THE BETROTHAL.

O gleaming, gliding river,Where ash and alder lean,Where sighing sedges shiverBy willows gray and green;Upon thy shifting shadowsThe yellow lily lies,And all along thy meadowsGrow flowers of Paradise.The red-roofed village sleeping,Soft sounds of farm and fold,The dappled shadows creeping,The sunset's rose and gold,Twilight of mist and glamour,Noontide of sunlit ease,How, 'mid life's sordid clamour,Our hearts will long for these!Yet, since at heart we treasureThese weirs and woods and fields,This crown of lovely leisureWhich Kentish country yields—These, these are ours for ever,Though dream-sweet days be done;Through all our dreams our riverWill evermore flow on.

O gleaming, gliding river,

Where ash and alder lean,

Where sighing sedges shiver

By willows gray and green;

Upon thy shifting shadows

The yellow lily lies,

And all along thy meadows

Grow flowers of Paradise.

The red-roofed village sleeping,Soft sounds of farm and fold,The dappled shadows creeping,The sunset's rose and gold,Twilight of mist and glamour,Noontide of sunlit ease,How, 'mid life's sordid clamour,Our hearts will long for these!

The red-roofed village sleeping,

Soft sounds of farm and fold,

The dappled shadows creeping,

The sunset's rose and gold,

Twilight of mist and glamour,

Noontide of sunlit ease,

How, 'mid life's sordid clamour,

Our hearts will long for these!

Yet, since at heart we treasureThese weirs and woods and fields,This crown of lovely leisureWhich Kentish country yields—These, these are ours for ever,Though dream-sweet days be done;Through all our dreams our riverWill evermore flow on.

Yet, since at heart we treasure

These weirs and woods and fields,

This crown of lovely leisure

Which Kentish country yields—

These, these are ours for ever,

Though dream-sweet days be done;

Through all our dreams our river

Will evermore flow on.

VI.

When all is over, lay me downFar from this dull and jaded town,Not in a churchyard's ordered bound,But in some wide green meadow-ground.No stone upon me! Above allLet no cold railing's shadows fallAcross my rest. Dead, let me beWhat no one may be living—free.Let no one mourning garments wear,And if you love me, shed no tear;Don't weight me with a clay-built heap,But plant the daisies where I sleep.There is a certain field I know,I met my dear there, years ago;Perhaps, if you should speak them fair,They'd let you lay her lover there.Laid there, perhaps my ears would hearThe ceaseless singing of the weir,The soft wind sighing thro' the grass,And hear the little children pass.Or, if my ears were stopped with clayFrom all sweet sounds of night and day,I should at least (so lay me there)Sleep better there than anywhere!

When all is over, lay me downFar from this dull and jaded town,Not in a churchyard's ordered bound,But in some wide green meadow-ground.

When all is over, lay me down

Far from this dull and jaded town,

Not in a churchyard's ordered bound,

But in some wide green meadow-ground.

No stone upon me! Above allLet no cold railing's shadows fallAcross my rest. Dead, let me beWhat no one may be living—free.

No stone upon me! Above all

Let no cold railing's shadows fall

Across my rest. Dead, let me be

What no one may be living—free.

Let no one mourning garments wear,And if you love me, shed no tear;Don't weight me with a clay-built heap,But plant the daisies where I sleep.

Let no one mourning garments wear,

And if you love me, shed no tear;

Don't weight me with a clay-built heap,

But plant the daisies where I sleep.

There is a certain field I know,I met my dear there, years ago;Perhaps, if you should speak them fair,They'd let you lay her lover there.

There is a certain field I know,

I met my dear there, years ago;

Perhaps, if you should speak them fair,

They'd let you lay her lover there.

Laid there, perhaps my ears would hearThe ceaseless singing of the weir,The soft wind sighing thro' the grass,And hear the little children pass.

Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear

The ceaseless singing of the weir,

The soft wind sighing thro' the grass,

And hear the little children pass.

Or, if my ears were stopped with clayFrom all sweet sounds of night and day,I should at least (so lay me there)Sleep better there than anywhere!

Or, if my ears were stopped with clay

From all sweet sounds of night and day,

I should at least (so lay me there)

Sleep better there than anywhere!

There is none anywhereSo beautiful as she nor half so dear;My heart sings ever when she draweth near,Because she is so good and sweet and fair.I may not be the oneTo break the cloistered stillness of her life,To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,And lead her through the garden of the sun.For I am sad and wise;I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies—none;Yet she has taught me that I am alone,And what men mean who talk of Paradise.But, when her joybells ring,I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sighAnd wish the roses did not have to die,And that the birds might never cease to sing.

There is none anywhereSo beautiful as she nor half so dear;My heart sings ever when she draweth near,Because she is so good and sweet and fair.

There is none anywhere

So beautiful as she nor half so dear;

My heart sings ever when she draweth near,

Because she is so good and sweet and fair.

I may not be the oneTo break the cloistered stillness of her life,To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,And lead her through the garden of the sun.

I may not be the one

To break the cloistered stillness of her life,

To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,

And lead her through the garden of the sun.

For I am sad and wise;I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies—none;Yet she has taught me that I am alone,And what men mean who talk of Paradise.

For I am sad and wise;

I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies—none;

Yet she has taught me that I am alone,

And what men mean who talk of Paradise.

But, when her joybells ring,I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sighAnd wish the roses did not have to die,And that the birds might never cease to sing.

But, when her joybells ring,

I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh

And wish the roses did not have to die,

And that the birds might never cease to sing.

Among his books he sits all dayTo think and read and write;He does not smell the new-mown hay,The roses red and white.I walk among them all alone,His silly, stupid wife;The world seems tasteless, dead and done—An empty thing is life.At night his window casts a squareOf light upon the lawn;I sometimes walk and watch it thereUntil the chill of dawn.I have no brain to understandThe books he loves to read;I only have a heart and handHe does not seem to need.He calls me "Child"—lays on my hairThin fingers, cold and mild;Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,I wish I were a child!And no one sees and no one knows(He least would know or see)That ere Love gathers next year's roseDeath will have gathered me;And on my grave will bindweed pinkAnd round-faced daisies grow;Hestill will read and write and think,And never, never know!

Among his books he sits all dayTo think and read and write;He does not smell the new-mown hay,The roses red and white.

Among his books he sits all day

To think and read and write;

He does not smell the new-mown hay,

The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone,His silly, stupid wife;The world seems tasteless, dead and done—An empty thing is life.

I walk among them all alone,

His silly, stupid wife;

The world seems tasteless, dead and done—

An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a squareOf light upon the lawn;I sometimes walk and watch it thereUntil the chill of dawn.

At night his window casts a square

Of light upon the lawn;

I sometimes walk and watch it there

Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understandThe books he loves to read;I only have a heart and handHe does not seem to need.

I have no brain to understand

The books he loves to read;

I only have a heart and hand

He does not seem to need.

He calls me "Child"—lays on my hairThin fingers, cold and mild;Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,I wish I were a child!

He calls me "Child"—lays on my hair

Thin fingers, cold and mild;

Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,

I wish I were a child!

And no one sees and no one knows(He least would know or see)That ere Love gathers next year's roseDeath will have gathered me;

And no one sees and no one knows

(He least would know or see)

That ere Love gathers next year's rose

Death will have gathered me;

And on my grave will bindweed pinkAnd round-faced daisies grow;Hestill will read and write and think,And never, never know!

And on my grave will bindweed pink

And round-faced daisies grow;

Hestill will read and write and think,

And never, never know!

II.

It's lonely in my study here aloneNow you are gone;I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers,While, hours on hours,I studied—toiled to weave a crown of fameAbout your name.I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring;To hear you singAbout the house while I sat reading here,My child, my dear;To know you glad with all the life-joys fairI dared not share.I thought there would be time enough to showMy love, to throwSome day with crowns of laurel at your feetLove's roses sweet;I thought I could taste love when fame was won—Now both are done!Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to missThe passionate kissWhich I dared never give, lest love should riseMighty, unwise,And bind me, with my life-work incomplete,Beside your feet.You never knew, you lived and were content;My one chance went;You died, my little one, and are at rest—And I, unblest,Look at these broken fragments of my life,My child, my wife.

It's lonely in my study here aloneNow you are gone;I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers,While, hours on hours,I studied—toiled to weave a crown of fameAbout your name.

It's lonely in my study here alone

Now you are gone;

I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers,

While, hours on hours,

I studied—toiled to weave a crown of fame

About your name.

I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring;To hear you singAbout the house while I sat reading here,My child, my dear;To know you glad with all the life-joys fairI dared not share.

I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring;

To hear you sing

About the house while I sat reading here,

My child, my dear;

To know you glad with all the life-joys fair

I dared not share.

I thought there would be time enough to showMy love, to throwSome day with crowns of laurel at your feetLove's roses sweet;I thought I could taste love when fame was won—Now both are done!

I thought there would be time enough to show

My love, to throw

Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet

Love's roses sweet;

I thought I could taste love when fame was won—

Now both are done!

Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to missThe passionate kissWhich I dared never give, lest love should riseMighty, unwise,And bind me, with my life-work incomplete,Beside your feet.

Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to miss

The passionate kiss

Which I dared never give, lest love should rise

Mighty, unwise,

And bind me, with my life-work incomplete,

Beside your feet.

You never knew, you lived and were content;My one chance went;You died, my little one, and are at rest—And I, unblest,Look at these broken fragments of my life,My child, my wife.

You never knew, you lived and were content;

My one chance went;

You died, my little one, and are at rest—

And I, unblest,

Look at these broken fragments of my life,

My child, my wife.

THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR.

The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep,Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air,Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweepThrough frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,But in her garden—risen from Summer's tombTo bear the gospel of eternal Spring—The Christmas roses bloom.O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of daysPure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways—Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,Too chill to let the redder roses blow,We, too, had our delicious hidden flowerThat blossomed in life's snow.O heart, if we again might hope to bePure as the snow or Christmas roses white!If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,And one to thee be duty and delight!If that may ever be, one hand we knowMust beckon us along the way she goes,The hand of her—as pure as any snow,And sweet as any rose.

The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep,

Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air,

Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep

Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.

No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,

But in her garden—risen from Summer's tomb

To bear the gospel of eternal Spring—

The Christmas roses bloom.

O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of daysPure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways—Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,Too chill to let the redder roses blow,We, too, had our delicious hidden flowerThat blossomed in life's snow.

O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days

Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,

Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways—

Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!

We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour,

Too chill to let the redder roses blow,

We, too, had our delicious hidden flower

That blossomed in life's snow.

O heart, if we again might hope to bePure as the snow or Christmas roses white!If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,And one to thee be duty and delight!If that may ever be, one hand we knowMust beckon us along the way she goes,The hand of her—as pure as any snow,And sweet as any rose.

O heart, if we again might hope to be

Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white!

If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,

And one to thee be duty and delight!

If that may ever be, one hand we know

Must beckon us along the way she goes,

The hand of her—as pure as any snow,

And sweet as any rose.

II.

WORSHIP.

I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,I passed between the pillars tall and slender,That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.The coloured glory of the pictured windowsFell on me as I kneeled before the shrineWhere, round the image of the Mother-maiden,The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayerWith scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten—And all the soul of all the past was there.But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew—They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;The incense of my soul was burned for you.For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,For you the flowers were on the altar laid,For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancelTo the clerestory's mysteries of shade.To you the anthems of a thousand churchesRose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;To you—through all these leagues of deathly distance,To you—as unattainable as dear.Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,Pure as the love which only you could waken,Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!

I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,I passed between the pillars tall and slender,That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.

I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,

I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,

I passed between the pillars tall and slender,

That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.

The coloured glory of the pictured windowsFell on me as I kneeled before the shrineWhere, round the image of the Mother-maiden,The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.

The coloured glory of the pictured windows

Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine

Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden,

The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.

The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayerWith scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten—And all the soul of all the past was there.

The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices,

The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer

With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten—

And all the soul of all the past was there.

But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew—They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;The incense of my soul was burned for you.

But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,

Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew—

They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;

The incense of my soul was burned for you.

For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,For you the flowers were on the altar laid,For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancelTo the clerestory's mysteries of shade.

For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,

For you the flowers were on the altar laid,

For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel

To the clerestory's mysteries of shade.

To you the anthems of a thousand churchesRose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;To you—through all these leagues of deathly distance,To you—as unattainable as dear.

To you the anthems of a thousand churches

Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;

To you—through all these leagues of deathly distance,

To you—as unattainable as dear.

Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,Pure as the love which only you could waken,Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!

Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,

Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,

Pure as the love which only you could waken,

Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!

III.

SPLENDIDE MENDAX.

When God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven's clear, cold air—When all the angels weep to seeThe branded, outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face—She will not look at my disgrace."At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!" she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.Then,lest heaven's light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day—"I never loved her!" I will say.

When God some day shall call my nameAnd scorch me with a blaze of shame,Bringing to light my inmost thoughtAnd all the evil I have wrought,

When God some day shall call my name

And scorch me with a blaze of shame,

Bringing to light my inmost thought

And all the evil I have wrought,

Tearing away the veils I woveTo hide my foulness from my love,And leaving my transgressions bareTo the whole heaven's clear, cold air—

Tearing away the veils I wove

To hide my foulness from my love,

And leaving my transgressions bare

To the whole heaven's clear, cold air—

When all the angels weep to seeThe branded, outcast soul of me,One saint at least will hide her face—She will not look at my disgrace.

When all the angels weep to see

The branded, outcast soul of me,

One saint at least will hide her face—

She will not look at my disgrace.

"At least, O God, O God Most High,He loved me truly!" she will cry,And God will pause before He sendMy soul to find its fitting end.

"At least, O God, O God Most High,

He loved me truly!" she will cry,

And God will pause before He send

My soul to find its fitting end.

Then,lest heaven's light should leave her faceTo think one loved her and was base,I will speak out at judgment day—"I never loved her!" I will say.

Then,lest heaven's light should leave her face

To think one loved her and was base,

I will speak out at judgment day—

"I never loved her!" I will say.

Light of my life! though far away,My sun, you shine,Your radiance warms me every dayLike fire or wine.Life of my heart! in every beatThis sad heart gives,It owns your sovereignty complete,By which it lives.Heart of my soul! serene and strong,Eyes of my sight!Together we can do no wrong,Apart, no right.

Light of my life! though far away,My sun, you shine,Your radiance warms me every dayLike fire or wine.

Light of my life! though far away,

My sun, you shine,

Your radiance warms me every day

Like fire or wine.

Life of my heart! in every beatThis sad heart gives,It owns your sovereignty complete,By which it lives.

Life of my heart! in every beat

This sad heart gives,

It owns your sovereignty complete,

By which it lives.

Heart of my soul! serene and strong,Eyes of my sight!Together we can do no wrong,Apart, no right.

Heart of my soul! serene and strong,

Eyes of my sight!

Together we can do no wrong,

Apart, no right.

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;Down in the valley everything is still—We also will be silent, you and I.Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;The lights come out down in the little town,'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?Did your heart breed those bitterer replies—Spoken with plovers wheeling overheadIn the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,Life being so little and love so great a thing?The price of all life's follies has been paidWhen we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and passWhere the sharp needles of the pines are shed.Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;Tread softly over these forgotten dead.We are alive, and here—O love! O wife!While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,How dare we crush the blossom of our life?How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,And life is all too short for love, my dear.When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,The other will remember we kissed here.Some one some day will come here all aloneAnd look out on the desolated years,With bitter tears of longing for the oneWho will not then be here to dry the tears!

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;Down in the valley everything is still—We also will be silent, you and I.

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,

Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;

Down in the valley everything is still—

We also will be silent, you and I.

Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;The lights come out down in the little town,'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.

Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.

A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;

The lights come out down in the little town,

'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.

Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?Did your heart breed those bitterer replies—Spoken with plovers wheeling overheadIn the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?

Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?

Did your heart breed those bitterer replies—

Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead

In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?

Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,Life being so little and love so great a thing?The price of all life's follies has been paidWhen we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.

Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,

Life being so little and love so great a thing?

The price of all life's follies has been paid

When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.

Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and passWhere the sharp needles of the pines are shed.Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;Tread softly over these forgotten dead.

Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass

Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed.

Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;

Tread softly over these forgotten dead.

We are alive, and here—O love! O wife!While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,How dare we crush the blossom of our life?How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?

We are alive, and here—O love! O wife!

While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,

How dare we crush the blossom of our life?

How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?

Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,And life is all too short for love, my dear.When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,The other will remember we kissed here.

Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,

And life is all too short for love, my dear.

When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,

The other will remember we kissed here.

Some one some day will come here all aloneAnd look out on the desolated years,With bitter tears of longing for the oneWho will not then be here to dry the tears!

Some one some day will come here all alone

And look out on the desolated years,

With bitter tears of longing for the one

Who will not then be here to dry the tears!

There's a little house by an orchard sideWhere the Spring wears pink and white;There's a garden with pansies and London pride,And a bush of lad's delight.Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seenAs trim as a garden can be,And the grass of the orchard is much more greenThan most of the grass you see.There used to be always a mother's smileAnd a father's face at the door,When one clambered over the orchard stile,So glad to be home once more.But now I never go by that way,For when I was there of late,A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,And a stranger leaned on the gate.

There's a little house by an orchard side

Where the Spring wears pink and white;

There's a garden with pansies and London pride,

And a bush of lad's delight.

Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen

As trim as a garden can be,

And the grass of the orchard is much more green

Than most of the grass you see.

There used to be always a mother's smileAnd a father's face at the door,When one clambered over the orchard stile,So glad to be home once more.But now I never go by that way,For when I was there of late,A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,And a stranger leaned on the gate.

There used to be always a mother's smile

And a father's face at the door,

When one clambered over the orchard stile,

So glad to be home once more.

But now I never go by that way,

For when I was there of late,

A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,

And a stranger leaned on the gate.

The wheel goes round—the wheel goes roundWith drip and whir and plash,It keeps all green the grassy ground,The alder, beech and ash.The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool,Forget-me-nots are foundBlue in the shadow by the pool—And still the wheel goes round.Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life's wheel too must go—But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window's blank. The garden's bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart's delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round—the wheel goes round

With drip and whir and plash,

It keeps all green the grassy ground,

The alder, beech and ash.

The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool,

Forget-me-nots are found

Blue in the shadow by the pool—

And still the wheel goes round.

Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,The foam is white like cream,The merry waters dance and reelAlong the stony stream.The little garden of the mill,It is enchanted ground,I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,And still the wheel goes round.

Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,

The foam is white like cream,

The merry waters dance and reel

Along the stony stream.

The little garden of the mill,

It is enchanted ground,

I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,

And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,And life's wheel too must go—But all their clamour has not drownedA voice I used to know.Her window's blank. The garden's bareAs her chill new-made mound,But still my heart's delight is there,And still the wheel goes round.

The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,

And life's wheel too must go—

But all their clamour has not drowned

A voice I used to know.

Her window's blank. The garden's bare

As her chill new-made mound,

But still my heart's delight is there,

And still the wheel goes round.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,With leaves of green by red shot through,And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that bringsDelicious memories of lost things,A red rose, sweet—yet sad as rue.'Twas a red rose you gave me—youWhose gifts so sacred were, and few—And that is why your lover singsA red, red rose.I sing—with lute untuned, untrue,And worse than other lovers do,Because perplexing memory stings—Because from your green grave there springs,With your spilt life-blood coloured through,A red, red rose.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,With leaves of green by red shot through,And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that bringsDelicious memories of lost things,A red rose, sweet—yet sad as rue.

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,

With leaves of green by red shot through,

And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings

Delicious memories of lost things,

A red rose, sweet—yet sad as rue.

'Twas a red rose you gave me—youWhose gifts so sacred were, and few—And that is why your lover singsA red, red rose.

'Twas a red rose you gave me—you

Whose gifts so sacred were, and few—

And that is why your lover sings

A red, red rose.

I sing—with lute untuned, untrue,And worse than other lovers do,Because perplexing memory stings—Because from your green grave there springs,With your spilt life-blood coloured through,A red, red rose.

I sing—with lute untuned, untrue,

And worse than other lovers do,

Because perplexing memory stings—

Because from your green grave there springs,

With your spilt life-blood coloured through,

A red, red rose.

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,I live in splendour and state;But I'd give it all to be young once more,And steal through the old low-lintelled door,To watch at the orchard gate.There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;But all the flowers that a hot-house growsI would give for the scent of a certain roseThat a cottage garden grew!Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow—I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!I would give you all for a daisy or twoFrom a little grave I know.

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,I live in splendour and state;But I'd give it all to be young once more,And steal through the old low-lintelled door,To watch at the orchard gate.

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,

I live in splendour and state;

But I'd give it all to be young once more,

And steal through the old low-lintelled door,

To watch at the orchard gate.

There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;But all the flowers that a hot-house growsI would give for the scent of a certain roseThat a cottage garden grew!

There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,

Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;

But all the flowers that a hot-house grows

I would give for the scent of a certain rose

That a cottage garden grew!

Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow—I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!I would give you all for a daisy or twoFrom a little grave I know.

Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,

Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow—

I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!

I would give you all for a daisy or two

From a little grave I know.

It's weary lying here,While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom—Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are—So far away, so far!They say that I shall die—And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:But oh! my red-roofed village—I should die with more contentCould I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,For one who comes no more.

It's weary lying here,

While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,

And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,

When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom—

Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are—

So far away, so far!

They say that I shall die—And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:But oh! my red-roofed village—I should die with more contentCould I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,For one who comes no more.

They say that I shall die—

And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:

But oh! my red-roofed village—I should die with more content

Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,

And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,

For one who comes no more.

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footedBetween the images that guard our roadway,Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels—Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?""We come to crave the counsel of Apollo—The men of Cymé he has counselled often—Ask of the god an answer to our question,Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ."Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;The Persian bids us yield—our hearts bid shield him,What does Apollo bid his servants do?"The Oracle replied—and straight returningTo Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,But Aristodicus, loved of the city,Withstood their will,—and thus to them spake he."Your messengers have lied—they have made merryIn their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselledThat we should yield our suppliant to the foe."Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,Iwould not yield the man who trusted Cymé—What—is the god of baser stuff than I?"So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,A second time beneath the purple shadowsPassed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To CyméComes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia—And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,Until we know what thou wouldst have us do."Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,The foe is strong, and our defences slender;Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to renderHim who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:"Yield ye your suppliant—yield him to the Persians".Then Aristodicus bethought him further,And in this fashion craftily he wrought.All round the temple, in the nooks and cranniesOf carven work made by man's love and labour,In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.And all day long their floating wings made beautyAbout the temple and the whispering laurels,And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,And, in the heart of every man beholding,The anger of the immortal gods made night.Then from the hid shrine of the inner templeCame forth a voice more beautiful than music,More terrible than thunder and wild waters,And more to be desired than summer sun."O thou most impious of all impious mortals,Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,And torn away the homes of those who trust me,Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:"Lord, is it thusthysuppliants are succoured,What time thy Oracle bids men of CyméTo yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"Then on the hush of awful expectationFollowing the challenge of the too-bold mortals,Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodiousWith all the song and sorrow of the world:—"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinningAgainst the gods ye may the sooner perish—And come no more to question at my templeOf yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footedBetween the images that guard our roadway,Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels—Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed

Between the images that guard our roadway,

Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels—

Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo—The men of Cymé he has counselled often—Ask of the god an answer to our question,Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo—

The men of Cymé he has counselled often—

Ask of the god an answer to our question,

Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;The Persian bids us yield—our hearts bid shield him,What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,

Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;

The Persian bids us yield—our hearts bid shield him,

What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

The Oracle replied—and straight returningTo Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".

The Oracle replied—and straight returning

To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,

Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:

"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".

So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,But Aristodicus, loved of the city,Withstood their will,—and thus to them spake he.

So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,

They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,

But Aristodicus, loved of the city,

Withstood their will,—and thus to them spake he.

"Your messengers have lied—they have made merryIn their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselledThat we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Your messengers have lied—they have made merry

In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;

The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled

That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,Iwould not yield the man who trusted Cymé—What—is the god of baser stuff than I?"

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,

Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,

Iwould not yield the man who trusted Cymé—

What—is the god of baser stuff than I?"

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,A second time beneath the purple shadowsPassed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens,

A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed,

A second time beneath the purple shadows

Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To CyméComes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia—And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé

Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia—

And she demands him, but we dare not yield him,

Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,The foe is strong, and our defences slender;Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to renderHim who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia,

The foe is strong, and our defences slender;

Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render

Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."

So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:"Yield ye your suppliant—yield him to the Persians".Then Aristodicus bethought him further,And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered:

"Yield ye your suppliant—yield him to the Persians".

Then Aristodicus bethought him further,

And in this fashion craftily he wrought.

All round the temple, in the nooks and cranniesOf carven work made by man's love and labour,In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies

Of carven work made by man's love and labour,

In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded,

The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.

And all day long their floating wings made beautyAbout the temple and the whispering laurels,And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.

And all day long their floating wings made beauty

About the temple and the whispering laurels,

And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur,

Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.

Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.

Now round the temple went the men of Cymé,

Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows,

And a wild wind went moaning through the branches.

The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,And, in the heart of every man beholding,The anger of the immortal gods made night.

Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide,

And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened,

And, in the heart of every man beholding,

The anger of the immortal gods made night.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner templeCame forth a voice more beautiful than music,More terrible than thunder and wild waters,And more to be desired than summer sun.

Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple

Came forth a voice more beautiful than music,

More terrible than thunder and wild waters,

And more to be desired than summer sun.

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals,Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,And torn away the homes of those who trust me,Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

"O thou most impious of all impious mortals,

Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple,

And torn away the homes of those who trust me,

Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:"Lord, is it thusthysuppliants are succoured,What time thy Oracle bids men of CyméTo yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered:

"Lord, is it thusthysuppliants are succoured,

What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé

To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"

Then on the hush of awful expectationFollowing the challenge of the too-bold mortals,Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodiousWith all the song and sorrow of the world:—

Then on the hush of awful expectation

Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals,

Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious

With all the song and sorrow of the world:—

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinningAgainst the gods ye may the sooner perish—And come no more to question at my templeOf yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning

Against the gods ye may the sooner perish—

And come no more to question at my temple

Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?The crowd says it will make my name—A name I'd gladly throw awayFor a certain unseen star's pure ray.I want success I've missed—not fame.You see the mother kneeling there,The child who cries for bread in vain.The hard straw bed, the window bare,The rags, the rat, the broken chair,The misery and cold and pain.But what you don't see—(never will!)—Is what was there while yet I drewThe lines—which are not drawn so ill,Put on the colours—worthy stillOf praise from critics such as you.I used to paint all day, to pourMy soul out as I painted—seeThere, to the life, the rotten floor,The rags, the damp, the broken door,For those your world will honour me.But, though if here my models were,You should not find a line drawn wrong,Yet there is food for my despair,But half my picture's finished fair;Words without music are not song.Sometimes I almost caught the tune,Then changing lights across the sky,Turned gray morn to red afternoon,I had to drop my brush too soon,Lay the transfiguredpaletteby.That woman did not kneel on there,When once my back was turned, I know,She used to leave the broken chairAnd show her face and its despair:Oh—if I could have seen her so!About her neck child-arms clung close,Close to her heart the child-heart crept,My room could tell you—if it chose.There was a picture, then—God knows!And I—who might have painted—slept.Then when birds bade the world prepareFor dawn—ere yet the East grew wan,She stepped back to the canvas there,Wearing the look she will not wearWhen eyes like yours and mine look on.And when the mother kneeled once more,While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,The child's white face the one look bore,Which to my eyes it never wore,Which I would give my soul to paint.Hung, as you see—upon the line—But when I laid the varnish onAnd left my two—Fate laughed, malign,"Farewell to that last hope of thine,Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?The crowd says it will make my name—A name I'd gladly throw awayFor a certain unseen star's pure ray.I want success I've missed—not fame.

Yes, that's my picture. "Great," you say?

The crowd says it will make my name—

A name I'd gladly throw away

For a certain unseen star's pure ray.

I want success I've missed—not fame.

You see the mother kneeling there,The child who cries for bread in vain.The hard straw bed, the window bare,The rags, the rat, the broken chair,The misery and cold and pain.

You see the mother kneeling there,

The child who cries for bread in vain.

The hard straw bed, the window bare,

The rags, the rat, the broken chair,

The misery and cold and pain.

But what you don't see—(never will!)—Is what was there while yet I drewThe lines—which are not drawn so ill,Put on the colours—worthy stillOf praise from critics such as you.

But what you don't see—(never will!)—

Is what was there while yet I drew

The lines—which are not drawn so ill,

Put on the colours—worthy still

Of praise from critics such as you.

I used to paint all day, to pourMy soul out as I painted—seeThere, to the life, the rotten floor,The rags, the damp, the broken door,For those your world will honour me.

I used to paint all day, to pour

My soul out as I painted—see

There, to the life, the rotten floor,

The rags, the damp, the broken door,

For those your world will honour me.

But, though if here my models were,You should not find a line drawn wrong,Yet there is food for my despair,But half my picture's finished fair;Words without music are not song.

But, though if here my models were,

You should not find a line drawn wrong,

Yet there is food for my despair,

But half my picture's finished fair;

Words without music are not song.

Sometimes I almost caught the tune,Then changing lights across the sky,Turned gray morn to red afternoon,I had to drop my brush too soon,Lay the transfiguredpaletteby.

Sometimes I almost caught the tune,

Then changing lights across the sky,

Turned gray morn to red afternoon,

I had to drop my brush too soon,

Lay the transfiguredpaletteby.

That woman did not kneel on there,When once my back was turned, I know,She used to leave the broken chairAnd show her face and its despair:Oh—if I could have seen her so!

That woman did not kneel on there,

When once my back was turned, I know,

She used to leave the broken chair

And show her face and its despair:

Oh—if I could have seen her so!

About her neck child-arms clung close,Close to her heart the child-heart crept,My room could tell you—if it chose.There was a picture, then—God knows!And I—who might have painted—slept.

About her neck child-arms clung close,

Close to her heart the child-heart crept,

My room could tell you—if it chose.

There was a picture, then—God knows!

And I—who might have painted—slept.

Then when birds bade the world prepareFor dawn—ere yet the East grew wan,She stepped back to the canvas there,Wearing the look she will not wearWhen eyes like yours and mine look on.

Then when birds bade the world prepare

For dawn—ere yet the East grew wan,

She stepped back to the canvas there,

Wearing the look she will not wear

When eyes like yours and mine look on.

And when the mother kneeled once more,While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,The child's white face the one look bore,Which to my eyes it never wore,Which I would give my soul to paint.

And when the mother kneeled once more,

While birds grew shrill, and shadows faint,

The child's white face the one look bore,

Which to my eyes it never wore,

Which I would give my soul to paint.

Hung, as you see—upon the line—But when I laid the varnish onAnd left my two—Fate laughed, malign,"Farewell to that last hope of thine,Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

Hung, as you see—upon the line—

But when I laid the varnish on

And left my two—Fate laughed, malign,

"Farewell to that last hope of thine,

Thy chance of painting them is gone!"

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!Not a knife. I never use one—I've the right thing on my watch-chainWhich some fool or other gave me—Takes the end off in a second—Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.See! The soft wreath upward curling,Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;Blue as skies in mild October;Vague, elusive as delight is.Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow toWhen they're looked at by a dreamer!Waves that moan—cold, gray, and curling,On a shore where gray rocks break them;Skies where gray and blue are blendedAs our life blends joy and sorrow.Angel wings, and smoke of battles,Lines of beauty, curved perfection!Half-shut eyes see many marvels;Gazed at through one's half-closed lashesWreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny—Beckoning hands and warning fingers—But the gray cloud always somehowEnds by looking like a woman.Like a woman tall and slender,Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.Through my half-shut eyes I see her—Through my half-dead life am consciousOf her pure, perpetual presence.Then the gray wreaths spread out broadlyTill they make a level landscape,Toneless, dull, and very rainy—And an open grave—I saw it.Through the rain I heard the fallingOf the tears the heart sheds inly.Oh, I saw it! I rememberLeafless branches, dripping, dripping,Through a chill not born of Autumn.To that grave tends all my dreaming—Oh, I saw it, I remember ...By that grave all dreaming ended!

Larranagas! Thank you, thank you!

Not a knife. I never use one—

I've the right thing on my watch-chain

Which some fool or other gave me—

Takes the end off in a second—

Sharp as life bites off our pleasures.

See! The soft wreath upward curling,Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;Blue as skies in mild October;Vague, elusive as delight is.Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow toWhen they're looked at by a dreamer!

See! The soft wreath upward curling,

Gray as mists in leaf-strewn hollows;

Blue as skies in mild October;

Vague, elusive as delight is.

Ah! what shapes the smoke-wreaths grow to

When they're looked at by a dreamer!

Waves that moan—cold, gray, and curling,On a shore where gray rocks break them;Skies where gray and blue are blendedAs our life blends joy and sorrow.Angel wings, and smoke of battles,Lines of beauty, curved perfection!

Waves that moan—cold, gray, and curling,

On a shore where gray rocks break them;

Skies where gray and blue are blended

As our life blends joy and sorrow.

Angel wings, and smoke of battles,

Lines of beauty, curved perfection!

Half-shut eyes see many marvels;Gazed at through one's half-closed lashesWreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny—Beckoning hands and warning fingers—But the gray cloud always somehowEnds by looking like a woman.

Half-shut eyes see many marvels;

Gazed at through one's half-closed lashes

Wreaths of smoke take shapes uncanny—

Beckoning hands and warning fingers—

But the gray cloud always somehow

Ends by looking like a woman.

Like a woman tall and slender,Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.Through my half-shut eyes I see her—Through my half-dead life am consciousOf her pure, perpetual presence.

Like a woman tall and slender,

Gowned in gray, with eyes like twilight,

Soft, and dreamy, and delicious.

Through my half-shut eyes I see her—

Through my half-dead life am conscious

Of her pure, perpetual presence.

Then the gray wreaths spread out broadlyTill they make a level landscape,Toneless, dull, and very rainy—And an open grave—I saw it.Through the rain I heard the fallingOf the tears the heart sheds inly.

Then the gray wreaths spread out broadly

Till they make a level landscape,

Toneless, dull, and very rainy—

And an open grave—I saw it.

Through the rain I heard the falling

Of the tears the heart sheds inly.

Oh, I saw it! I rememberLeafless branches, dripping, dripping,Through a chill not born of Autumn.To that grave tends all my dreaming—Oh, I saw it, I remember ...By that grave all dreaming ended!

Oh, I saw it! I remember

Leafless branches, dripping, dripping,

Through a chill not born of Autumn.

To that grave tends all my dreaming—

Oh, I saw it, I remember ...

By that grave all dreaming ended!

Oh! to be alone!To escape from the work, the play,The talking, everyday;To escape from all I have done,And all that remains to do.To escape, yes, even from you,My only love, and beAlone, and free.Could I only standBetween gray moor and gray skyWhere the winds and the plovers cry,And no man is at hand.And feel the free wind blowOn my rain-wet face, and knowI am free—not yours—but my own.Free—and alone!For the soft fire-lightAnd the home of your heart, my dear,They hurt—being always here.I want to stand up—uprightAnd to cool my eyes in the airAnd to see how my back can bearBurdens—to try, to know,To learn, to grow!I am only you!I am yours—part of you—your wife!And I have no other life.I cannot think, cannot do,I cannot breathe, cannot see;There is "us," but there is not "me"—And worst, at your kiss, I growContented so.

Oh! to be alone!To escape from the work, the play,The talking, everyday;To escape from all I have done,And all that remains to do.To escape, yes, even from you,My only love, and beAlone, and free.

Oh! to be alone!

To escape from the work, the play,

The talking, everyday;

To escape from all I have done,

And all that remains to do.

To escape, yes, even from you,

My only love, and be

Alone, and free.

Could I only standBetween gray moor and gray skyWhere the winds and the plovers cry,And no man is at hand.And feel the free wind blowOn my rain-wet face, and knowI am free—not yours—but my own.Free—and alone!

Could I only stand

Between gray moor and gray sky

Where the winds and the plovers cry,

And no man is at hand.

And feel the free wind blow

On my rain-wet face, and know

I am free—not yours—but my own.

Free—and alone!

For the soft fire-lightAnd the home of your heart, my dear,They hurt—being always here.I want to stand up—uprightAnd to cool my eyes in the airAnd to see how my back can bearBurdens—to try, to know,To learn, to grow!

For the soft fire-light

And the home of your heart, my dear,

They hurt—being always here.

I want to stand up—upright

And to cool my eyes in the air

And to see how my back can bear

Burdens—to try, to know,

To learn, to grow!

I am only you!I am yours—part of you—your wife!And I have no other life.I cannot think, cannot do,I cannot breathe, cannot see;There is "us," but there is not "me"—And worst, at your kiss, I growContented so.

I am only you!

I am yours—part of you—your wife!

And I have no other life.

I cannot think, cannot do,

I cannot breathe, cannot see;

There is "us," but there is not "me"—

And worst, at your kiss, I grow

Contented so.

Above the rocks, above the wavesShines the strong light that warns and saves.So you, too high for storm or strife,Light up the shipwreck of my life.The lighthouse warns the wise, but theseNot only sail the stormy seas;Towards the light the foolish steerAnd, drowning, read its meaning, dear.And, if the lamp by chance allureSome foolish ship to death, be sureThe lamp will to itself protest:"His be the blame! I did my best!"

Above the rocks, above the wavesShines the strong light that warns and saves.So you, too high for storm or strife,Light up the shipwreck of my life.

Above the rocks, above the waves

Shines the strong light that warns and saves.

So you, too high for storm or strife,

Light up the shipwreck of my life.

The lighthouse warns the wise, but theseNot only sail the stormy seas;Towards the light the foolish steerAnd, drowning, read its meaning, dear.

The lighthouse warns the wise, but these

Not only sail the stormy seas;

Towards the light the foolish steer

And, drowning, read its meaning, dear.

And, if the lamp by chance allureSome foolish ship to death, be sureThe lamp will to itself protest:"His be the blame! I did my best!"

And, if the lamp by chance allure

Some foolish ship to death, be sure

The lamp will to itself protest:

"His be the blame! I did my best!"

Tired of work? Then drop awayFrom the land of cheerful day!Pen the muse, and drive the penIf you'd stay with living men.Fancy fails? Then pluck from thoseGardens where her blossom blows;Trim the buds and wire them well,And your bouquet's sure to sell.Write, write, write! Produce, produce!Write for sale, and not for use.This is a commercial age!Write! and fill your ledger page.If your soul should droop and die,Bury it with undimmed eye.Never mind what memory says—Soul's a thing that never pays!

Tired of work? Then drop awayFrom the land of cheerful day!Pen the muse, and drive the penIf you'd stay with living men.

Tired of work? Then drop away

From the land of cheerful day!

Pen the muse, and drive the pen

If you'd stay with living men.

Fancy fails? Then pluck from thoseGardens where her blossom blows;Trim the buds and wire them well,And your bouquet's sure to sell.

Fancy fails? Then pluck from those

Gardens where her blossom blows;

Trim the buds and wire them well,

And your bouquet's sure to sell.

Write, write, write! Produce, produce!Write for sale, and not for use.This is a commercial age!Write! and fill your ledger page.

Write, write, write! Produce, produce!

Write for sale, and not for use.

This is a commercial age!

Write! and fill your ledger page.

If your soul should droop and die,Bury it with undimmed eye.Never mind what memory says—Soul's a thing that never pays!

If your soul should droop and die,

Bury it with undimmed eye.

Never mind what memory says—

Soul's a thing that never pays!

Let me go! I cannot beAll you think me, pure and true:Those brave jewel-names crown you,They were trampled down by me.Horrid ghosts rise up betweenYou and me; I dare not pass!What might be is dead; what wasIs its poison, O my Queen!I should wither up your life,Blacken, blight its maiden flower;You would live to curse the hourWhen you made yourself my wife.Yet, your hand held out, your eyesPleading, longing, brimmed with tears ...I have lived in hell for years:Do not show me Paradise.Lest I answer: "Take me, then!Take me, save me if you can,Worse than any other man,Loving more than other men."

Let me go! I cannot beAll you think me, pure and true:Those brave jewel-names crown you,They were trampled down by me.

Let me go! I cannot be

All you think me, pure and true:

Those brave jewel-names crown you,

They were trampled down by me.

Horrid ghosts rise up betweenYou and me; I dare not pass!What might be is dead; what wasIs its poison, O my Queen!

Horrid ghosts rise up between

You and me; I dare not pass!

What might be is dead; what was

Is its poison, O my Queen!

I should wither up your life,Blacken, blight its maiden flower;You would live to curse the hourWhen you made yourself my wife.

I should wither up your life,

Blacken, blight its maiden flower;

You would live to curse the hour

When you made yourself my wife.

Yet, your hand held out, your eyesPleading, longing, brimmed with tears ...I have lived in hell for years:Do not show me Paradise.

Yet, your hand held out, your eyes

Pleading, longing, brimmed with tears ...

I have lived in hell for years:

Do not show me Paradise.

Lest I answer: "Take me, then!Take me, save me if you can,Worse than any other man,Loving more than other men."

Lest I answer: "Take me, then!

Take me, save me if you can,

Worse than any other man,

Loving more than other men."

The castle had been held in siege,While thrice three weeks went past,And still the foe no vantage gainedAnd still our men stood fast.We held the castle for our kingAgainst our foes and his;Stout was our heart, as man's must beIn such brave cause as this.But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,And oh! his heart was sore,For the foe held fast the only sonHis dead wife ever bore.The castle gates were firm and fast,Strong was the castle wall,Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heartFor the thing that might befal.He looked out to the pearly east,Ere day began to break:"God save my boy till evensong,"He said, "for Mary's sake!"He looked out on the western skyWhen the sun sank, blood-red:"God keep my son till morning lightFor His son's sake," he said.And morn and eve, and noon and night,His heart one prayer did make:"God keep my boy, my little one,For his dear dead mother's sake!"At last, worn out with bootless siege—Our walls being tall and stout—The rebel captain neared our gatesWith a flag of truce held out."A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,Ere yet it be too late;We have a prisoner and would knowWhat is to be his fate."Yield up your castle, or he dies!'Tis thus the bargain stands:His body in our hands we hold,His life is in your hands!"Sir Hugh looked down across the moatAnd, in the sunlight fair,He saw the child's blue, frightened eyesAnd tangled golden hair.He saw the little arms held out;The little voice rang thin:"O father dear, undo the gates!O father—let me in!"Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;His voice rang strong and true:"My son—I cannot let thee in,As my heart bids me do;"If I should open and let thee in,I let in, with thee, shame:And that thing never shall be doneBy one who bears our name!"For honour and our king commandAnd we must needs obey;So bear thee as a brave man's son,As I will do this day."The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,Threw back his bright blond hair:"Father, I will not be the oneTo shame the name we bear."And, whatsoever they may do,Whether I live or die,I'll bear me as a brave man's son,For that, thank God, am I!"Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,He spake full fierce and free:"Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affairWith cowards such as ye be?"What? I must yield my castle up,Or else my son be slain?I trow ye never had to doTill now with honest men!"'Tis but by traitors such as youThat such foul deeds be done;Not to betray his king and causeDid I beget my son!"My son was bred to wield the swordAnd hew down knaves like you,Or, at the least, die like a man,As he this day shall do!"And, since ye lack a weapon meetTo take so good a life(For your coward steel would stain his blood),Here—take his father's knife!"With that he flung the long knife downFrom off the castle wall,It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,Full in the sight of all.Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,We held our breath in awe ...May my tongue wither ere it tellThe damnèd work we saw!When all was done, a shout went upFrom that accursèd crew,And from the chapel's silence dimCame forth in haste Sir Hugh."And what may mean this clamour and din?""Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!""I deemed the foe had entered in,But God is good!" he said.We stood upon the topmost tower,Full in the setting sun;Shamed silence grew in the traitor's campNow that foul deed was done.See! on the hills the gleam of steel,Hark! threatening clarions ring,See! horse and foot and spear and shieldAnd the banner of the king!And in the camp of those without,Hot tumult and cold fear,For the traitor only dares be brave,Until his king be near!We armed at speed, we sallied forth,Sir Hugh was at our head;He set his teeth and he marked his pathBy a line of traitors, dead.He hacked his way straight to the churlWho did the boy to death,He swung his sword in his two strong handsAnd clove him to the teeth.And while the blade was held in the bone,The caitiffs round him pressed,And he died, as one of his line should die,With three blades in his breast.And when they told the king these things,He turned his head away,And said: "A braver man than IHas fallen for me this day!"

The castle had been held in siege,While thrice three weeks went past,And still the foe no vantage gainedAnd still our men stood fast.

The castle had been held in siege,

While thrice three weeks went past,

And still the foe no vantage gained

And still our men stood fast.

We held the castle for our kingAgainst our foes and his;Stout was our heart, as man's must beIn such brave cause as this.

We held the castle for our king

Against our foes and his;

Stout was our heart, as man's must be

In such brave cause as this.

But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,And oh! his heart was sore,For the foe held fast the only sonHis dead wife ever bore.

But Sir Hugh walked the castle wall,

And oh! his heart was sore,

For the foe held fast the only son

His dead wife ever bore.

The castle gates were firm and fast,Strong was the castle wall,Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heartFor the thing that might befal.

The castle gates were firm and fast,

Strong was the castle wall,

Yet bore Sir Hugh an aching heart

For the thing that might befal.

He looked out to the pearly east,Ere day began to break:"God save my boy till evensong,"He said, "for Mary's sake!"

He looked out to the pearly east,

Ere day began to break:

"God save my boy till evensong,"

He said, "for Mary's sake!"

He looked out on the western skyWhen the sun sank, blood-red:"God keep my son till morning lightFor His son's sake," he said.

He looked out on the western sky

When the sun sank, blood-red:

"God keep my son till morning light

For His son's sake," he said.

And morn and eve, and noon and night,His heart one prayer did make:"God keep my boy, my little one,For his dear dead mother's sake!"

And morn and eve, and noon and night,

His heart one prayer did make:

"God keep my boy, my little one,

For his dear dead mother's sake!"

At last, worn out with bootless siege—Our walls being tall and stout—The rebel captain neared our gatesWith a flag of truce held out.

At last, worn out with bootless siege—

Our walls being tall and stout—

The rebel captain neared our gates

With a flag of truce held out.

"A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,Ere yet it be too late;We have a prisoner and would knowWhat is to be his fate.

"A word, Sir Hugh, a word with you,

Ere yet it be too late;

We have a prisoner and would know

What is to be his fate.

"Yield up your castle, or he dies!'Tis thus the bargain stands:His body in our hands we hold,His life is in your hands!"

"Yield up your castle, or he dies!

'Tis thus the bargain stands:

His body in our hands we hold,

His life is in your hands!"

Sir Hugh looked down across the moatAnd, in the sunlight fair,He saw the child's blue, frightened eyesAnd tangled golden hair.

Sir Hugh looked down across the moat

And, in the sunlight fair,

He saw the child's blue, frightened eyes

And tangled golden hair.

He saw the little arms held out;The little voice rang thin:"O father dear, undo the gates!O father—let me in!"

He saw the little arms held out;

The little voice rang thin:

"O father dear, undo the gates!

O father—let me in!"

Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;His voice rang strong and true:"My son—I cannot let thee in,As my heart bids me do;

Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements;

His voice rang strong and true:

"My son—I cannot let thee in,

As my heart bids me do;

"If I should open and let thee in,I let in, with thee, shame:And that thing never shall be doneBy one who bears our name!

"If I should open and let thee in,

I let in, with thee, shame:

And that thing never shall be done

By one who bears our name!

"For honour and our king commandAnd we must needs obey;So bear thee as a brave man's son,As I will do this day."

"For honour and our king command

And we must needs obey;

So bear thee as a brave man's son,

As I will do this day."

The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,Threw back his bright blond hair:"Father, I will not be the oneTo shame the name we bear.

The boy looked up, his shoulders squared,

Threw back his bright blond hair:

"Father, I will not be the one

To shame the name we bear.

"And, whatsoever they may do,Whether I live or die,I'll bear me as a brave man's son,For that, thank God, am I!"

"And, whatsoever they may do,

Whether I live or die,

I'll bear me as a brave man's son,

For that, thank God, am I!"

Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,He spake full fierce and free:"Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affairWith cowards such as ye be?

Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe,

He spake full fierce and free:

"Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair

With cowards such as ye be?

"What? I must yield my castle up,Or else my son be slain?I trow ye never had to doTill now with honest men!

"What? I must yield my castle up,

Or else my son be slain?

I trow ye never had to do

Till now with honest men!

"'Tis but by traitors such as youThat such foul deeds be done;Not to betray his king and causeDid I beget my son!

"'Tis but by traitors such as you

That such foul deeds be done;

Not to betray his king and cause

Did I beget my son!

"My son was bred to wield the swordAnd hew down knaves like you,Or, at the least, die like a man,As he this day shall do!

"My son was bred to wield the sword

And hew down knaves like you,

Or, at the least, die like a man,

As he this day shall do!

"And, since ye lack a weapon meetTo take so good a life(For your coward steel would stain his blood),Here—take his father's knife!"

"And, since ye lack a weapon meet

To take so good a life

(For your coward steel would stain his blood),

Here—take his father's knife!"

With that he flung the long knife downFrom off the castle wall,It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,Full in the sight of all.

With that he flung the long knife down

From off the castle wall,

It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight,

Full in the sight of all.

Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,We held our breath in awe ...May my tongue wither ere it tellThe damnèd work we saw!

Sir Hugh passed down the turret stair,

We held our breath in awe ...

May my tongue wither ere it tell

The damnèd work we saw!

When all was done, a shout went upFrom that accursèd crew,And from the chapel's silence dimCame forth in haste Sir Hugh.

When all was done, a shout went up

From that accursèd crew,

And from the chapel's silence dim

Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.

"And what may mean this clamour and din?""Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!""I deemed the foe had entered in,But God is good!" he said.

"And what may mean this clamour and din?"

"Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!"

"I deemed the foe had entered in,

But God is good!" he said.

We stood upon the topmost tower,Full in the setting sun;Shamed silence grew in the traitor's campNow that foul deed was done.

We stood upon the topmost tower,

Full in the setting sun;

Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp

Now that foul deed was done.

See! on the hills the gleam of steel,Hark! threatening clarions ring,See! horse and foot and spear and shieldAnd the banner of the king!

See! on the hills the gleam of steel,

Hark! threatening clarions ring,

See! horse and foot and spear and shield

And the banner of the king!

And in the camp of those without,Hot tumult and cold fear,For the traitor only dares be brave,Until his king be near!

And in the camp of those without,

Hot tumult and cold fear,

For the traitor only dares be brave,

Until his king be near!

We armed at speed, we sallied forth,Sir Hugh was at our head;He set his teeth and he marked his pathBy a line of traitors, dead.

We armed at speed, we sallied forth,

Sir Hugh was at our head;

He set his teeth and he marked his path

By a line of traitors, dead.

He hacked his way straight to the churlWho did the boy to death,He swung his sword in his two strong handsAnd clove him to the teeth.

He hacked his way straight to the churl

Who did the boy to death,

He swung his sword in his two strong hands

And clove him to the teeth.

And while the blade was held in the bone,The caitiffs round him pressed,And he died, as one of his line should die,With three blades in his breast.

And while the blade was held in the bone,

The caitiffs round him pressed,

And he died, as one of his line should die,

With three blades in his breast.

And when they told the king these things,He turned his head away,And said: "A braver man than IHas fallen for me this day!"

And when they told the king these things,

He turned his head away,

And said: "A braver man than I

Has fallen for me this day!"

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