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Why have you stolen my delightIn all the golden shows of SpringWhen every cherry-tree is whiteAnd in the limes the thrushes sing,O fickler than the April day,O brighter than the golden broom,O blither than the thrushes' lay,O whiter than the cherry-bloom,O sweeter than all things that blow ...Why have you only left for meThe broom, the cherry's crown of snow,And thrushes in the linden-tree?
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Before my window, in days of winter hoarHuddled a mournful wood:Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,In stony sleep they stood:But you, unhappy elm, the angry westHad chosen from the rest,Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,And left you leaning thereSo dead that when the breath of winter castWild snow upon the blast,The other living branches, downward bowed,Shook free their crystal shroudAnd shed upon your blackened trunk beneathTheir livery of death....On windless nights between the beechen barsI watched cold starsThrob whitely in the sky, and dreamilyWondered if any life lay locked in thee:If still the hidden sap secretly movedAs water in the icy winterbourneFloweth unheard:And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilightOr cool voices of owls crying by night ...Hunting by night under the hornéd moon:Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risenSteals from his misty prison;The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shakenIn a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond beliefSlenderly fledged anew with tender leafAs pale as those twin vanes that break at lastIn a tiny fan above the black beech-mastWhere no blade springeth greenBut pallid bells of the shy helleborine.What is this ecstasy that overwhelmsThe dreaming earth? See, the embrownéd elmsCrowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood:A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,His white clouds dapple the down:Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand.Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kissOf mortal love that maketh man divineThis light cannot outshine:Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catchThe shadow of vanishing beauty, may not matchThis leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cullSuch magical beauty as time may not destroy;But we, alas, are not more beautiful:We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.We sing, our muséd words are sped, and thenPoets are only menWho age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd treeMay stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.
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Few are my books, but my small few have toldOf many a lovely dame that lived of old;And they have made me see those fatal charmsOf Helen, which brought Troy so many harms;And lovely Venus, when she stood so whiteClose to her husband's forge in its red light.I have seen Dian's beauty in my dreams,When she had trained her looks in all the streamsShe crossed to Latmos and Endymion;And Cleopatra's eyes, that hour they shoneThe brighter for a pearl she drank to proveHow poor it was compared to her rich love:But when I look on thee, love, thou dost giveSubstance to those fine ghosts, and make them live.
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When yon full moon's with her white fleet of stars,And but one bird makes music in the grove;When you and I are breathing side by side,Where our two bodies make one shadow, love;Not for her beauty will I praise the moon,But that she lights thy purer face and throat;The only praise I'll give the nightingaleIs that she draws from thee a richer note.For, blinded with thy beauty, I am filled,Like Saul of Tarsus, with a greater light;When he had heard that warning voice in Heaven,And lost his eyes to find a deeper sight.Come, let us sit in that deep silence then,Launched on love's rapids, with our passions proudThat makes all music hollow — though the larkRaves in his windy heights above a cloud.
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We poets pride ourselves on whatWe feel, and not what we achieve;The world may call our children fools,Enough for us that we conceive.A little wren that loves the grassCan be as proud as any larkThat tumbles in a cloudless sky,Up near the sun, till he becomesThe apple of that shining eye.So, lady, I would never dareTo hear your music ev'ry day;With those great bursts that send my nervesIn waves to pound my heart away;And those small notes that run like miceBewitched by light; else on those keys —My tombs of song — you should engrave:'My music, stronger than his own,Has made this poet my dumb slave.'
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When our two souls have left this mortal clayAnd, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost —Look for me first in that Elysian gladeWhere Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!For in that month of May when leaves are young,Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.And when the spring has gone and they are dumb,Is it not fine to watch them at their play:Is it not fine to see a bird that triesTo stand upon the end of every spray?See how they tilt their pretty heads aside:When women make that move they always please.What cosy homes birds make in leafy wallsThat Nature's love has ruined — and the trees.Oft have I seen in fields the little birdsGo in between a bullock's legs to eat;But what gives me most joy is when I seeSnow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.
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Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
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When I sailed out of BaltimoreWith twice a thousand head of sheep,They would not eat, they would not drink,But bleated o'er the deep.Inside the pens we crawled each day,To sort the living from the dead;And when we reached the Mersey's mouthHad lost five hundred head.Yet every night and day one sheep,That had no fear of man or sea,Stuck through the bars its pleading face,And it was stroked by me.And to the sheep-men standing near,'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep:It seems a child has lost her pet,And cried herself to sleep.'So every time we passed it by,Sailing to England's slaughter-house,Eight ragged sheep-men — tramps and thieves —Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
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We have no grass locked up in ice so fastThat cattle cut their faces and at last,When it is reached, must lie them down and starve,With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move.We have not that delirious state of coldThat makes men warm and sing when in Death's hold.We have no roaring floods whose angry shocksCan kill the fishes dashed against their rocks.We have no winds that cut down street by street,As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat.No mountains here to spew their burning heartsInto the valleys, on our human parts.No earthquakes here, that ring church bells afar,A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are.We have no cause to set our dreaming eyes,Like Arabs, on fresh streams in Paradise.We have no wilds to harbour men that tellMore murders than they can remember well.No woman here shall wake from her night's rest,To find a snake is sucking at her breast.Though I have travelled many and many a mile,And had a man to clean my boots and smileWith teeth that had less bone in them than gold —Give me this England now for all my world.
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It is the bell of death I hear,Which tells me my own time is near,When I must join those quiet soulsWhere nothing lives but worms and moles;And not come through the grass again,Like worms and moles, for breath or rain;Yet let none weep when my life's through,For I myself have wept for few.The only things that knew me wellWere children, dogs, and girls that fell;I bought poor children cakes and sweets,Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets;And, gentle to a fallen lass,I made her weep for what she was.Good men and women know not me.Nor love nor hate the mystery.
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Speak not — whisper not;Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;Softly on the evening hour,Secret herbs their spices shower,Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,Lean-stalked, purple lavender;Hides within her bosom, too,All her sorrows, bitter rue.Breathe not — trespass not;Of this green and darkling spot,Latticed from the moon's beams,Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;Perchance upon its darkening air,The unseen ghosts of children fare,Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;While, unmoved, to watch and ward,'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward,Stands with bowed and dewy headThat one little leaden Lad.
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The far moon maketh lovers wiseIn her pale beauty trembling down,Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes,A strangeness not their own.And, though they shut their lids to kiss,In starless darkness peace to win,Even on that secret world from thisHer twilight enters in.
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Flee into some forgotten night and beOf all dark long my moon-bright company:Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come,There, out of all remembrance, make our home:Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair,Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chairWherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound,Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound.Perchance Leviathan of the deep seaWould lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me,There of your beauty we would joyance make —A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake:Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire,Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre,Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space,Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace,Where two might happy be — just you and I —Lost in the uttermost of Eternity.Think! in Time's smallest clock's minutest beatMight there not rest be found for wandering feet?Or, 'twixt the sleep and wake of Helen's dream,Silence wherein to sing love's requiem?No, no. Nor earth, nor air, nor fire, nor deepCould lull poor mortal longingness asleep.Somewhere there nothing is; and there lost ManShall win what changeless vague of peace he can.
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Upon this leafy bushWith thorns and roses in it,Flutters a thing of light,A twittering linnet.And all the throbbing worldOf dew and sun and airBy this small parcel of lifeIs made more fair;As if each bramble-sprayAnd mounded gold-wreathed furze,Harebell and little thyme,Were only hers;As if this beauty and graceDid to one bird belong,And, at a flutter of wing,Might vanish in song.
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I think and think: yet still I fail —Why must this lady wear a veil?Why thus elect to mask her faceBeneath that dainty web of lace?The tip of a small nose I see,And two red lips, set curiouslyLike twin-born berries on one stem,And yet, she has netted even them.Her eyes, 'tis plain, survey with easeWhate'er to glance upon they please.Yet, whether hazel, gray, or blue,Or that even lovelier lilac hue,I cannot guess: why — why denySuch beauty to the passer-by?Out of a bush a nightingaleMay expound his song; from 'neath that veilA happy mouth no doubt can makeEnglish sound sweeter for its sake.But then, why muffle in like thisWhat every blossomy wind would kiss?Why in that little night disguiseA daybreak face, those starry eyes?
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Far are those tranquil hills,Dyed with fair evening's rose;On urgent, secret errand bent,A traveller goes.Approach him strangers three,Barefooted, cowled; their eyesScan the lone, hastening solitaryWith dumb surmise.One instant in close speechWith them he doth confer:God-sped, he hasteneth on,That anxious traveller....I was that man — in a dream:And each world's night in vainI patient wait on sleep to unveilThose vivid hills again.Would that they three could knowHow yet burns on in meLove — from one lost in Paradise —For their grave courtesy.
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Old and alone, sit we,Caged, riddle-rid men;Lost to earth's 'Listen!' and 'See!'Thought's 'Wherefore?' and 'When?'Only far memories strayOf a past once lovely, but nowWasted and faded away,Like green leaves from the bough.Vast broods the silence of night,The ruinous moonLifts on our faces her light,Whence all dreaming is gone.We speak not; trembles each head;In their sockets our eyes are still;Desire as cold as the dead;Without wonder or will.And One, with a lanthorn, draws near,At clash with the moon in our eyes:'Where art thou?' he asks: 'I am here,'One by one we arise.And none lifts a hand to withholdA friend from the touch of that foe:Heart cries unto heart, 'Thou art old!'Yet reluctant, we go.
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When I lie where shades of darknessShall no more assail mine eyes,Nor the rain make lamentationWhen the wind sighs;How will fare the world whose wonderWas the very proof of me?Memory fades, must the rememberedPerishing be?Oh, when this my dust surrendersHand, foot, lip, to dust again,May those loved and loving facesPlease other men!May the rusting harvest hedgerowStill the Traveller's Joy entwine,And as happy children gatherPosies once mine.Look thy last on all things lovely,Every hour. Let no nightSeal thy sense in deathly slumberTill to delightThou have paid thy utmost blessing;Since that all things thou wouldst praiseBeauty took from those who loved themIn other days.
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Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody nearComes upon their pastures. There a life they live,Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitiveTreading as in jungles free leopards do,Printless as evelight, instant as dew.The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheepKnow our bidding. The fallow deer keepDelicate and far their counsels wild,Never to be folded reconciledTo the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are;Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,These you may not hinder, unconfinedBeautiful flocks of the mind.
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At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and thoseApples are deep-sea apples of green. There goesA cloud on the moon in the autumn night.A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and thenThere is no sound at the top of the house of menOr mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon againDapples the apples with deep-sea light.They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streamsOut of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,And quiet is the steep stair under.In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keepTryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deepOn moon-washed apples of wonder.
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You who have gone gatheringCornflowers and meadowsweet,Heard the hazels glancing downOn September eves,Seen the homeward rooks on wingOver fields of golden wheat,And the silver cups that crownWater-lily leaves;You who know the tendernessOf old men at eve-tide,Coming from the hedgerows,Coming from the plough,And the wandering caressOf winds upon the woodside,When the crying yaffle goesUnderneath the bough;You who mark the flowingOf sap upon the May-time,And the waters wellingFrom the watershed,You who count the growingOf harvest and hay-time,Knowing these the tellingOf your daily bread;You who cherish courtesyWith your fellows at your gate,And about your hearthstone sitUnder love's decrees,You who know that death will beSpeaking with you soon or late,Kinsmen, what is mother-witBut the light of these?Knowing these, what is there moreFor learning in your little years?Are not these all gospels brightShining on your day?How then shall your hearts be soreWith envy and her brood of fears,How forget the words of lightFrom the mountain-way ...Blessed are the merciful ...Does not every threshold seekMeadows and the flight of birdsFor compassion still?Blessed are the merciful ...Are we pilgrims yet to speakOut of Olivet the wordsOf knowledge and good-will?
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High up in the sky there, now, you know,In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,Tenantless, and no creature there to goNear it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheepDove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hearsUnder that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,The windows are uncurtained; on the stairsSilence is but by tip-toe silence met.All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put byFrom use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May —Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the dayTo the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep,This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,Breathing upon that still, insensible place,Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,Signs that even the curious man would miss,Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,Very soon, when up from the valley in June will rideLovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wideBow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ...The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb —But we are there — we are waiting ourselves who come.
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When you deliberate the pageOf Alexander's pilgrimage,Or say — 'It is three years, or ten,Since Easter slew Connolly's men,'Or prudently to judgment comeOf Antony or Absalom,And think how duly are designedCase and instruction for the mind,Remember then that also we,In a moon's course, are history.
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O thou, my Muse,Beside the Kentish River runningThrough water-meads where dewsTossed flashing at thy feetAnd tossing flashed againWhen the timid herdBy thy swift passing stirredUp-leapt and ran;Thou that didst fleetThy shadow over dark October hillsBy Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey,Winchcombe, and all the combes and hillsOf the green lonely land;Thou that in MayOnce when I saw thee sunningThyself so lovely thereThan the flushed flower more fairFallen from the wild apple spray,Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy handShadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedgesBetween forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedgesOf young twin-breasted Honeybourne; —O thou, my Muse,Scarce longer seen than the brief huesOf winter cloud that flamesOver the tarnished silver Thames;So often nearing,As often disappearing,With thy body's shadow brushingMy brain at midnight, lightly touching;O yield thee, Muse, to me,No more in dream delights and morn forgettings,But in a ferny hollow I know wellAnd thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings.... Bring thou thyself, and thereIn that warm ferny hollow where the sunSlants one gold beam and no light else but thineAnd my eyes' happy shine —There, O lovely Muse,Shall on thy shining body be begot,Fruit of delights a many mingling in one,Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought;My child and thine,O Muse divine!
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The joyous morning ran and kissed the grassAnd drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,And cried, 'Before thy flowers are well awakeRise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.'Before the daisy and the sorrel buyTheir brightness back from that close-folding night,Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!'Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirredAbove the Roman bones that may not stirThough joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:The grass stirred as that happy music rang.O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.As if she had found wings, light as the wind,The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing allHer dews for happiness to hear morning call....But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,I saw the fading edge of all delight.The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,And there was the old scolding of the birds.
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When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was,And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed,I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping saw no more:My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.'I did not think!' I cried, seeing that wavering shapeThat steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in JuneLifts and falls in the wind — each fruit a fruit of light;And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near;I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away.Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still,Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.Water falling, falling with the curve of timeOver green-hued rock, then plunging to its poolFar, far below, a falling spear of light;Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast,Water falls as straight as her body rose,Water her brightness has from neck to still feet,Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed,Nor water such strength has. I joyed to beholdHow the blood lit her body with lamps of fireAnd made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold,A flame in her arms and in each finger flame,And flame in her bosom, flame above, below,The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise,How the body's joy for more than body's use was made.I knew then how the body is the body of the mind,And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore,Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind,Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world,Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen —The inward vision clear — how should I look, for joy,Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the worldOver age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?