neared the first,A pleasant whiff of stewing burstFrom out a smoking pot a-bubble:And as I stopped behind the folkWho sprawled around, and watched it seething,A woman heard my eager breathing,And, turning, caught my hungry eye:And called out to me: 'Draw in nigher,Unless you find it too much trouble;Or you've a nose for better fare,And go to supper with the Squire ...You've got the hungry parson's air!'And all looked up, and took the joke,As I dropped gladly to the groundAmong them, where they all lay gazingUpon the bubbling and the blazing.My eyes were dazzled by the fireAt first; and then I glanced around;And in those swarthy, fire-lit faces —Though drowsing in the glare and heatAnd snuffing the warm savour in,Dead-certain of their fill of meat —I felt the bit between the teeth,The flying heels, the broken traces,And heard the highroad ring beneathThe trampling hoofs; and knew them kin.Then for the first time, standing thereBehind the woman who had hailed me,I saw a girl with eyes astareThat looked in terror o'er my head;And, all at once, my courage failed me ...For now again, and sore-adread,My hands were hot upon a hare,That struggled, strangling in the snare ...Then once more as the girl stood clear,Before me — quaking cold with fear —I saw the hare look from her eyes ...And when, at last, I turned to seeWhat held her scared, I saw a man —A fat man with dull eyes aleer —Within the shadow of the van;And I was on the point to riseTo send him spinning 'mid the wheelsAnd stop his leering grin with mud ...And would have done it in a tick ...When, suddenly, alive with fright,She started, with red, parted lips,As though she guessed we'd come to grips,And turned her black eyes full on me ...And as I looked into their lightMy heart forgot the lust of fight,And something shot me to the quick,And ran like wildfire through my blood,And tingled to my finger-tips ...And, in a dazzling flash, I knewI'd never been alive before ...And she was mine for evermore.While all the others slept asnoreIn caravan and tent that night,I lay alone beside the fire;And stared into its blazing core,With eyes that would not shut or tire,Because the best of all was true,And they looked still into the lightOf her eyes, burning ever bright.Within the brightest coal for me ...Once more, I saw her, as she started,And glanced at me with red lips parted:And as she looked, the frightened hareHad fled her eyes; and merrily,She smiled, with fine teeth flashing white,As though she, too, were happy-hearted ...Then she had trembled suddenly,And dropped her eyes, as that fat manStepped from the shadow of the van,And joined the circle, as the potWas lifted off, and, piping-hot,The supper steamed in wooden bowls.Yet, she had hardly touched a bite;And never raised her eyes all nightTo mine again; but on the coals,As I sat staring, she had stared —The black curls, shining round her headFrom under the red kerchief, tiedSo nattily beneath her chin —And she had stolen off to bedQuite early, looking dazed and scared.Then, all agape and sleepy-eyed,Ere long the others had turned in:And I was rid of that fat man,Who slouched away to his own van.And now, before her van, I lay,With sleepless eyes, awaiting day;And as I gazed upon the glareI heard, behind, a gentle stir:And, turning round, I looked on herWhere she stood on the little stairOutside the van, with listening air —And, in her eyes, the hunted hare ...And then, I saw her slip away,A bundle underneath her arm,Without a single glance at me.I lay a moment wondering,My heart a-thump like anything,Then, fearing she should come to harm,I rose, and followed speedilyWhere she had vanished in the night.And as she heard my step behindShe started, and stopt dead with fright;Then blundered on as if struck blind:And now as I caught up with her,Just as she took the moorland track,I saw the hare's eyes, big and black ...She made as though she'd double back ...But when she looked into my eyes,She stood quite still and did not stir ...And picking up her fallen packI tucked it 'neath my arm; and sheJust took her luck quite quietly,As she must take what chance might come,And would not have it otherwise,And walked into the night with me,Without a word across the fells.And all about us, through the night,The mists were stealing, cold and white,Down every rushy syke or slack:But, soon the moon swung into sight;And as we went my heart was light.And singing like a burn in flood:And in my ears were tinkling bells;My body was a rattled drum:And fifes were shrilling through my bloodThat summer night, to think that sheWas walking through the world with me.But when the air with dawn was chill.As we were travelling down a hill,She broke her silence with low-sobbing;And told her tale, her bosom throbbingAs though her very heart were shakenWith fear she'd yet be overtaken ...She'd always lived in caravans —Her father's, gay as any man's,Grass-green, picked out with red and yellowAnd glittering brave with burnished brassThat sparkled in the sun like flame,And window curtains, white as snow ...But, they had died, ten years ago,Her parents both, when fever came ...And they were buried, side by side.Somewhere beneath the wayside grass ...In times of sickness, they kept wideOf towns and busybodies, soNo parson's or policeman's tricksShould bother them when in a fix ...Her father never could abideA black coat or a blue, poor man ...And so, Long Dick, a kindly fellow,When you could keep him from the can,And Meg, his easy-going wife,Had taken her into their van;And kept her since her parents died ...And she had lived a happy life,Until Fat Pete's young wife was taken ...But, ever since, he'd pestered her ...And she dared scarcely breathe or stir,Lest she should see his eyes aleer ...And many a night she'd lain and shaken,And very nearly died of fear —Though safe enough within the vanWith Mother Meg and her good-man —For, since Fat Pete was Long Dick's friend,And they were thick and sweet as honey,And Dick owed Pete a pot of money,She knew too well how it must end ...And she would rather lie stone deadBeneath the wayside grass than wedWith leering Pete, and live the life,And die the death, of his first wife ...And so, last night, clean-daft with dread,She'd bundled up a pack and fled ...When all the sobbing tale was out,She dried her eyes, and looked about,As though she'd left all fear behind,And out of sight were out of mind,Then, when the dawn was burning red,'I'm hungry as a hawk!' she said:And from the bundle took out bread,And at the happy end of nightWe sat together by a burn:And ate a thick slice, turn by turn;And laughed and kissed between each bite.Then, up again, and on our wayWe went; and tramped the livelong dayThe moorland trackways, steep and rough,Though there was little fear enoughThat they would follow on our flight.And then again a shiny nightAmong the honey-scented heather,We wandered in the moonblaze bright,Together through a land of light,A lad and lass alone with life.And merrily we laughed together,When, starting up from sleep, we heardThe cock-grouse talking to his wife ...And 'Old Fat Pete' she called the bird.Six months and more have cantered by:And, Winter past, we're out again —We've left the fat and weatherwiseTo keep their coops and reeking sties.And eat their fill of oven-pies,While we win free and out againTo take potluck beneath the skyWith sun and moon and wind and rain.Six happy months ... and yet, at night,I've often wakened in affright,And looked upon her lying there,Beside me sleeping quietly,Adread that when she waked, I'd seeThe hunted hare within her eyes.And only last night, as I sleptBeneath the shelter of a stack ...My hands were hot upon a hare,Half-strangled, struggling in the snare,When, suddenly, her eyes shot back,Big, fearful, staggering and black;And ere I knew, my grip was slack,And I was clutching empty air ...Bolt-upright from my sleep I leapt ...Her place was empty in the straw ...And then, with quaking heart, I sawThat she was standing in the night,A leveret cuddled to her breast ...I spoke no word; but as the lightThrough banks of Eastern cloud was breaking,She turned, and saw that I was waking:And told me how she could not rest;And, rising in the night, she'd foundThis baby-hare crouched on the ground;And she had nursed it quite a while;But, now, she'd better let it go ...Its mother would be fretting so ...A mother's heart ...I saw her smile,And look at me with tender eyes;And as I looked into their light,My foolish, fearful heart grew wise ...And now, I knew that never thereI'd see again the startled hare,Or need to dread the dreams of night.
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Stuck in a bottle on the window-sill,In the cold gaslight burning gaily redAgainst the luminous blue of London night,These flowers are mine: while somewhere out of sightIn some black-throated alley's stench and heat,Oblivious of the racket of the street,A poor old weary woman lies in bed.Broken with lust and drink, blear-eyed and ill,Her battered bonnet nodding on her head,From a dark arch she clutched my sleeve and said:'I've sold no bunch to-day, nor touched a bite ...Son, buy six-pennorth; and 't will mean a bed.'So blazing gaily redAgainst the luminous deepsOf starless London night,They burn for my delight:While somewhere, snug in bed,A worn old woman sleeps.And yet to-morrow will these blooms be deadWith all their lively beauty; and to-morrowMay end the light lusts and the heavy sorrowOf that old body with the nodding head.The last oath muttered, the last pint drained deep,She'll sink, as Cleopatra sank, to sleep;Nor need to barter blossoms for a bed.
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All night I lay on Devil's Edge,Along an overhanging ledgeBetween the sky and sea:And as I rested 'waiting sleep,The windless sky and soundless deepIn one dim, blue infinityOf starry peace encompassed me.And I remembered, drowsily,How 'mid the hills last night I'd lainBeside a singing moorland burn;And waked at dawn, to feel the rainFall on my face, as on the fernThat drooped about my heather-bed;And how by noon the wind had blownThe last grey shred from out the sky,And blew my homespun jacket dry,As I stood on the topmost stoneThat crowns the cairn on Hawkshaw Head,And caught a gleam of far-off sea;And heard the wind sing in the bentLike those far waters calling me:When, my heart answering to the call,I followed down the seaward stream,By silent pool and singing fall;Till with a quiet, keen content,I watched the sun, a crimson ball,Shoot through grey seas a fiery gleam,Then sink in opal deeps from sight.And with the coming on of night,The wind had dropped: and as I lay,Retracing all the happy day,And gazing long and dreamilyAcross the dim, unsounding sea,Over the far horizon cameA sudden sail of amber flame;And soon the new moon rode on highThrough cloudless deeps of crystal sky.Too holy seemed the night for sleep;And yet, I must have slept, it seems;For, suddenly, I woke to hearA strange voice singing, shrill and clear,Down in a gully black and deepThat cleft the beetling crag in twain.It seemed the very voice of dreamsThat drive hag-ridden souls in fearThrough echoing, unearthly vales,To plunge in black, slow-crawling streams,Seeking to drown that cry, in vain ...Or some sea creature's voice that wailsThrough blind, white banks of fog unliftingTo God-forgotten sailors driftingRudderless to death ...And as I heard,Though no wind stirred,An icy breathWas in my hair ...And clutched my heart with cold despair ...But, as the wild song died away,There came a faltering breakThat shivered to a sobbing fall;And seemed half-human, after all ...And yet, what foot could find a trackIn that deep gully, sheer and black ...And singing wildly in the night!So, wondering I lay awake,Until the coming of the lightBrought day's familiar presence back.Down by the harbour-mouth that day.A fisher told the tale to me.Three months before, while out at sea,Young Philip Burn was lost, though how,None knew, and none would ever know.The boat becalmed at noonday lay ...And not a ripple on the sea ...And Philip standing in the bow,When his six comrades went belowTo sleep away an hour or so,Dog-tired with working day and night,While he kept watch ... and not a soundThey heard, until, at set of sunThey woke; and coming up they foundThe deck was empty, Philip gone ...Yet not another boat in sight ...And not a ripple on the sea.How he had vanished, none could tell.They only knew the lad was deadThey'd left but now, alive and well ...And he, poor fellow, newly-wed ...And when they broke the news to her,She spoke no word to anyone:But sat all day, and would not stir —Just staring, staring in the fire,With eyes that never seemed to tire;Until, at last, the day was done,And darkness came; when she would rise,And seek the door with queer, wild eyes;And wander singing all the nightUnearthly songs beside the sea:But always the first blink of lightWould find her back at her own door.'Twas Winter when I came once moreTo that old village by the shore;And as, at night, I climbed the street,I heard a singing, low and sweet,Within a cottage near at hand:And I was glad awhile to standAnd listen by the glowing pane:And as I hearkened, that sweet strainBrought back the night when I had lainAwake on Devil's Edge ...And now I knew the voice again,So different, free of pain and fear —Its terror turned to tenderness —And yet the same voice none the less,Though singing now so true and clear:And drawing nigh the window-ledge,I watched the mother sing to restThe baby snuggling to her breast.