LONDON'S VOICES

Squalid street after squalid street,Endless rows of them, each the same,Black dust under your weary feet,Dust upon every face you meet,Dust in their hearts, too,—or so it seems—Dust in the place of dreams.Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,Here men hardly have heard her name.Work is the end and aim of their lives—Work, work, work! for their children and wives;Work for a life which, when it is won,Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!Work—one dark and incessant roundIn black dull workshops, out of the light;Work that others' ease may abound,Work that delight for them may be found,Work without hope, without pause, without peace,That only in death can cease.Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,What of these men, at work in the night?God will ask you what you have done;Their lives be required of you—every one—Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,While they did your work—in hell!

Squalid street after squalid street,

Endless rows of them, each the same,

Black dust under your weary feet,

Dust upon every face you meet,

Dust in their hearts, too,—or so it seems—

Dust in the place of dreams.

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,Here men hardly have heard her name.Work is the end and aim of their lives—Work, work, work! for their children and wives;Work for a life which, when it is won,Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,

Here men hardly have heard her name.

Work is the end and aim of their lives—

Work, work, work! for their children and wives;

Work for a life which, when it is won,

Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!

Work—one dark and incessant roundIn black dull workshops, out of the light;Work that others' ease may abound,Work that delight for them may be found,Work without hope, without pause, without peace,That only in death can cease.

Work—one dark and incessant round

In black dull workshops, out of the light;

Work that others' ease may abound,

Work that delight for them may be found,

Work without hope, without pause, without peace,

That only in death can cease.

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,What of these men, at work in the night?God will ask you what you have done;Their lives be required of you—every one—Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,While they did your work—in hell!

Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,

What of these men, at work in the night?

God will ask you what you have done;

Their lives be required of you—every one—

Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,

While they did your work—in hell!

SPEAK TO TWO SOULS—WHO THUS REPLY:

In all my work, in all the children's play,I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;It cries to me, I cannot choose but hearIts never-ending wail, by night and day.So many millions—is it vain to prayThat all may win such peace as I have here,With books, and work, and little children dear?—That flowers like mine may grow along their way?Through all my happy life I hear the cry,The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.I can do nothing—even hope is vainThat the bright light of peace and purityIn those lost souls may ever shine again!

In all my work, in all the children's play,

I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;

It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear

Its never-ending wail, by night and day.

So many millions—is it vain to pray

That all may win such peace as I have here,

With books, and work, and little children dear?—

That flowers like mine may grow along their way?

Through all my happy life I hear the cry,The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.I can do nothing—even hope is vainThat the bright light of peace and purityIn those lost souls may ever shine again!

Through all my happy life I hear the cry,

The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,

And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.

I can do nothing—even hope is vain

That the bright light of peace and purity

In those lost souls may ever shine again!

II.

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of beesI heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,And came to do the little best I couldFor these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I wouldI had a thousand lives to give for these!What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?The foe is mighty, and the battle long(And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees

I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:

Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.

Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"

I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,

And came to do the little best I could

For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would

I had a thousand lives to give for these!

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?The foe is mighty, and the battle long(And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong?

Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay?

The foe is mighty, and the battle long

(And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May),

And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong;

But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!One's heart and one's eyes on fire,And never a spark in one's brain.The stupid paper and ink,That might be turned into gold,Lie here unusedSince one's brain refusedTo do its tricks—as of old.One can suffer still, indeed,But one cannot think any more.There's no fire in the grate,No food on the plate,And the East-wind shrieks through the door.The sunshine grins in the street:It used to cheer me like wine,Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;And the children are crying for bread to eatAnd I cannot write a line!Molly, my pet—don't cry,Father can't write if you do—And anyhow, if you only knew,It's hard enough as it is.There, give old daddy a kiss,And cuddle down on the floor;We'll have some dinner by-and-by.Now, fool, try! Try once more!Hold your head tight in your hands,Bring your will to bear!The children are starving—your little ones—While you sit fooling there.Beth, with her golden hair;Moll, with her rough, brown head—Here they are—see!Against your knee,Waiting there to be fed!—I cannot bear their eyes.Their soft little kisses burn—They will cry againIn vain, in vain,For the food that I cannot earn.If I could only writeJust a dozen pages or soOn "The Prospects of Trade,"or "The Irish Question,"or "Why are Wages so Low?"—The printers are waiting for copy now,I've had my next week's screw,There'll be nothing more till I've written something,Oh, God! what am I to do?If I could only write!The paper glares up whiteLike the cursed white of the heavy stoneUnder whichshelies alone;And the ink is black like death,And the room and the window are black.Molly, Molly—the sun's gone out,Cannot you fetch it back?Did I frighten my little ones?Never mind, daddy dropped asleep—Cuddle down closely, creepClose to his kneeAnd daddy will seeIf he can't do his writing. Vain!I shall never write again!Oh, God! was it like a love divineTo make their lives hang on my penWhen I cannot write a line?

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!

One's heart and one's eyes on fire,

And never a spark in one's brain.

The stupid paper and ink,

That might be turned into gold,

Lie here unused

Since one's brain refused

To do its tricks—as of old.

One can suffer still, indeed,

But one cannot think any more.

There's no fire in the grate,

No food on the plate,

And the East-wind shrieks through the door.

The sunshine grins in the street:

It used to cheer me like wine,

Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;

And the children are crying for bread to eat

And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet—don't cry,Father can't write if you do—And anyhow, if you only knew,It's hard enough as it is.There, give old daddy a kiss,And cuddle down on the floor;We'll have some dinner by-and-by.Now, fool, try! Try once more!Hold your head tight in your hands,Bring your will to bear!The children are starving—your little ones—While you sit fooling there.Beth, with her golden hair;Moll, with her rough, brown head—Here they are—see!Against your knee,Waiting there to be fed!—I cannot bear their eyes.Their soft little kisses burn—They will cry againIn vain, in vain,For the food that I cannot earn.

Molly, my pet—don't cry,

Father can't write if you do—

And anyhow, if you only knew,

It's hard enough as it is.

There, give old daddy a kiss,

And cuddle down on the floor;

We'll have some dinner by-and-by.

Now, fool, try! Try once more!

Hold your head tight in your hands,

Bring your will to bear!

The children are starving—your little ones—

While you sit fooling there.

Beth, with her golden hair;

Moll, with her rough, brown head—

Here they are—see!

Against your knee,

Waiting there to be fed!—

I cannot bear their eyes.

Their soft little kisses burn—

They will cry again

In vain, in vain,

For the food that I cannot earn.

If I could only writeJust a dozen pages or soOn "The Prospects of Trade,"or "The Irish Question,"or "Why are Wages so Low?"—The printers are waiting for copy now,I've had my next week's screw,There'll be nothing more till I've written something,Oh, God! what am I to do?If I could only write!The paper glares up whiteLike the cursed white of the heavy stoneUnder whichshelies alone;And the ink is black like death,And the room and the window are black.Molly, Molly—the sun's gone out,Cannot you fetch it back?Did I frighten my little ones?Never mind, daddy dropped asleep—Cuddle down closely, creepClose to his kneeAnd daddy will seeIf he can't do his writing. Vain!I shall never write again!Oh, God! was it like a love divineTo make their lives hang on my penWhen I cannot write a line?

If I could only write

Just a dozen pages or so

On "The Prospects of Trade,"or "The Irish Question,"or "Why are Wages so Low?"—

The printers are waiting for copy now,

I've had my next week's screw,

There'll be nothing more till I've written something,

Oh, God! what am I to do?

If I could only write!

The paper glares up white

Like the cursed white of the heavy stone

Under whichshelies alone;

And the ink is black like death,

And the room and the window are black.

Molly, Molly—the sun's gone out,

Cannot you fetch it back?

Did I frighten my little ones?

Never mind, daddy dropped asleep—

Cuddle down closely, creep

Close to his knee

And daddy will see

If he can't do his writing. Vain!

I shall never write again!

Oh, God! was it like a love divine

To make their lives hang on my pen

When I cannot write a line?

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,Thee shall no want or pain come near;Sleep softly on thy downy nest,Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.Thy cradle is all silken lined,Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,With soft white pillows for thy head.Much gold those little hands shall hold,And wealth about thy life shall fold,And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,Nor the low ills of common life.These little feet shall never treadExcept on paths soft-carpeted,And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twineTo deck that darling head of thine.Thou shalt have overflowing measureOf wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,And thou shalt be right charitableWith all the crumbs that leave thy table.And thou shalt praise God every dayFor His good gifts that come thy way,And again thank Him, and again,That thou art not as other men.For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;And when all's spent that life has given,Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,Thee shall no want or pain come near;Sleep softly on thy downy nest,Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.

Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,

Thee shall no want or pain come near;

Sleep softly on thy downy nest,

Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.

Thy cradle is all silken lined,Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,With soft white pillows for thy head.

Thy cradle is all silken lined,

Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,

Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,

With soft white pillows for thy head.

Much gold those little hands shall hold,And wealth about thy life shall fold,And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,Nor the low ills of common life.

Much gold those little hands shall hold,

And wealth about thy life shall fold,

And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,

Nor the low ills of common life.

These little feet shall never treadExcept on paths soft-carpeted,And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twineTo deck that darling head of thine.

These little feet shall never tread

Except on paths soft-carpeted,

And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine

To deck that darling head of thine.

Thou shalt have overflowing measureOf wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,And thou shalt be right charitableWith all the crumbs that leave thy table.

Thou shalt have overflowing measure

Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,

And thou shalt be right charitable

With all the crumbs that leave thy table.

And thou shalt praise God every dayFor His good gifts that come thy way,And again thank Him, and again,That thou art not as other men.

And thou shalt praise God every day

For His good gifts that come thy way,

And again thank Him, and again,

That thou art not as other men.

For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;And when all's spent that life has given,Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—

'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;

And when all's spent that life has given,

Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.

II.

Sleep, little baby, sleep,Though the wind is cruel and cold,And my shawl that I've wrapped thee inIs old and ragged and thin;And my hand is too frozen to hold—Yet my bosom's still warm—so creepClose to thy mother, and sleep!Sleep, little baby, and rest,Though we wander alone through the night,And there is no food for me,No shelter for me and thee.Through the windows red fires shine bright,And tables show, heaped with the best—But there's naught for us there—so rest.Sleep, you poor little thing!Just as pretty and dearAs any fine lady's child.Oh, but my heart grows wild!—Is it worth while to stay here?What good thing from life will springFor you—you poor little thing?Sleep, you poor little thing!Mine, my treasure, my own—I clasp you, I hold you close,My darling, my bird, my rose!Rich mothers have hearts like stone,Or else some help they would bringTo you—you poor little thing!Sleep, little baby, sleep—If some good, rich mother would takeMy dear, I would kiss thee, and thenNever come near thee again—Not though my heart should break!I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—For the river is dark and deep,And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

Sleep, little baby, sleep,

Though the wind is cruel and cold,

And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in

Is old and ragged and thin;

And my hand is too frozen to hold—

Yet my bosom's still warm—so creep

Close to thy mother, and sleep!

Sleep, little baby, and rest,Though we wander alone through the night,And there is no food for me,No shelter for me and thee.Through the windows red fires shine bright,And tables show, heaped with the best—But there's naught for us there—so rest.

Sleep, little baby, and rest,

Though we wander alone through the night,

And there is no food for me,

No shelter for me and thee.

Through the windows red fires shine bright,

And tables show, heaped with the best—

But there's naught for us there—so rest.

Sleep, you poor little thing!Just as pretty and dearAs any fine lady's child.Oh, but my heart grows wild!—Is it worth while to stay here?What good thing from life will springFor you—you poor little thing?

Sleep, you poor little thing!

Just as pretty and dear

As any fine lady's child.

Oh, but my heart grows wild!—

Is it worth while to stay here?

What good thing from life will spring

For you—you poor little thing?

Sleep, you poor little thing!Mine, my treasure, my own—I clasp you, I hold you close,My darling, my bird, my rose!Rich mothers have hearts like stone,Or else some help they would bringTo you—you poor little thing!

Sleep, you poor little thing!

Mine, my treasure, my own—

I clasp you, I hold you close,

My darling, my bird, my rose!

Rich mothers have hearts like stone,

Or else some help they would bring

To you—you poor little thing!

Sleep, little baby, sleep—If some good, rich mother would takeMy dear, I would kiss thee, and thenNever come near thee again—Not though my heart should break!I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—For the river is dark and deep,And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

Sleep, little baby, sleep—

If some good, rich mother would take

My dear, I would kiss thee, and then

Never come near thee again—

Not though my heart should break!

I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—

For the river is dark and deep,

And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!The greeny glow-worms creep,The pigeons to their cote are goneAnd, to their fold, the sheep.Rest, baby, rest!The sun sinks in the west,The daisies all have gone to sleep,The birds are in the nest.Sleep, baby, sleep!The sky grows dark and deep,The stars watch over all the world,God's angels guard thy sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep!The greeny glow-worms creep,The pigeons to their cote are goneAnd, to their fold, the sheep.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

The greeny glow-worms creep,

The pigeons to their cote are gone

And, to their fold, the sheep.

Rest, baby, rest!The sun sinks in the west,The daisies all have gone to sleep,The birds are in the nest.

Rest, baby, rest!

The sun sinks in the west,

The daisies all have gone to sleep,

The birds are in the nest.

Sleep, baby, sleep!The sky grows dark and deep,The stars watch over all the world,God's angels guard thy sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep!

The sky grows dark and deep,

The stars watch over all the world,

God's angels guard thy sleep.

II.

Wake, baby dear!The good, glad morning's here;The dove is cooing soft and low,The lark sings loud and clear.Wake, baby, wake!Long since the day did break,The daisy buds are all uncurled,The sun laughs in the lake.Wake, baby dear!Thy mother's waiting near,And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun,And all things bright and dear.

Wake, baby dear!The good, glad morning's here;The dove is cooing soft and low,The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby dear!

The good, glad morning's here;

The dove is cooing soft and low,

The lark sings loud and clear.

Wake, baby, wake!Long since the day did break,The daisy buds are all uncurled,The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby, wake!

Long since the day did break,

The daisy buds are all uncurled,

The sun laughs in the lake.

Wake, baby dear!Thy mother's waiting near,And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun,And all things bright and dear.

Wake, baby dear!

Thy mother's waiting near,

And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun,

And all things bright and dear.

Sleep, my darling; mother will singSoft low songs to her little king,Nobody else must listen or hearThe pretty secrets I tell my dear.Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—Sorrow dawns with the dawning day,Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear,Soon enough will the day be here.Lie here quiet on mother's arm,Safe from harm;Nestled closely to mother's breast,Sleep and rest!Mother feels your breath's soft stirClose to her;Mother holds you, clasps you tight,All the night.When the little Jesus layOn the manger's hay,He was a Baby, if tales tell true,Just like you.And He had no crown to wearBut His bright hair;And such kisses as I give youHe had too.Mary never loved her SonMore than I love my little one;And her Baby never smiledMore divinely than my little child.Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—Sorrow dawns with the dawning day;Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear,All too soon will the day be here.

Sleep, my darling; mother will singSoft low songs to her little king,Nobody else must listen or hearThe pretty secrets I tell my dear.

Sleep, my darling; mother will sing

Soft low songs to her little king,

Nobody else must listen or hear

The pretty secrets I tell my dear.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—Sorrow dawns with the dawning day,Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear,Soon enough will the day be here.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—

Sorrow dawns with the dawning day,

Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear,

Soon enough will the day be here.

Lie here quiet on mother's arm,Safe from harm;Nestled closely to mother's breast,Sleep and rest!

Lie here quiet on mother's arm,

Safe from harm;

Nestled closely to mother's breast,

Sleep and rest!

Mother feels your breath's soft stirClose to her;Mother holds you, clasps you tight,All the night.

Mother feels your breath's soft stir

Close to her;

Mother holds you, clasps you tight,

All the night.

When the little Jesus layOn the manger's hay,He was a Baby, if tales tell true,Just like you.

When the little Jesus lay

On the manger's hay,

He was a Baby, if tales tell true,

Just like you.

And He had no crown to wearBut His bright hair;And such kisses as I give youHe had too.

And He had no crown to wear

But His bright hair;

And such kisses as I give you

He had too.

Mary never loved her SonMore than I love my little one;And her Baby never smiledMore divinely than my little child.

Mary never loved her Son

More than I love my little one;

And her Baby never smiled

More divinely than my little child.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—Sorrow dawns with the dawning day;Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear,All too soon will the day be here.

Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may—

Sorrow dawns with the dawning day;

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear,

All too soon will the day be here.

You said that you would never wed:"My love, my life's one work lie here,'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear,Where all life's flower-petals are shed!"You said.I heard: I bowed to what I heard;I bowed my head and worshipped you—So brave, so beautiful, so true—How could I doubt a single wordI heard?My sweet, white lily! All the street,As you passed by, grew clean again;The fallen, blackened souls of menLooked heavenward when men heard your feet,My sweet.But one came, dared to woo, and won—He heard your vows, and laughed at them;He plucked my lily from its stem—Sacred to all men under sun,But one!

You said that you would never wed:"My love, my life's one work lie here,'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear,Where all life's flower-petals are shed!"You said.

You said that you would never wed:

"My love, my life's one work lie here,

'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear,

Where all life's flower-petals are shed!"

You said.

I heard: I bowed to what I heard;I bowed my head and worshipped you—So brave, so beautiful, so true—How could I doubt a single wordI heard?

I heard: I bowed to what I heard;

I bowed my head and worshipped you—

So brave, so beautiful, so true—

How could I doubt a single word

I heard?

My sweet, white lily! All the street,As you passed by, grew clean again;The fallen, blackened souls of menLooked heavenward when men heard your feet,My sweet.

My sweet, white lily! All the street,

As you passed by, grew clean again;

The fallen, blackened souls of men

Looked heavenward when men heard your feet,

My sweet.

But one came, dared to woo, and won—He heard your vows, and laughed at them;He plucked my lily from its stem—Sacred to all men under sun,But one!

But one came, dared to woo, and won—

He heard your vows, and laughed at them;

He plucked my lily from its stem—

Sacred to all men under sun,

But one!

Ah me, how hot and weary here in townThe days crawl by!How otherwise they go my heart records,Where the marsh meadows lieAnd white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sailBetween the lovely earth and lovely sky.Here the sun grins along the dusty streetBeneath pale skies:Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries—Through these I hear the song that the sea singsTo the far meadowlands of Paradise.O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn—O long sweet days—O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gayWith sedge and water mace—O fair marsh land desirable and dear—How far from you lie my life's weary ways!Yet in my darkest night there shines a starMore fair than day;There is a flower that blossoms sweet and whiteIn the sad city way.That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,That star shines only when the skies are gray.For here fair peace and passionate pleasure waneBefore the lightOf radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,And turn to noon our night:We fight for freedom and the souls of men—Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

Ah me, how hot and weary here in town

The days crawl by!

How otherwise they go my heart records,

Where the marsh meadows lie

And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail

Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.

Here the sun grins along the dusty streetBeneath pale skies:Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries—Through these I hear the song that the sea singsTo the far meadowlands of Paradise.

Here the sun grins along the dusty street

Beneath pale skies:

Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,

Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries—

Through these I hear the song that the sea sings

To the far meadowlands of Paradise.

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn—O long sweet days—O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gayWith sedge and water mace—O fair marsh land desirable and dear—How far from you lie my life's weary ways!

O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn—

O long sweet days—

O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay

With sedge and water mace—

O fair marsh land desirable and dear—

How far from you lie my life's weary ways!

Yet in my darkest night there shines a starMore fair than day;There is a flower that blossoms sweet and whiteIn the sad city way.That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,That star shines only when the skies are gray.

Yet in my darkest night there shines a star

More fair than day;

There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white

In the sad city way.

That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,

That star shines only when the skies are gray.

For here fair peace and passionate pleasure waneBefore the lightOf radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,And turn to noon our night:We fight for freedom and the souls of men—Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane

Before the light

Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,

And turn to noon our night:

We fight for freedom and the souls of men—

Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!

A little room with scanty graceOf drapery or ordered ease;White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,—But there's a hum of summer bees,The sun sends through the quiet placeThe scent that honeysuckle hoards.Outside, the little garden glowsWith sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;Beyond lie meadow, lane, and woodWhere trail the briony and wild rose,And where grow blossoms of delightIn an inviolate solitude.Through that green world there blows an airThat cools my forehead even hereIn this sad city's riotous roar—And from that room my ears can hearTears and the echo of a prayer,And the world's voice is heard no more.

A little room with scanty grace

Of drapery or ordered ease;

White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,—

But there's a hum of summer bees,

The sun sends through the quiet place

The scent that honeysuckle hoards.

Outside, the little garden glowsWith sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;Beyond lie meadow, lane, and woodWhere trail the briony and wild rose,And where grow blossoms of delightIn an inviolate solitude.

Outside, the little garden glows

With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;

Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood

Where trail the briony and wild rose,

And where grow blossoms of delight

In an inviolate solitude.

Through that green world there blows an airThat cools my forehead even hereIn this sad city's riotous roar—And from that room my ears can hearTears and the echo of a prayer,And the world's voice is heard no more.

Through that green world there blows an air

That cools my forehead even here

In this sad city's riotous roar—

And from that room my ears can hear

Tears and the echo of a prayer,

And the world's voice is heard no more.

Across the grim, gray, northern seaThe Danish warships went,Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty menOn blood and plunder bent;And they landed on a smiling land—The garden-land of Kent.They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,They set the ricks aflame;They slew the men with axe and sword,They slew the maids with shame;Until, to Canterbury town,Made mad with blood, they came.Archbishop Alphege walked the wallAnd looked down on the foe."Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored,"While yet a man may go!""Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried,"To shame your bishop so!"What, would you have the shepherd flee,Like any hireling knave?What, leave my church, my poor—God's poor,To a dark and prayerless grave?No! by the body of my Lord,Myskin I will not save!"And when men heard his true, strong word,They bore them as men should.For twenty nights and twenty daysThe foemen they withstood,And, day and night, shone tapers bright,And incense veiled the rood.The warriors manned the walls without,The monks prayed on within,Till Satan, wroth to see how prayerAnd valour fared to win,Whispered a traitor, who stole outAnd let the foemen in.Then through the quiet church there ranA sudden breath of fear;The monks made haste to bar the door,And hide the golden gear;And to their lord once more they cried,"Hide, hide! the foe is here!"Through all the church's windows showedThe sudden laugh of flame;Along the street went trampling feet,And through the smoke there cameThe voice of women, calling shrillUpon the Saviour's name.And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried,"Nor meet such foes as these!""Be still," he said, "hide if ye will,Live on, and take your ease!By my Lord's death,mylatest breath,Like His, shall speak of peace!"He strode along the dusky aisle,And flung the church doors wide;Bright armour shone, and blazing homesLit up the world outside,And in the streets reeled to and froA bloody human tide.The mailed barbarians laughed aloudTo see the brave blood flow;They trampled on the breast and hairOf girls their swords laid low,And on the points of reeking spearsTossed babies to and fro.Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamedAgainst the dark red tide."Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!Your sins are red," he cried;"Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whomThe King of Heaven died!"Drunken with blood and lust of fight,Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane."Stand thou and see us shear thy sheepBefore thy foolish fane!Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,That thou mayst know their pain!"He stood, and saw his monks all slain;The altar steps ran red;In horrid heaps men lay about,The dying with the dead;And the east brightened, and the skyGrew rosy overhead.Then from the church a tiny puffOf smoke rose 'gainst the sky,Out broke the fire, and flame on flameLeaped palely out on high,Till but the church's walls were leftFor men to know it by.And when the sweet sun laughed againO'er fields and furrows brown,The brave archbishop hid his eyes,Until the tears dropped downOn the charred blackness of the wreckOf Canterbury town."Now, Saxon shepherd, send a wordUnto thy timid sheep,And bid them greaten up their hearts,And to our feet dare creep,And bring a ransom here which we,Instead of thee, may keep!"Archbishop Alphege stood alone,Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;Loaded with chains, with aching heart,And wounded in the side;And in his hour of utmost painThus to the Dane replied:"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flowBefore this thing shall be;If I be held till ransom come,I never shall be free;For by God's heart, God's poor shall neverBe robbed to ransom me!"They flung him in a dungeon dark,They heaped on him fresh chains,They promised him unnumbered illsAnd unimagined pains;But still he said, "No English shallBe taxed to profit Danes!"Six months passed by; no ransom came;Their threats had almost ceased,When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,A great and brutal feast;And they sent and dragged the Christian manBefore the pagan beast.Down the great hall, from east to west,The long rough tables ran;They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,And then the drink began—At last in all that mighty hallWas not one sober man.'Twas then they brought the bishop forthBefore the drunken throng;And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried,"You are weak, and we are strong,Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—We have borne with you too long!"The savage faces of the DanesLeered redly all around;The bones of beasts and empty cupsLay heaped upon the ground,And 'mid the crowd of howling wolvesThe Christian saint stood bound.He looked in Thorkill's angry eyesAnd knew what thing should be,Then spake: "By God, who died to saveThe poor, and me, and thee,Thou art not strong enough—God's poorShall not be taxed for me!""Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All roundThe rising tumult ran."I give my life, I give God's word,I give what gifts I can!Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?Find you some other man!"And, as he spake, the whole crowd roseWith one fierce shout and yell;They flung at him the bones of beasts,They aimed right strong and well."O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"The bishop cried—and fell.And so men call him "Saint," yet someDeemed this an unearned crown,Since 'twas not for the Church or faithHe laid his brave life down;But otherwise men deemed of itIn Canterbury town."Not for the Church he died," they said,"Yet he our saint shall be,Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,So for Christ's self died he.'Who does it to the least of these,Has done it unto Me!'"

Across the grim, gray, northern seaThe Danish warships went,Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty menOn blood and plunder bent;And they landed on a smiling land—The garden-land of Kent.

Across the grim, gray, northern sea

The Danish warships went,

Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men

On blood and plunder bent;

And they landed on a smiling land—

The garden-land of Kent.

They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,They set the ricks aflame;They slew the men with axe and sword,They slew the maids with shame;Until, to Canterbury town,Made mad with blood, they came.

They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,

They set the ricks aflame;

They slew the men with axe and sword,

They slew the maids with shame;

Until, to Canterbury town,

Made mad with blood, they came.

Archbishop Alphege walked the wallAnd looked down on the foe."Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored,"While yet a man may go!""Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried,"To shame your bishop so!

Archbishop Alphege walked the wall

And looked down on the foe.

"Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored,

"While yet a man may go!"

"Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried,

"To shame your bishop so!

"What, would you have the shepherd flee,Like any hireling knave?What, leave my church, my poor—God's poor,To a dark and prayerless grave?No! by the body of my Lord,Myskin I will not save!"

"What, would you have the shepherd flee,

Like any hireling knave?

What, leave my church, my poor—God's poor,

To a dark and prayerless grave?

No! by the body of my Lord,

Myskin I will not save!"

And when men heard his true, strong word,They bore them as men should.For twenty nights and twenty daysThe foemen they withstood,And, day and night, shone tapers bright,And incense veiled the rood.

And when men heard his true, strong word,

They bore them as men should.

For twenty nights and twenty days

The foemen they withstood,

And, day and night, shone tapers bright,

And incense veiled the rood.

The warriors manned the walls without,The monks prayed on within,Till Satan, wroth to see how prayerAnd valour fared to win,Whispered a traitor, who stole outAnd let the foemen in.

The warriors manned the walls without,

The monks prayed on within,

Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer

And valour fared to win,

Whispered a traitor, who stole out

And let the foemen in.

Then through the quiet church there ranA sudden breath of fear;The monks made haste to bar the door,And hide the golden gear;And to their lord once more they cried,"Hide, hide! the foe is here!"

Then through the quiet church there ran

A sudden breath of fear;

The monks made haste to bar the door,

And hide the golden gear;

And to their lord once more they cried,

"Hide, hide! the foe is here!"

Through all the church's windows showedThe sudden laugh of flame;Along the street went trampling feet,And through the smoke there cameThe voice of women, calling shrillUpon the Saviour's name.

Through all the church's windows showed

The sudden laugh of flame;

Along the street went trampling feet,

And through the smoke there came

The voice of women, calling shrill

Upon the Saviour's name.

And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried,"Nor meet such foes as these!""Be still," he said, "hide if ye will,Live on, and take your ease!By my Lord's death,mylatest breath,Like His, shall speak of peace!"

And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried,

"Nor meet such foes as these!"

"Be still," he said, "hide if ye will,

Live on, and take your ease!

By my Lord's death,mylatest breath,

Like His, shall speak of peace!"

He strode along the dusky aisle,And flung the church doors wide;Bright armour shone, and blazing homesLit up the world outside,And in the streets reeled to and froA bloody human tide.

He strode along the dusky aisle,

And flung the church doors wide;

Bright armour shone, and blazing homes

Lit up the world outside,

And in the streets reeled to and fro

A bloody human tide.

The mailed barbarians laughed aloudTo see the brave blood flow;They trampled on the breast and hairOf girls their swords laid low,And on the points of reeking spearsTossed babies to and fro.

The mailed barbarians laughed aloud

To see the brave blood flow;

They trampled on the breast and hair

Of girls their swords laid low,

And on the points of reeking spears

Tossed babies to and fro.

Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamedAgainst the dark red tide."Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!Your sins are red," he cried;"Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whomThe King of Heaven died!"

Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed

Against the dark red tide.

"Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!

Your sins are red," he cried;

"Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom

The King of Heaven died!"

Drunken with blood and lust of fight,Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane."Stand thou and see us shear thy sheepBefore thy foolish fane!Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,That thou mayst know their pain!"

Drunken with blood and lust of fight,

Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.

"Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep

Before thy foolish fane!

Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,

That thou mayst know their pain!"

He stood, and saw his monks all slain;The altar steps ran red;In horrid heaps men lay about,The dying with the dead;And the east brightened, and the skyGrew rosy overhead.

He stood, and saw his monks all slain;

The altar steps ran red;

In horrid heaps men lay about,

The dying with the dead;

And the east brightened, and the sky

Grew rosy overhead.

Then from the church a tiny puffOf smoke rose 'gainst the sky,Out broke the fire, and flame on flameLeaped palely out on high,Till but the church's walls were leftFor men to know it by.

Then from the church a tiny puff

Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky,

Out broke the fire, and flame on flame

Leaped palely out on high,

Till but the church's walls were left

For men to know it by.

And when the sweet sun laughed againO'er fields and furrows brown,The brave archbishop hid his eyes,Until the tears dropped downOn the charred blackness of the wreckOf Canterbury town.

And when the sweet sun laughed again

O'er fields and furrows brown,

The brave archbishop hid his eyes,

Until the tears dropped down

On the charred blackness of the wreck

Of Canterbury town.

"Now, Saxon shepherd, send a wordUnto thy timid sheep,And bid them greaten up their hearts,And to our feet dare creep,And bring a ransom here which we,Instead of thee, may keep!"

"Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word

Unto thy timid sheep,

And bid them greaten up their hearts,

And to our feet dare creep,

And bring a ransom here which we,

Instead of thee, may keep!"

Archbishop Alphege stood alone,Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;Loaded with chains, with aching heart,And wounded in the side;And in his hour of utmost painThus to the Dane replied:

Archbishop Alphege stood alone,

Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;

Loaded with chains, with aching heart,

And wounded in the side;

And in his hour of utmost pain

Thus to the Dane replied:

"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flowBefore this thing shall be;If I be held till ransom come,I never shall be free;For by God's heart, God's poor shall neverBe robbed to ransom me!"

"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow

Before this thing shall be;

If I be held till ransom come,

I never shall be free;

For by God's heart, God's poor shall never

Be robbed to ransom me!"

They flung him in a dungeon dark,They heaped on him fresh chains,They promised him unnumbered illsAnd unimagined pains;But still he said, "No English shallBe taxed to profit Danes!"

They flung him in a dungeon dark,

They heaped on him fresh chains,

They promised him unnumbered ills

And unimagined pains;

But still he said, "No English shall

Be taxed to profit Danes!"

Six months passed by; no ransom came;Their threats had almost ceased,When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,A great and brutal feast;And they sent and dragged the Christian manBefore the pagan beast.

Six months passed by; no ransom came;

Their threats had almost ceased,

When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,

A great and brutal feast;

And they sent and dragged the Christian man

Before the pagan beast.

Down the great hall, from east to west,The long rough tables ran;They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,And then the drink began—At last in all that mighty hallWas not one sober man.

Down the great hall, from east to west,

The long rough tables ran;

They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,

And then the drink began—

At last in all that mighty hall

Was not one sober man.

'Twas then they brought the bishop forthBefore the drunken throng;And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried,"You are weak, and we are strong,Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—We have borne with you too long!"

'Twas then they brought the bishop forth

Before the drunken throng;

And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried,

"You are weak, and we are strong,

Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—

We have borne with you too long!"

The savage faces of the DanesLeered redly all around;The bones of beasts and empty cupsLay heaped upon the ground,And 'mid the crowd of howling wolvesThe Christian saint stood bound.

The savage faces of the Danes

Leered redly all around;

The bones of beasts and empty cups

Lay heaped upon the ground,

And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves

The Christian saint stood bound.

He looked in Thorkill's angry eyesAnd knew what thing should be,Then spake: "By God, who died to saveThe poor, and me, and thee,Thou art not strong enough—God's poorShall not be taxed for me!"

He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes

And knew what thing should be,

Then spake: "By God, who died to save

The poor, and me, and thee,

Thou art not strong enough—God's poor

Shall not be taxed for me!"

"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All roundThe rising tumult ran."I give my life, I give God's word,I give what gifts I can!Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?Find you some other man!"

"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round

The rising tumult ran.

"I give my life, I give God's word,

I give what gifts I can!

Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?

Find you some other man!"

And, as he spake, the whole crowd roseWith one fierce shout and yell;They flung at him the bones of beasts,They aimed right strong and well."O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"The bishop cried—and fell.

And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose

With one fierce shout and yell;

They flung at him the bones of beasts,

They aimed right strong and well.

"O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"

The bishop cried—and fell.

And so men call him "Saint," yet someDeemed this an unearned crown,Since 'twas not for the Church or faithHe laid his brave life down;But otherwise men deemed of itIn Canterbury town.

And so men call him "Saint," yet some

Deemed this an unearned crown,

Since 'twas not for the Church or faith

He laid his brave life down;

But otherwise men deemed of it

In Canterbury town.

"Not for the Church he died," they said,"Yet he our saint shall be,Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,So for Christ's self died he.'Who does it to the least of these,Has done it unto Me!'"

"Not for the Church he died," they said,

"Yet he our saint shall be,

Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,

So for Christ's self died he.

'Who does it to the least of these,

Has done it unto Me!'"

It was about the time of dayWhen all the lawns with dew are wet;I wandered down a steep wood-way,And there I met with Margaret—Her hands were full of boughs of may.It was the merest chance we met:I could not find a word to say,And she was silent too—and yetFor hand and lips I dared to pray—And Margaret did not say me nay.Still on my lips her kisses stay,Her eyes are like the violet;Will time take this joy, too, away,And ever teach me to forget—And to forget without regret—The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?

It was about the time of dayWhen all the lawns with dew are wet;I wandered down a steep wood-way,And there I met with Margaret—Her hands were full of boughs of may.

It was about the time of day

When all the lawns with dew are wet;

I wandered down a steep wood-way,

And there I met with Margaret—

Her hands were full of boughs of may.

It was the merest chance we met:I could not find a word to say,And she was silent too—and yetFor hand and lips I dared to pray—And Margaret did not say me nay.

It was the merest chance we met:

I could not find a word to say,

And she was silent too—and yet

For hand and lips I dared to pray—

And Margaret did not say me nay.

Still on my lips her kisses stay,Her eyes are like the violet;Will time take this joy, too, away,And ever teach me to forget—And to forget without regret—The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?

Still on my lips her kisses stay,

Her eyes are like the violet;

Will time take this joy, too, away,

And ever teach me to forget—

And to forget without regret—

The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?

They talk of money and of fame,Would make a fortune or a name,And gold and laurel both must beFor ever out of reach of me.And if I asked of God or fateThe gift most gracious and most great,It would not be such gifts as theseThat I should pray for on my knees.No, I should ask a greater grace—A little, quiet, firelit place,Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where sheShould hold my baby on her knee.There she should sit and softly singThe songs my heart hears echoing;And I, made pure by joy, should comeNot all unworthy to our home.But if I dared to ask this grace,Would not God laugh out in my face?Since gold and fame indeed are HisTo give, but, ah! not this, not this!

They talk of money and of fame,Would make a fortune or a name,And gold and laurel both must beFor ever out of reach of me.

They talk of money and of fame,

Would make a fortune or a name,

And gold and laurel both must be

For ever out of reach of me.

And if I asked of God or fateThe gift most gracious and most great,It would not be such gifts as theseThat I should pray for on my knees.

And if I asked of God or fate

The gift most gracious and most great,

It would not be such gifts as these

That I should pray for on my knees.

No, I should ask a greater grace—A little, quiet, firelit place,Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where sheShould hold my baby on her knee.

No, I should ask a greater grace—

A little, quiet, firelit place,

Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she

Should hold my baby on her knee.

There she should sit and softly singThe songs my heart hears echoing;And I, made pure by joy, should comeNot all unworthy to our home.

There she should sit and softly sing

The songs my heart hears echoing;

And I, made pure by joy, should come

Not all unworthy to our home.

But if I dared to ask this grace,Would not God laugh out in my face?Since gold and fame indeed are HisTo give, but, ah! not this, not this!

But if I dared to ask this grace,

Would not God laugh out in my face?

Since gold and fame indeed are His

To give, but, ah! not this, not this!

When autumn winds the river grieve,And autumn mists about it creep,The river maids all shivering leaveThe stream, and singing, sink to sleep.The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snowAlike are impotent to breakThe spell of sleep that laid them low—The lovely ladies will not wake.But when the spring with lavish graceStrews blossom on the river's breast,Flowers fall upon each sleeping faceAnd break the deep and dreamless rest.Then with white arms that gleam afarThrough alders green and willows gray,They rise where sedge and iris are,And laugh beneath the blossomed May.They lie beside the river's edge,By fields with buttercups a-blaze;They whisper in the whispering sedge,They say the spell the cuckoo says.And when they hear the nightingaleAnd see the blossomed hawthorn tree,What time the orchard pink grows pale—The river maidens beckon me.Through all the city's smoke appearWhite arms and golden hair a-gleam,And through the noise of life I hear"Come back—to the enchanted stream."Come back to water, wood and weir!See what the summer has to show!Come back, come back—we too are here."I hear them calling, and I go.But when once more my dripping oarMakes music on the dreaming air,I vainly look to stream and shoreFor those white arms that lured me there.I listen to the singing weir,I hold my breath where thrushes are,But I can never, never hearThe voice that called me from afar.Only when spring grows fair next year,Even where sin and cities be,I know what voices I shall hear,And what white arms will beckon me.

When autumn winds the river grieve,And autumn mists about it creep,The river maids all shivering leaveThe stream, and singing, sink to sleep.

When autumn winds the river grieve,

And autumn mists about it creep,

The river maids all shivering leave

The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.

The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snowAlike are impotent to breakThe spell of sleep that laid them low—The lovely ladies will not wake.

The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow

Alike are impotent to break

The spell of sleep that laid them low—

The lovely ladies will not wake.

But when the spring with lavish graceStrews blossom on the river's breast,Flowers fall upon each sleeping faceAnd break the deep and dreamless rest.

But when the spring with lavish grace

Strews blossom on the river's breast,

Flowers fall upon each sleeping face

And break the deep and dreamless rest.

Then with white arms that gleam afarThrough alders green and willows gray,They rise where sedge and iris are,And laugh beneath the blossomed May.

Then with white arms that gleam afar

Through alders green and willows gray,

They rise where sedge and iris are,

And laugh beneath the blossomed May.

They lie beside the river's edge,By fields with buttercups a-blaze;They whisper in the whispering sedge,They say the spell the cuckoo says.

They lie beside the river's edge,

By fields with buttercups a-blaze;

They whisper in the whispering sedge,

They say the spell the cuckoo says.

And when they hear the nightingaleAnd see the blossomed hawthorn tree,What time the orchard pink grows pale—The river maidens beckon me.

And when they hear the nightingale

And see the blossomed hawthorn tree,

What time the orchard pink grows pale—

The river maidens beckon me.

Through all the city's smoke appearWhite arms and golden hair a-gleam,And through the noise of life I hear"Come back—to the enchanted stream.

Through all the city's smoke appear

White arms and golden hair a-gleam,

And through the noise of life I hear

"Come back—to the enchanted stream.

"Come back to water, wood and weir!See what the summer has to show!Come back, come back—we too are here."I hear them calling, and I go.

"Come back to water, wood and weir!

See what the summer has to show!

Come back, come back—we too are here."

I hear them calling, and I go.

But when once more my dripping oarMakes music on the dreaming air,I vainly look to stream and shoreFor those white arms that lured me there.

But when once more my dripping oar

Makes music on the dreaming air,

I vainly look to stream and shore

For those white arms that lured me there.

I listen to the singing weir,I hold my breath where thrushes are,But I can never, never hearThe voice that called me from afar.

I listen to the singing weir,

I hold my breath where thrushes are,

But I can never, never hear

The voice that called me from afar.

Only when spring grows fair next year,Even where sin and cities be,I know what voices I shall hear,And what white arms will beckon me.

Only when spring grows fair next year,

Even where sin and cities be,

I know what voices I shall hear,

And what white arms will beckon me.

In summer evening, love,We glide by grassy meadows,Red sun is shining,Day is declining,Peace is around, above.The poplar folds on highDark wings against the sky;Through dreaming shadowsOn we move,Silently, you and I.And seaward still we row,By sedge and bulrush sliding,Breezes are sendingRipples unendingOver the way we go.Above the poplar treeThe moon sails white and free,The boat goes glidingSwift or slow,But ever towards the sea.

In summer evening, love,

We glide by grassy meadows,

Red sun is shining,

Day is declining,

Peace is around, above.

The poplar folds on high

Dark wings against the sky;

Through dreaming shadows

On we move,

Silently, you and I.

And seaward still we row,By sedge and bulrush sliding,Breezes are sendingRipples unendingOver the way we go.Above the poplar treeThe moon sails white and free,The boat goes glidingSwift or slow,But ever towards the sea.

And seaward still we row,

By sedge and bulrush sliding,

Breezes are sending

Ripples unending

Over the way we go.

Above the poplar tree

The moon sails white and free,

The boat goes gliding

Swift or slow,

But ever towards the sea.

II.

Dip, drip, in and outThe rhythmic oars move slowly,Mist-kissed, round aboutThe pale sky reddens wholly;Chill, still, through waxing lightMystical and tender,Morn, born of starlit night,Clothes herself with splendour.Rose-glows in eastern sky,In the north faint flushes;Boat, float idly byPast the sedge and rushes!Here, near the willow screenRiver-gods bathe gaily;White, bright against the green,Poets see them daily.See, we, we aloneGreet this fresh sun-waking,Too few, who hail day done,See it in the making!Sad, glad, we two seeDawn the earth adorning,Sigh: "Why can no noon beWorth so gold a morning?"

Dip, drip, in and out

The rhythmic oars move slowly,

Mist-kissed, round about

The pale sky reddens wholly;

Chill, still, through waxing light

Mystical and tender,

Morn, born of starlit night,

Clothes herself with splendour.

Rose-glows in eastern sky,In the north faint flushes;Boat, float idly byPast the sedge and rushes!Here, near the willow screenRiver-gods bathe gaily;White, bright against the green,Poets see them daily.

Rose-glows in eastern sky,

In the north faint flushes;

Boat, float idly by

Past the sedge and rushes!

Here, near the willow screen

River-gods bathe gaily;

White, bright against the green,

Poets see them daily.

See, we, we aloneGreet this fresh sun-waking,Too few, who hail day done,See it in the making!Sad, glad, we two seeDawn the earth adorning,Sigh: "Why can no noon beWorth so gold a morning?"

See, we, we alone

Greet this fresh sun-waking,

Too few, who hail day done,

See it in the making!

Sad, glad, we two see

Dawn the earth adorning,

Sigh: "Why can no noon be

Worth so gold a morning?"

III.

It was beside a wide, white weir,Where the foam dances in the sun,The butterflies are fair this year,And o'er the weir there hovered one—A far-off cottage curled its smokeAgainst a blue and perfect sky;There love triumphant laughed and woke,And we were silent—you and I.Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands,And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright,Then fell the careful cobweb bandsWith which our will had bound his might;His royal presence made us still,Our will was water, matched with his;Like water-spray he broke our willAnd joined our lips in our first kiss.

It was beside a wide, white weir,

Where the foam dances in the sun,

The butterflies are fair this year,

And o'er the weir there hovered one—

A far-off cottage curled its smoke

Against a blue and perfect sky;

There love triumphant laughed and woke,

And we were silent—you and I.

Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands,And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright,Then fell the careful cobweb bandsWith which our will had bound his might;His royal presence made us still,Our will was water, matched with his;Like water-spray he broke our willAnd joined our lips in our first kiss.

Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands,

And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright,

Then fell the careful cobweb bands

With which our will had bound his might;

His royal presence made us still,

Our will was water, matched with his;

Like water-spray he broke our will

And joined our lips in our first kiss.

IV.

Look out! The stars are shining,The dew makes gray the meadow!The jasmine stars are twiningAbout your window bright;The glow-worms green are creepingOn lawns all dressed in shadow,The roses all are sleeping—Good-night, my heart, good-night!The nightingale is singingHer song of ceaseless sorrow,The night's slow feet pass, bringingThe day when I rejoice;Belovèd beyond measure,Our bridal is to-morrow—Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!Oh, let me hear thy voice!From cloudy confines sliding,The moon sails white and splendid;No roses now are hidingThe glory of their grace;So, if my song thou hearest—For thee begun and ended—Light up the night, my dearest,And let me see thy face!

Look out! The stars are shining,

The dew makes gray the meadow!

The jasmine stars are twining

About your window bright;

The glow-worms green are creeping

On lawns all dressed in shadow,

The roses all are sleeping—

Good-night, my heart, good-night!

The nightingale is singingHer song of ceaseless sorrow,The night's slow feet pass, bringingThe day when I rejoice;Belovèd beyond measure,Our bridal is to-morrow—Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!Oh, let me hear thy voice!

The nightingale is singing

Her song of ceaseless sorrow,

The night's slow feet pass, bringing

The day when I rejoice;

Belovèd beyond measure,

Our bridal is to-morrow—

Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!

Oh, let me hear thy voice!

From cloudy confines sliding,The moon sails white and splendid;No roses now are hidingThe glory of their grace;So, if my song thou hearest—For thee begun and ended—Light up the night, my dearest,And let me see thy face!

From cloudy confines sliding,

The moon sails white and splendid;

No roses now are hiding

The glory of their grace;

So, if my song thou hearest—

For thee begun and ended—

Light up the night, my dearest,

And let me see thy face!

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