TO SUMMERSummer! I praise thee, who art glorious!For now the sudden promise of the SpringHath been fulfilled in many ways to us,And all live things are thine.Therefore, while all the earthIs glad, and young, and strangely riotousWith love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,Idare to sing,Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.Yet with no scorn of any passed daysCome I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;Nor build I this new crownFor my new love's fair headOf flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,And then forgot and utterly cast down;But from the measureOf a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasureI glean, and thus my love is garlanded.Yea, with a crown such as no other queenThat ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,And garments such as man hath never seen!The beauty Heaven hathFor thee was magnified;I think the least of thy bright gold and greenOnce lived along God's best-beloved path,And angels therePassed by, and gathered those He called most fair,And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.How at thy coming we were glad again!We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;And fain of death as one aweary of pain.Life had grown burthensome,Till suddenly we learnedThe joy the old brown earth has, when the rainComes, and the earth is glad that it has come:That ecstasyThe buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.O season of the strong triumphant Sun!Bringer of exultation unto all!Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.Over thy growing grainHow the winds rise and cease!Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!Where trees are tall,Hear where young birds hold their high festival;And see where shallow waters know thy peace.Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,Summer, that thou shouldst go another wayThan ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?Come with me further stillWhere, in sight of the sea,This garden liveth under mellow skies;Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,And deign to stayA moment mid its colors' glad array,—Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?The perfect ways thereofAre thy desired ones;Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,So, even thus,I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!THE PATHIs this the path that knew your tread,Once, when the skies were just as blueAs they are now, far overhead?Are these the trees that looked at youAnd listened to the words you said?Along this moss did your dress sweep?And is this broken stem the oneThat gave its flower to you to keep?And here where the grasses knew the sunBefore a sickle came to reapDid your dear shadow softly fall?This place is very like, and yetNo shadow lieth here at all;With dew the mosses still are wetAlthough the grass no more is tall.The small brown birds go rustling throughThe low-branched hemlock as of old;The tree-tops almost touch the blue;The sunlight falleth down like goldOn one new flower that waiteth you.THE LAST FLOWERO golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?This meadow is a barren thing to see,For here the reapers' toil is over and done.Of all her many birds there is but oneLeft to assail the last wild raspberry;The buttercups and daisies withered be,And yet thy reign hath only now begun.O sign of power and sway imperial!O sceptre thrust into the hands of FallBy Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,Even the trees have let their glory pass,And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!AFTER HARVESTO Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!The long year through thou hast been good to us.Forgive us were we ever mutinousOr unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amazeThy passing, for thou wert imperiousIndeed; and our estate seemed perilous,And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,Each garden that is fast a-perishing,The promise April surely had revealedHad we had grace to bend our stubborn kneesWho seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.HEAT IN SEPTEMBERAnd why shouldst thou come back to us, July,Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.Must I, like him who, seeing once againThe long-awaited face of his lost love,Hath little strength to thank the gods above(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?ON THE HILLSIDEOctober's peace hath fallen on everything.In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—The passing of the sun remembering.A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)Below, the little city lieth still;And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,The cattle wander homeward slowly now;In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;The maples will be desolate by morn.The last word of the summer hath been said.SUMMER DYINGLast night the heavy moaning windBore unto meWarning from Him who hath designedThat change shall be.Beneath these mighty hills I lay,At rest at last,And thinking on the golden dayBut now gone past;When softly came a faint, far cryThat night made clear,"Thy reign is over, thou must die;Winter is near!""Winter is near!" Yea, all night longReëchoed farThe burden of that weary songOf hopeless war.I prayed unto the fixéd KingOf changing TimeFor longer life, till sun-risingAnd morning's prime,And while to-day I watched the sunRise, slant, and die;And now is night the stronger one.Again the cryComes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"Yes, Lord, I know;And here I kneel on Earth's cold floorOnce, ere I go,And thank Thee for the long, long daysThou gavest me,And all the pleasant, laughing waysI walked with Thee.I have been happy since the firstGlad day I roseAnd found the river here had burstThrough ice and snowsWhile I had slept. Blue places wereAmidst the gray,Where water showed; and the waterMost quiet lay.Upon the ice great flocks of crowsWere clamoring—Lest my blue eyes again should close—The eyes of Spring.I stepped down to the frozen shore—The snow was gone;And lo, where ice had been before,The river shone!With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birdsTo the tall pines;These were the first of Spring's faint wordsAnd Summer's signs.And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"Ah, might I stay,That I might hear one robin's cryBringing the day;That I might see the new grass comeWhere cattle range;The maples bud, wild roses bloom,Old willows change;That I might know one night in JuneTwo found most fair,And see again the great half-moonShine through her hair;Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,Where orchards are,And hear some glad child's laughing cryRing loud and far;Or even, Lord, though near my endIt surely be,Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and sendOne day to me,One day—October's brown and redCover the hills,And all the brakes and ferns are dead,And quiet fillsOne place where many birds once sang?Then should I goWhere heavy fir-trees overhangTheir branches so,And slim white birches, quivering,Loose yellow leaves,And aspens grow, and everythingFor Summer grieves.Ah, there once more, ere day be done,To face the west,And see the sure and scarlet sunSink to its restBeyond the ploughed field sloping sheerUp to the sky;To feel the last light disappearAnd silent die;To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;I hear Thy call;Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,Lest I should fall....Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,Now come to Thee;I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said"Let Winter be!"A NOVEMBER VIGILI wonder why my love for himShould grow so much these last three days,While he but stares as if some whimHad been discovered to his gaze;Some foolish whim that brings but shameWhatever time he thinks thereof,—To him my name is now the nameOf some old half-forgotten love.And yet I starve for his least kissAnd faint because my love is great;I, who am now no more than this,—An unseen beggar at his gate....She watched the moon and spake aloud.The moon seemed not to rise, but hungJust underneath the long straight cloudThat low across the heavens swung,As if to press the old moon backInto its place behind the trees.The trees stood where the hill was black;They were not vexed by any breeze.The moon was not as it had beenBefore, when she had watched it rise;It was misshapen now, and thin,As if some trouble in the skiesHad happened more than it could bear,Its color, too, was no more red;Nor was it like her yellow hair;—It looked as if its soul were dead.I, who was once well-loved of him,Am as a beggar by his gateWhereon black carvéd things look grimAt one who thinks to penetrate.I do not ask if I may strayOnce more in those desired lands;Another night, yet one more day,For these I do not make demands;For when the ripened hour is pastThings such as these are asked in vain:His first day's love,—were that the lastI were repaid for this new pain.Out of his love great joy I hadFor many days; and even nowI do not dare to be but gladWhen I remember, often, howHe said he had great joy of me.The while he loved, no man, I think,Exceeded him in constancy;My passion, even, seemed to shrinkAlmost to nothing, when he cameAnd told me all of love's strange things:The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,Its silent hours, its rapid wings....The moon still waited, watching her(The cloud still stretched there, close above;The trees beneath); it could not stir,And yet it seemed the shape thereof,Since she looked first, some change had known.In places it had burned away,And one side had much thinner grown;—What light that came from it was gray.It was not curved from east to west.But lay upon its back; like oneWounded, or weary of some quest,Or by strong enemies undone.Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;She knew they were burned out and deadBecause no clouds went, drifting by,Across the light the strange moon shed.Now, I can hope for naught but death.I would not stay to give him pain,Or say the words a woman saithWhen love hath called aloud in vainAnd got no answer anywhere.It were far better I should die,And have rough strangers come to bearMy body far away, where IShall know the quiet of the tomb;That they should leave me, with no tears,To think and think within the gloomFor many years, for many years.The thought of that strange, narrow placeIs hard for me to bear, indeed;I do not fear cold Death's embrace,And where black worms draw nigh to feedOn my white body, then, I knowThat I shall make no mournful cry:But that I should be hidden soWhere I no more may see the sky,—The wide sky filled with many a star,Or all around the yellow sun,Or even the sky where great clouds areThat wait until the rain be done,—That is an evil thing for me....Across the sky the cloud swung stillAnd pressed the moon down heavilyWhere leafless trees grew on the hill.The pale moon now was very thin.There was no water near the place,Else would the moon that slept thereinHave frightened her with its gray face.How shall I wish to see the sky!For that alone mine eyes shall weep;I care not where they make me lie,Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,So they leave loose my coffin's lidAnd throw on me no mouldy clay,That the white stars may not be hid:This little thing is all I pray.Then I shall move me wearily,And clasp each bone that was my wrist,Around each slender bony knee;And wind my hair, that once he kissed,Around my body wasted thin,To keep me from the grave's cold breath;And on my knees rest my poor chin,And think of what I lose by death.I shall be happy, being dead....The moon, by now, had nearly gone,As if it knew its time was spedAnd feared the coming of the dawn.It had not risen; one could seeThe cloud was strong to keep it back;It merely faded utterly,And where it was the sky grew black.Till suddenly the east turned gray,Although no stars were overhead;And though the moon had died away,There came faint glimmerings of red;Then larger waves of golden lightHeralded that the day was born,And on the furthest eastern heightWith swift feet came the waited morn.With swift feet came the morn, but lo!Just as its triumph was begun,The first wild onset of the snowStrangled the glad imperial sun!NUNC DIMITTISLord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;Because the memories of the things that were—That little blessed while with Thee and her—Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,And only waitest—Thou and she alone—Until I know again as I have knownThe glory that abideth near our throne.BETWEEN THE BATTLESLet us bury him here,Where the maples are red!He is dead,And he died thanking God that he fell with thefall of the leaf and the year.Where the hillside is sheer,Let it echo our treadWhom he led;Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed whonever knew fear.Ere he died, they had fled;Yet they heard his last cheerRinging clear,—When we lifted him up, he would fain havepursued, but grew dizzy instead.Break his sword and his spear!Let this last prayer be saidBy the bedWe have made underneath the wet wind in themaple trees moaning so drear:"O Lord God, by the redSullen end of the yearThat is here,We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen ourswords till his slayers be dead!"THE QUIET VALLEYThey pity me who have grown old,—So old, mine eyes may not beholdIf any wolf chance near the fold.They pity me, because, alas!I lie and dream among the grass,And let the herds unheeded pass.They deem I must be sorrowing,Because I note not when the SpringIs over me and everything.They know not why I am forlorn,—How could they know?—They were not bornWhen he rode here that April morn.They were not living when he cameInto this valley, swift like flame,—Perchance they have not heard his name!My men were very valiant men—(Alas, that I had only ten!These people were not living then.)But when one is not yet awakeHis banner is not hard to take,His spears are easy things to break.And dazed men are not hard to slayWhen many foes, as strong as they,With swords and spears come down their way.This valley now has quiet grown;And I lie here content, alone,Dreaming of things that I have known;And count the mounds of waving grass—(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)And let the restless cattle pass.THE KINGFISHERUnder the sun, the KingfisherFrom his high place was watching her.He knew she came from some far place;For when she threw her body down,She seemed quite tired; and her faceHad dust upon it; and her gown,That had been yellow, now was brown.She lay near where the shadows lieAt noontime when they meet the sun.The water floated slowly byHer feet. Her hair was all undone,And with the grass its gold was spun.The trees were tall and green behind,And hid the house upon the hill.This place was sheltered from the wind,And all the little leaves were still,And every fern and daffodil.Her face was hidden in her hands;And through the grass, and through her hair,The sunlight found the golden bandsAbout her wrists. (It was aware,Also, that her two arms were bare.)From his high branch, the KingfisherLooked down on her and pitied her.He wondered who that she could be,—This dear, strange lady, who had comeTo vex him with her misery;And why her days were wearisome,And what far country was her home.Her home must be far off indeed,Wherein such bitter grief could grow.Had there been no one there to pleadFor her when they had wronged her so?Did none her perfect honor know?Was there no sword or pennoned lanceOmnipotent in hall or fieldFor her complete deliverance?To make them cry, "We yield! we yieldWere not her colors on some shield?Had he been there? the Kingfisher,How he had fought and died for her!A little yellow bird flew by;And where the water-weeds were still,Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;Small fishes set the streams a-thrillThe Kingfisher forgot to kill.He only thought of her who layUpon the ground and was so fair,—As fair as she who came one dayAnd sat long with her lover there.The same gold sun was in her hair.They had come down, because of love,From the great house on the hillside:This lady had no share thereof,For now this place was sanctified!Had this fair lady's lover died?Was this dear lady's lover dead?Had she come here to wait untilHer heart and soul were comforted?Why was it not within her willTo seek the lady on the hill?She, too, was lonely; for he hadBeheld her just this morning, whenHer last kiss made her lover gladWho went to fight the heathen-men:(He said he would return again!)That lady would have charityHe knew, because her love was great;And this one—fairer even than she—Should enter in her open gateAnd be no more disconsolate!Under the sun, the KingfisherKnew no one else might comfort her.THE CONQUERORI will go now where my dear Lady is,And tell her how I won in this great fight;Ye know not death who say this shape is hisThat loometh up between me and the light.As if death could wish anything of oneWho hath to-day brought many men to death!Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sunHath seen since morning much that wearieth.Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land;Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea;And dead forgotten men stretched on the sandClose to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;What day hath seen such things and hath not fled?What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds,The flashing swords of men well-helmeted,The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?Ye know not death; this thing is but the night.Wherefore I should be glad that it is come:For when I left my Lady for this fight,I said, "At sunset I am coming home.""When you return, I shall be here," she said,"God knows that I must pray a little while."And as she put my helmet on my head,She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.And still she waiteth underneath the trees.(When we had gone a little on our wayI turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees:I heard her praying many times to-day.)Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth stillWatching and praying till I come to her.She saw the sun drop down behind the hillAnd wondereth I am a loiterer.So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword!(Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?)This day is won;—but now the great rewardCometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!I am well rested now.—Nay, I can riseWithout your help! Why do ye look at meWith so much pain and pity in your eyes,Who gained with me to-day this victory?I think we should be glad we are not dead,—Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you,No Lady who is all uncomforted,And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.Yea, I must go.—What? Am I tired yet?Let me lie here and rest my aching side.The thought of her hath made me quite forgetHow sharp his sword was just before he died.
TO SUMMER
Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious!For now the sudden promise of the SpringHath been fulfilled in many ways to us,And all live things are thine.Therefore, while all the earthIs glad, and young, and strangely riotousWith love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,Idare to sing,Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.Yet with no scorn of any passed daysCome I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;Nor build I this new crownFor my new love's fair headOf flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,And then forgot and utterly cast down;But from the measureOf a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasureI glean, and thus my love is garlanded.Yea, with a crown such as no other queenThat ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,And garments such as man hath never seen!The beauty Heaven hathFor thee was magnified;I think the least of thy bright gold and greenOnce lived along God's best-beloved path,And angels therePassed by, and gathered those He called most fair,And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.How at thy coming we were glad again!We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;And fain of death as one aweary of pain.Life had grown burthensome,Till suddenly we learnedThe joy the old brown earth has, when the rainComes, and the earth is glad that it has come:That ecstasyThe buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.O season of the strong triumphant Sun!Bringer of exultation unto all!Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.Over thy growing grainHow the winds rise and cease!Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!Where trees are tall,Hear where young birds hold their high festival;And see where shallow waters know thy peace.Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,Summer, that thou shouldst go another wayThan ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?Come with me further stillWhere, in sight of the sea,This garden liveth under mellow skies;Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,And deign to stayA moment mid its colors' glad array,—Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?The perfect ways thereofAre thy desired ones;Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,So, even thus,I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!
Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious!For now the sudden promise of the SpringHath been fulfilled in many ways to us,And all live things are thine.Therefore, while all the earthIs glad, and young, and strangely riotousWith love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,Idare to sing,Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.
Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious!
For now the sudden promise of the Spring
Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us,
And all live things are thine.
Therefore, while all the earth
Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous
With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,
Idare to sing,
Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;
I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.
Yet with no scorn of any passed daysCome I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;Nor build I this new crownFor my new love's fair headOf flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,And then forgot and utterly cast down;But from the measureOf a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasureI glean, and thus my love is garlanded.
Yet with no scorn of any passed days
Come I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—
Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;
Nor build I this new crown
For my new love's fair head
Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,
And then forgot and utterly cast down;
But from the measure
Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure
I glean, and thus my love is garlanded.
Yea, with a crown such as no other queenThat ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,And garments such as man hath never seen!The beauty Heaven hathFor thee was magnified;I think the least of thy bright gold and greenOnce lived along God's best-beloved path,And angels there
Yea, with a crown such as no other queen
That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,
And garments such as man hath never seen!
The beauty Heaven hath
For thee was magnified;
I think the least of thy bright gold and green
Once lived along God's best-beloved path,
And angels there
Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair,And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.How at thy coming we were glad again!We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;And fain of death as one aweary of pain.Life had grown burthensome,Till suddenly we learnedThe joy the old brown earth has, when the rainComes, and the earth is glad that it has come:That ecstasyThe buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.
Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair,
And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.
How at thy coming we were glad again!
We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;
And fain of death as one aweary of pain.
Life had grown burthensome,
Till suddenly we learned
The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain
Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come:
That ecstasy
The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,
The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.
O season of the strong triumphant Sun!Bringer of exultation unto all!Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.Over thy growing grainHow the winds rise and cease!Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!Where trees are tall,Hear where young birds hold their high festival;And see where shallow waters know thy peace.
O season of the strong triumphant Sun!
Bringer of exultation unto all!
Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.
Over thy growing grain
How the winds rise and cease!
Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—
There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!
Where trees are tall,
Hear where young birds hold their high festival;
And see where shallow waters know thy peace.
Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,Summer, that thou shouldst go another wayThan ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?Come with me further stillWhere, in sight of the sea,This garden liveth under mellow skies;Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,And deign to stayA moment mid its colors' glad array,—Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?
Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,
Summer, that thou shouldst go another way
Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?
Come with me further still
Where, in sight of the sea,
This garden liveth under mellow skies;
Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,
And deign to stay
A moment mid its colors' glad array,—
Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?
Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?The perfect ways thereofAre thy desired ones;Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,So, even thus,I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!
Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!
Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?
Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?
The perfect ways thereof
Are thy desired ones;
Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.
Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,
So, even thus,
I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,
And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!
THE PATH
Is this the path that knew your tread,Once, when the skies were just as blueAs they are now, far overhead?Are these the trees that looked at youAnd listened to the words you said?Along this moss did your dress sweep?And is this broken stem the oneThat gave its flower to you to keep?And here where the grasses knew the sunBefore a sickle came to reapDid your dear shadow softly fall?This place is very like, and yetNo shadow lieth here at all;With dew the mosses still are wetAlthough the grass no more is tall.The small brown birds go rustling throughThe low-branched hemlock as of old;The tree-tops almost touch the blue;The sunlight falleth down like goldOn one new flower that waiteth you.
Is this the path that knew your tread,Once, when the skies were just as blueAs they are now, far overhead?Are these the trees that looked at youAnd listened to the words you said?
Is this the path that knew your tread,
Once, when the skies were just as blue
As they are now, far overhead?
Are these the trees that looked at you
And listened to the words you said?
Along this moss did your dress sweep?And is this broken stem the oneThat gave its flower to you to keep?And here where the grasses knew the sunBefore a sickle came to reapDid your dear shadow softly fall?This place is very like, and yetNo shadow lieth here at all;With dew the mosses still are wetAlthough the grass no more is tall.
Along this moss did your dress sweep?
And is this broken stem the one
That gave its flower to you to keep?
And here where the grasses knew the sun
Before a sickle came to reap
Did your dear shadow softly fall?
This place is very like, and yet
No shadow lieth here at all;
With dew the mosses still are wet
Although the grass no more is tall.
The small brown birds go rustling throughThe low-branched hemlock as of old;The tree-tops almost touch the blue;The sunlight falleth down like goldOn one new flower that waiteth you.
The small brown birds go rustling through
The low-branched hemlock as of old;
The tree-tops almost touch the blue;
The sunlight falleth down like gold
On one new flower that waiteth you.
THE LAST FLOWER
O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?This meadow is a barren thing to see,For here the reapers' toil is over and done.Of all her many birds there is but oneLeft to assail the last wild raspberry;The buttercups and daisies withered be,And yet thy reign hath only now begun.O sign of power and sway imperial!O sceptre thrust into the hands of FallBy Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,Even the trees have let their glory pass,And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!
O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?This meadow is a barren thing to see,For here the reapers' toil is over and done.Of all her many birds there is but oneLeft to assail the last wild raspberry;The buttercups and daisies withered be,And yet thy reign hath only now begun.O sign of power and sway imperial!O sceptre thrust into the hands of FallBy Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,Even the trees have let their glory pass,And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!
O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!
Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?
This meadow is a barren thing to see,
For here the reapers' toil is over and done.
Of all her many birds there is but one
Left to assail the last wild raspberry;
The buttercups and daisies withered be,
And yet thy reign hath only now begun.
O sign of power and sway imperial!
O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall
By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!
O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,
Even the trees have let their glory pass,
And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!
AFTER HARVEST
O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!The long year through thou hast been good to us.Forgive us were we ever mutinousOr unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amazeThy passing, for thou wert imperiousIndeed; and our estate seemed perilous,And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,Each garden that is fast a-perishing,The promise April surely had revealedHad we had grace to bend our stubborn kneesWho seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.
O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!The long year through thou hast been good to us.Forgive us were we ever mutinousOr unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amazeThy passing, for thou wert imperiousIndeed; and our estate seemed perilous,And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,Each garden that is fast a-perishing,The promise April surely had revealedHad we had grace to bend our stubborn kneesWho seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.
O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!
The long year through thou hast been good to us.
Forgive us were we ever mutinous
Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.
Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze
Thy passing, for thou wert imperious
Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous,
And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.
Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,
Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,
Each garden that is fast a-perishing,
The promise April surely had revealed
Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees
Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.
HEAT IN SEPTEMBER
And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.Must I, like him who, seeing once againThe long-awaited face of his lost love,Hath little strength to thank the gods above(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?
And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.Must I, like him who, seeing once againThe long-awaited face of his lost love,Hath little strength to thank the gods above(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?
And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,
Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?
Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?
Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?
Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;
Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,
Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;
And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.
Must I, like him who, seeing once again
The long-awaited face of his lost love,
Hath little strength to thank the gods above
(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),
Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—
Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?
ON THE HILLSIDE
October's peace hath fallen on everything.In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—The passing of the sun remembering.A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)Below, the little city lieth still;And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,The cattle wander homeward slowly now;In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;The maples will be desolate by morn.The last word of the summer hath been said.
October's peace hath fallen on everything.In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—The passing of the sun remembering.A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)Below, the little city lieth still;And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,The cattle wander homeward slowly now;In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;The maples will be desolate by morn.The last word of the summer hath been said.
October's peace hath fallen on everything.
In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,
With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—
The passing of the sun remembering.
A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,
(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)
Below, the little city lieth still;
And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.
Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,
The cattle wander homeward slowly now;
In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.
Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;
The maples will be desolate by morn.
The last word of the summer hath been said.
SUMMER DYING
Last night the heavy moaning windBore unto meWarning from Him who hath designedThat change shall be.Beneath these mighty hills I lay,At rest at last,And thinking on the golden dayBut now gone past;When softly came a faint, far cryThat night made clear,"Thy reign is over, thou must die;Winter is near!""Winter is near!" Yea, all night longReëchoed farThe burden of that weary songOf hopeless war.I prayed unto the fixéd KingOf changing TimeFor longer life, till sun-risingAnd morning's prime,And while to-day I watched the sunRise, slant, and die;And now is night the stronger one.Again the cryComes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"Yes, Lord, I know;And here I kneel on Earth's cold floorOnce, ere I go,And thank Thee for the long, long daysThou gavest me,And all the pleasant, laughing waysI walked with Thee.I have been happy since the firstGlad day I roseAnd found the river here had burstThrough ice and snowsWhile I had slept. Blue places wereAmidst the gray,Where water showed; and the waterMost quiet lay.Upon the ice great flocks of crowsWere clamoring—Lest my blue eyes again should close—The eyes of Spring.I stepped down to the frozen shore—The snow was gone;And lo, where ice had been before,The river shone!With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birdsTo the tall pines;These were the first of Spring's faint wordsAnd Summer's signs.And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"Ah, might I stay,That I might hear one robin's cryBringing the day;That I might see the new grass comeWhere cattle range;The maples bud, wild roses bloom,Old willows change;That I might know one night in JuneTwo found most fair,And see again the great half-moonShine through her hair;Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,Where orchards are,And hear some glad child's laughing cryRing loud and far;Or even, Lord, though near my endIt surely be,Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and sendOne day to me,One day—October's brown and redCover the hills,And all the brakes and ferns are dead,And quiet fillsOne place where many birds once sang?Then should I goWhere heavy fir-trees overhangTheir branches so,And slim white birches, quivering,Loose yellow leaves,And aspens grow, and everythingFor Summer grieves.Ah, there once more, ere day be done,To face the west,And see the sure and scarlet sunSink to its restBeyond the ploughed field sloping sheerUp to the sky;To feel the last light disappearAnd silent die;To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;I hear Thy call;Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,Lest I should fall....Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,Now come to Thee;I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said"Let Winter be!"
Last night the heavy moaning windBore unto meWarning from Him who hath designedThat change shall be.
Last night the heavy moaning wind
Bore unto me
Warning from Him who hath designed
That change shall be.
Beneath these mighty hills I lay,At rest at last,And thinking on the golden dayBut now gone past;
Beneath these mighty hills I lay,
At rest at last,
And thinking on the golden day
But now gone past;
When softly came a faint, far cryThat night made clear,"Thy reign is over, thou must die;Winter is near!"
When softly came a faint, far cry
That night made clear,
"Thy reign is over, thou must die;
Winter is near!"
"Winter is near!" Yea, all night longReëchoed farThe burden of that weary songOf hopeless war.
"Winter is near!" Yea, all night long
Reëchoed far
The burden of that weary song
Of hopeless war.
I prayed unto the fixéd KingOf changing TimeFor longer life, till sun-risingAnd morning's prime,
I prayed unto the fixéd King
Of changing Time
For longer life, till sun-rising
And morning's prime,
And while to-day I watched the sunRise, slant, and die;And now is night the stronger one.Again the cry
And while to-day I watched the sun
Rise, slant, and die;
And now is night the stronger one.
Again the cry
Comes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"Yes, Lord, I know;And here I kneel on Earth's cold floorOnce, ere I go,
Comes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"
Yes, Lord, I know;
And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor
Once, ere I go,
And thank Thee for the long, long daysThou gavest me,And all the pleasant, laughing waysI walked with Thee.
And thank Thee for the long, long days
Thou gavest me,
And all the pleasant, laughing ways
I walked with Thee.
I have been happy since the firstGlad day I roseAnd found the river here had burstThrough ice and snows
I have been happy since the first
Glad day I rose
And found the river here had burst
Through ice and snows
While I had slept. Blue places wereAmidst the gray,Where water showed; and the waterMost quiet lay.
While I had slept. Blue places were
Amidst the gray,
Where water showed; and the water
Most quiet lay.
Upon the ice great flocks of crowsWere clamoring—Lest my blue eyes again should close—The eyes of Spring.
Upon the ice great flocks of crows
Were clamoring—
Lest my blue eyes again should close—
The eyes of Spring.
I stepped down to the frozen shore—The snow was gone;And lo, where ice had been before,The river shone!
I stepped down to the frozen shore—
The snow was gone;
And lo, where ice had been before,
The river shone!
With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birdsTo the tall pines;These were the first of Spring's faint wordsAnd Summer's signs.
With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds
To the tall pines;
These were the first of Spring's faint words
And Summer's signs.
And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"Ah, might I stay,That I might hear one robin's cryBringing the day;
And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"
Ah, might I stay,
That I might hear one robin's cry
Bringing the day;
That I might see the new grass comeWhere cattle range;The maples bud, wild roses bloom,Old willows change;
That I might see the new grass come
Where cattle range;
The maples bud, wild roses bloom,
Old willows change;
That I might know one night in JuneTwo found most fair,And see again the great half-moonShine through her hair;
That I might know one night in June
Two found most fair,
And see again the great half-moon
Shine through her hair;
Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,Where orchards are,And hear some glad child's laughing cryRing loud and far;
Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,
Where orchards are,
And hear some glad child's laughing cry
Ring loud and far;
Or even, Lord, though near my endIt surely be,Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and sendOne day to me,
Or even, Lord, though near my end
It surely be,
Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send
One day to me,
One day—October's brown and redCover the hills,And all the brakes and ferns are dead,And quiet fills
One day—October's brown and red
Cover the hills,
And all the brakes and ferns are dead,
And quiet fills
One place where many birds once sang?Then should I goWhere heavy fir-trees overhangTheir branches so,
One place where many birds once sang?
Then should I go
Where heavy fir-trees overhang
Their branches so,
And slim white birches, quivering,Loose yellow leaves,And aspens grow, and everythingFor Summer grieves.
And slim white birches, quivering,
Loose yellow leaves,
And aspens grow, and everything
For Summer grieves.
Ah, there once more, ere day be done,To face the west,And see the sure and scarlet sunSink to its rest
Ah, there once more, ere day be done,
To face the west,
And see the sure and scarlet sun
Sink to its rest
Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheerUp to the sky;To feel the last light disappearAnd silent die;
Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer
Up to the sky;
To feel the last light disappear
And silent die;
To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;I hear Thy call;Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,Lest I should fall....
To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;
I hear Thy call;
Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,
Lest I should fall....
Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,Now come to Thee;I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said"Let Winter be!"
Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,
Now come to Thee;
I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said
"Let Winter be!"
A NOVEMBER VIGIL
I wonder why my love for himShould grow so much these last three days,While he but stares as if some whimHad been discovered to his gaze;Some foolish whim that brings but shameWhatever time he thinks thereof,—To him my name is now the nameOf some old half-forgotten love.And yet I starve for his least kissAnd faint because my love is great;I, who am now no more than this,—An unseen beggar at his gate....She watched the moon and spake aloud.The moon seemed not to rise, but hungJust underneath the long straight cloudThat low across the heavens swung,As if to press the old moon backInto its place behind the trees.The trees stood where the hill was black;They were not vexed by any breeze.The moon was not as it had beenBefore, when she had watched it rise;It was misshapen now, and thin,As if some trouble in the skiesHad happened more than it could bear,Its color, too, was no more red;Nor was it like her yellow hair;—It looked as if its soul were dead.I, who was once well-loved of him,Am as a beggar by his gateWhereon black carvéd things look grimAt one who thinks to penetrate.I do not ask if I may strayOnce more in those desired lands;Another night, yet one more day,For these I do not make demands;For when the ripened hour is pastThings such as these are asked in vain:His first day's love,—were that the lastI were repaid for this new pain.Out of his love great joy I hadFor many days; and even nowI do not dare to be but gladWhen I remember, often, howHe said he had great joy of me.The while he loved, no man, I think,Exceeded him in constancy;My passion, even, seemed to shrinkAlmost to nothing, when he cameAnd told me all of love's strange things:The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,Its silent hours, its rapid wings....The moon still waited, watching her(The cloud still stretched there, close above;The trees beneath); it could not stir,And yet it seemed the shape thereof,Since she looked first, some change had known.In places it had burned away,And one side had much thinner grown;—What light that came from it was gray.It was not curved from east to west.But lay upon its back; like oneWounded, or weary of some quest,Or by strong enemies undone.Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;She knew they were burned out and deadBecause no clouds went, drifting by,Across the light the strange moon shed.Now, I can hope for naught but death.I would not stay to give him pain,Or say the words a woman saithWhen love hath called aloud in vainAnd got no answer anywhere.It were far better I should die,And have rough strangers come to bearMy body far away, where IShall know the quiet of the tomb;That they should leave me, with no tears,To think and think within the gloomFor many years, for many years.The thought of that strange, narrow placeIs hard for me to bear, indeed;I do not fear cold Death's embrace,And where black worms draw nigh to feedOn my white body, then, I knowThat I shall make no mournful cry:But that I should be hidden soWhere I no more may see the sky,—The wide sky filled with many a star,Or all around the yellow sun,Or even the sky where great clouds areThat wait until the rain be done,—That is an evil thing for me....Across the sky the cloud swung stillAnd pressed the moon down heavilyWhere leafless trees grew on the hill.The pale moon now was very thin.There was no water near the place,Else would the moon that slept thereinHave frightened her with its gray face.How shall I wish to see the sky!For that alone mine eyes shall weep;I care not where they make me lie,Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,So they leave loose my coffin's lidAnd throw on me no mouldy clay,That the white stars may not be hid:This little thing is all I pray.Then I shall move me wearily,And clasp each bone that was my wrist,Around each slender bony knee;And wind my hair, that once he kissed,Around my body wasted thin,To keep me from the grave's cold breath;And on my knees rest my poor chin,And think of what I lose by death.I shall be happy, being dead....The moon, by now, had nearly gone,As if it knew its time was spedAnd feared the coming of the dawn.It had not risen; one could seeThe cloud was strong to keep it back;It merely faded utterly,And where it was the sky grew black.Till suddenly the east turned gray,Although no stars were overhead;And though the moon had died away,There came faint glimmerings of red;Then larger waves of golden lightHeralded that the day was born,And on the furthest eastern heightWith swift feet came the waited morn.With swift feet came the morn, but lo!Just as its triumph was begun,The first wild onset of the snowStrangled the glad imperial sun!
I wonder why my love for himShould grow so much these last three days,While he but stares as if some whimHad been discovered to his gaze;
I wonder why my love for him
Should grow so much these last three days,
While he but stares as if some whim
Had been discovered to his gaze;
Some foolish whim that brings but shameWhatever time he thinks thereof,—To him my name is now the nameOf some old half-forgotten love.
Some foolish whim that brings but shame
Whatever time he thinks thereof,—
To him my name is now the name
Of some old half-forgotten love.
And yet I starve for his least kissAnd faint because my love is great;I, who am now no more than this,—An unseen beggar at his gate....
And yet I starve for his least kiss
And faint because my love is great;
I, who am now no more than this,—
An unseen beggar at his gate....
She watched the moon and spake aloud.The moon seemed not to rise, but hungJust underneath the long straight cloudThat low across the heavens swung,
She watched the moon and spake aloud.
The moon seemed not to rise, but hung
Just underneath the long straight cloud
That low across the heavens swung,
As if to press the old moon backInto its place behind the trees.The trees stood where the hill was black;They were not vexed by any breeze.
As if to press the old moon back
Into its place behind the trees.
The trees stood where the hill was black;
They were not vexed by any breeze.
The moon was not as it had beenBefore, when she had watched it rise;It was misshapen now, and thin,As if some trouble in the skies
The moon was not as it had been
Before, when she had watched it rise;
It was misshapen now, and thin,
As if some trouble in the skies
Had happened more than it could bear,Its color, too, was no more red;Nor was it like her yellow hair;—It looked as if its soul were dead.
Had happened more than it could bear,
Its color, too, was no more red;
Nor was it like her yellow hair;—
It looked as if its soul were dead.
I, who was once well-loved of him,Am as a beggar by his gateWhereon black carvéd things look grimAt one who thinks to penetrate.
I, who was once well-loved of him,
Am as a beggar by his gate
Whereon black carvéd things look grim
At one who thinks to penetrate.
I do not ask if I may strayOnce more in those desired lands;Another night, yet one more day,For these I do not make demands;
I do not ask if I may stray
Once more in those desired lands;
Another night, yet one more day,
For these I do not make demands;
For when the ripened hour is pastThings such as these are asked in vain:His first day's love,—were that the lastI were repaid for this new pain.
For when the ripened hour is past
Things such as these are asked in vain:
His first day's love,—were that the last
I were repaid for this new pain.
Out of his love great joy I hadFor many days; and even nowI do not dare to be but gladWhen I remember, often, how
Out of his love great joy I had
For many days; and even now
I do not dare to be but glad
When I remember, often, how
He said he had great joy of me.The while he loved, no man, I think,Exceeded him in constancy;My passion, even, seemed to shrink
He said he had great joy of me.
The while he loved, no man, I think,
Exceeded him in constancy;
My passion, even, seemed to shrink
Almost to nothing, when he cameAnd told me all of love's strange things:The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
Almost to nothing, when he came
And told me all of love's strange things:
The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,
Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
The moon still waited, watching her(The cloud still stretched there, close above;The trees beneath); it could not stir,And yet it seemed the shape thereof,
The moon still waited, watching her
(The cloud still stretched there, close above;
The trees beneath); it could not stir,
And yet it seemed the shape thereof,
Since she looked first, some change had known.In places it had burned away,And one side had much thinner grown;—What light that came from it was gray.
Since she looked first, some change had known.
In places it had burned away,
And one side had much thinner grown;
—What light that came from it was gray.
It was not curved from east to west.But lay upon its back; like oneWounded, or weary of some quest,Or by strong enemies undone.
It was not curved from east to west.
But lay upon its back; like one
Wounded, or weary of some quest,
Or by strong enemies undone.
Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;She knew they were burned out and deadBecause no clouds went, drifting by,Across the light the strange moon shed.
Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;
She knew they were burned out and dead
Because no clouds went, drifting by,
Across the light the strange moon shed.
Now, I can hope for naught but death.I would not stay to give him pain,Or say the words a woman saithWhen love hath called aloud in vain
Now, I can hope for naught but death.
I would not stay to give him pain,
Or say the words a woman saith
When love hath called aloud in vain
And got no answer anywhere.It were far better I should die,And have rough strangers come to bearMy body far away, where I
And got no answer anywhere.
It were far better I should die,
And have rough strangers come to bear
My body far away, where I
Shall know the quiet of the tomb;That they should leave me, with no tears,To think and think within the gloomFor many years, for many years.
Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
That they should leave me, with no tears,
To think and think within the gloom
For many years, for many years.
The thought of that strange, narrow placeIs hard for me to bear, indeed;I do not fear cold Death's embrace,And where black worms draw nigh to feed
The thought of that strange, narrow place
Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
I do not fear cold Death's embrace,
And where black worms draw nigh to feed
On my white body, then, I knowThat I shall make no mournful cry:But that I should be hidden soWhere I no more may see the sky,—
On my white body, then, I know
That I shall make no mournful cry:
But that I should be hidden so
Where I no more may see the sky,—
The wide sky filled with many a star,Or all around the yellow sun,Or even the sky where great clouds areThat wait until the rain be done,
The wide sky filled with many a star,
Or all around the yellow sun,
Or even the sky where great clouds are
That wait until the rain be done,
—That is an evil thing for me....Across the sky the cloud swung stillAnd pressed the moon down heavilyWhere leafless trees grew on the hill.
—That is an evil thing for me....
Across the sky the cloud swung still
And pressed the moon down heavily
Where leafless trees grew on the hill.
The pale moon now was very thin.There was no water near the place,Else would the moon that slept thereinHave frightened her with its gray face.
The pale moon now was very thin.
There was no water near the place,
Else would the moon that slept therein
Have frightened her with its gray face.
How shall I wish to see the sky!For that alone mine eyes shall weep;I care not where they make me lie,Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,
How shall I wish to see the sky!
For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
I care not where they make me lie,
Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,
So they leave loose my coffin's lidAnd throw on me no mouldy clay,That the white stars may not be hid:This little thing is all I pray.
So they leave loose my coffin's lid
And throw on me no mouldy clay,
That the white stars may not be hid:
This little thing is all I pray.
Then I shall move me wearily,And clasp each bone that was my wrist,Around each slender bony knee;And wind my hair, that once he kissed,
Then I shall move me wearily,
And clasp each bone that was my wrist,
Around each slender bony knee;
And wind my hair, that once he kissed,
Around my body wasted thin,To keep me from the grave's cold breath;And on my knees rest my poor chin,And think of what I lose by death.
Around my body wasted thin,
To keep me from the grave's cold breath;
And on my knees rest my poor chin,
And think of what I lose by death.
I shall be happy, being dead....The moon, by now, had nearly gone,As if it knew its time was spedAnd feared the coming of the dawn.
I shall be happy, being dead....
The moon, by now, had nearly gone,
As if it knew its time was sped
And feared the coming of the dawn.
It had not risen; one could seeThe cloud was strong to keep it back;It merely faded utterly,And where it was the sky grew black.
It had not risen; one could see
The cloud was strong to keep it back;
It merely faded utterly,
And where it was the sky grew black.
Till suddenly the east turned gray,Although no stars were overhead;And though the moon had died away,There came faint glimmerings of red;
Till suddenly the east turned gray,
Although no stars were overhead;
And though the moon had died away,
There came faint glimmerings of red;
Then larger waves of golden lightHeralded that the day was born,And on the furthest eastern heightWith swift feet came the waited morn.
Then larger waves of golden light
Heralded that the day was born,
And on the furthest eastern height
With swift feet came the waited morn.
With swift feet came the morn, but lo!Just as its triumph was begun,The first wild onset of the snowStrangled the glad imperial sun!
With swift feet came the morn, but lo!
Just as its triumph was begun,
The first wild onset of the snow
Strangled the glad imperial sun!
NUNC DIMITTIS
Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;Because the memories of the things that were—That little blessed while with Thee and her—Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,And only waitest—Thou and she alone—Until I know again as I have knownThe glory that abideth near our throne.
Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;
Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:
Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,
Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;
Because the memories of the things that were—That little blessed while with Thee and her—Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.
Because the memories of the things that were—
That little blessed while with Thee and her—
Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.
And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,
And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,
I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—
Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,
And only waitest—Thou and she alone—Until I know again as I have knownThe glory that abideth near our throne.
And only waitest—Thou and she alone—
Until I know again as I have known
The glory that abideth near our throne.
BETWEEN THE BATTLES
Let us bury him here,Where the maples are red!He is dead,And he died thanking God that he fell with thefall of the leaf and the year.Where the hillside is sheer,Let it echo our treadWhom he led;Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed whonever knew fear.Ere he died, they had fled;Yet they heard his last cheerRinging clear,—When we lifted him up, he would fain havepursued, but grew dizzy instead.Break his sword and his spear!Let this last prayer be saidBy the bedWe have made underneath the wet wind in themaple trees moaning so drear:"O Lord God, by the redSullen end of the yearThat is here,We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen ourswords till his slayers be dead!"
Let us bury him here,Where the maples are red!He is dead,And he died thanking God that he fell with thefall of the leaf and the year.
Let us bury him here,
Where the maples are red!
He is dead,
And he died thanking God that he fell with the
fall of the leaf and the year.
fall of the leaf and the year.
Where the hillside is sheer,Let it echo our treadWhom he led;Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed whonever knew fear.
Where the hillside is sheer,
Let it echo our tread
Whom he led;
Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who
never knew fear.
never knew fear.
Ere he died, they had fled;Yet they heard his last cheerRinging clear,—When we lifted him up, he would fain havepursued, but grew dizzy instead.
Ere he died, they had fled;
Yet they heard his last cheer
Ringing clear,—
When we lifted him up, he would fain have
pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
Break his sword and his spear!Let this last prayer be saidBy the bedWe have made underneath the wet wind in themaple trees moaning so drear:
Break his sword and his spear!
Let this last prayer be said
By the bed
We have made underneath the wet wind in the
maple trees moaning so drear:
maple trees moaning so drear:
"O Lord God, by the redSullen end of the yearThat is here,We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen ourswords till his slayers be dead!"
"O Lord God, by the red
Sullen end of the year
That is here,
We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our
swords till his slayers be dead!"
swords till his slayers be dead!"
THE QUIET VALLEY
They pity me who have grown old,—So old, mine eyes may not beholdIf any wolf chance near the fold.They pity me, because, alas!I lie and dream among the grass,And let the herds unheeded pass.They deem I must be sorrowing,Because I note not when the SpringIs over me and everything.They know not why I am forlorn,—How could they know?—They were not bornWhen he rode here that April morn.They were not living when he cameInto this valley, swift like flame,—Perchance they have not heard his name!My men were very valiant men—(Alas, that I had only ten!These people were not living then.)But when one is not yet awakeHis banner is not hard to take,His spears are easy things to break.And dazed men are not hard to slayWhen many foes, as strong as they,With swords and spears come down their way.This valley now has quiet grown;And I lie here content, alone,Dreaming of things that I have known;And count the mounds of waving grass—(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)And let the restless cattle pass.
They pity me who have grown old,—So old, mine eyes may not beholdIf any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me who have grown old,—
So old, mine eyes may not behold
If any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me, because, alas!I lie and dream among the grass,And let the herds unheeded pass.
They pity me, because, alas!
I lie and dream among the grass,
And let the herds unheeded pass.
They deem I must be sorrowing,Because I note not when the SpringIs over me and everything.
They deem I must be sorrowing,
Because I note not when the Spring
Is over me and everything.
They know not why I am forlorn,—How could they know?—They were not bornWhen he rode here that April morn.
They know not why I am forlorn,—
How could they know?—They were not born
When he rode here that April morn.
They were not living when he cameInto this valley, swift like flame,—Perchance they have not heard his name!
They were not living when he came
Into this valley, swift like flame,—
Perchance they have not heard his name!
My men were very valiant men—(Alas, that I had only ten!These people were not living then.)
My men were very valiant men—
(Alas, that I had only ten!
These people were not living then.)
But when one is not yet awakeHis banner is not hard to take,His spears are easy things to break.
But when one is not yet awake
His banner is not hard to take,
His spears are easy things to break.
And dazed men are not hard to slayWhen many foes, as strong as they,With swords and spears come down their way.
And dazed men are not hard to slay
When many foes, as strong as they,
With swords and spears come down their way.
This valley now has quiet grown;And I lie here content, alone,Dreaming of things that I have known;
This valley now has quiet grown;
And I lie here content, alone,
Dreaming of things that I have known;
And count the mounds of waving grass—(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)And let the restless cattle pass.
And count the mounds of waving grass—
(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)
And let the restless cattle pass.
THE KINGFISHER
Under the sun, the KingfisherFrom his high place was watching her.He knew she came from some far place;For when she threw her body down,She seemed quite tired; and her faceHad dust upon it; and her gown,That had been yellow, now was brown.She lay near where the shadows lieAt noontime when they meet the sun.The water floated slowly byHer feet. Her hair was all undone,And with the grass its gold was spun.The trees were tall and green behind,And hid the house upon the hill.This place was sheltered from the wind,And all the little leaves were still,And every fern and daffodil.Her face was hidden in her hands;And through the grass, and through her hair,The sunlight found the golden bandsAbout her wrists. (It was aware,Also, that her two arms were bare.)From his high branch, the KingfisherLooked down on her and pitied her.He wondered who that she could be,—This dear, strange lady, who had comeTo vex him with her misery;And why her days were wearisome,And what far country was her home.Her home must be far off indeed,Wherein such bitter grief could grow.Had there been no one there to pleadFor her when they had wronged her so?Did none her perfect honor know?Was there no sword or pennoned lanceOmnipotent in hall or fieldFor her complete deliverance?To make them cry, "We yield! we yieldWere not her colors on some shield?Had he been there? the Kingfisher,How he had fought and died for her!A little yellow bird flew by;And where the water-weeds were still,Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;Small fishes set the streams a-thrillThe Kingfisher forgot to kill.He only thought of her who layUpon the ground and was so fair,—As fair as she who came one dayAnd sat long with her lover there.The same gold sun was in her hair.They had come down, because of love,From the great house on the hillside:This lady had no share thereof,For now this place was sanctified!Had this fair lady's lover died?Was this dear lady's lover dead?Had she come here to wait untilHer heart and soul were comforted?Why was it not within her willTo seek the lady on the hill?She, too, was lonely; for he hadBeheld her just this morning, whenHer last kiss made her lover gladWho went to fight the heathen-men:(He said he would return again!)That lady would have charityHe knew, because her love was great;And this one—fairer even than she—Should enter in her open gateAnd be no more disconsolate!Under the sun, the KingfisherKnew no one else might comfort her.
Under the sun, the KingfisherFrom his high place was watching her.
Under the sun, the Kingfisher
From his high place was watching her.
He knew she came from some far place;For when she threw her body down,She seemed quite tired; and her faceHad dust upon it; and her gown,That had been yellow, now was brown.
He knew she came from some far place;
For when she threw her body down,
She seemed quite tired; and her face
Had dust upon it; and her gown,
That had been yellow, now was brown.
She lay near where the shadows lieAt noontime when they meet the sun.The water floated slowly byHer feet. Her hair was all undone,And with the grass its gold was spun.
She lay near where the shadows lie
At noontime when they meet the sun.
The water floated slowly by
Her feet. Her hair was all undone,
And with the grass its gold was spun.
The trees were tall and green behind,And hid the house upon the hill.This place was sheltered from the wind,And all the little leaves were still,And every fern and daffodil.
The trees were tall and green behind,
And hid the house upon the hill.
This place was sheltered from the wind,
And all the little leaves were still,
And every fern and daffodil.
Her face was hidden in her hands;And through the grass, and through her hair,The sunlight found the golden bandsAbout her wrists. (It was aware,Also, that her two arms were bare.)
Her face was hidden in her hands;
And through the grass, and through her hair,
The sunlight found the golden bands
About her wrists. (It was aware,
Also, that her two arms were bare.)
From his high branch, the KingfisherLooked down on her and pitied her.
From his high branch, the Kingfisher
Looked down on her and pitied her.
He wondered who that she could be,—This dear, strange lady, who had comeTo vex him with her misery;And why her days were wearisome,And what far country was her home.
He wondered who that she could be,—
This dear, strange lady, who had come
To vex him with her misery;
And why her days were wearisome,
And what far country was her home.
Her home must be far off indeed,Wherein such bitter grief could grow.Had there been no one there to pleadFor her when they had wronged her so?Did none her perfect honor know?
Her home must be far off indeed,
Wherein such bitter grief could grow.
Had there been no one there to plead
For her when they had wronged her so?
Did none her perfect honor know?
Was there no sword or pennoned lanceOmnipotent in hall or fieldFor her complete deliverance?To make them cry, "We yield! we yieldWere not her colors on some shield?
Was there no sword or pennoned lance
Omnipotent in hall or field
For her complete deliverance?
To make them cry, "We yield! we yield
Were not her colors on some shield?
Had he been there? the Kingfisher,How he had fought and died for her!
Had he been there? the Kingfisher,
How he had fought and died for her!
A little yellow bird flew by;And where the water-weeds were still,Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;Small fishes set the streams a-thrillThe Kingfisher forgot to kill.
A little yellow bird flew by;
And where the water-weeds were still,
Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;
Small fishes set the streams a-thrill
The Kingfisher forgot to kill.
The Kingfisher forgot to kill.
He only thought of her who layUpon the ground and was so fair,—As fair as she who came one dayAnd sat long with her lover there.The same gold sun was in her hair.
He only thought of her who lay
Upon the ground and was so fair,—
As fair as she who came one day
And sat long with her lover there.
The same gold sun was in her hair.
They had come down, because of love,From the great house on the hillside:This lady had no share thereof,For now this place was sanctified!Had this fair lady's lover died?
They had come down, because of love,
From the great house on the hillside:
This lady had no share thereof,
For now this place was sanctified!
Had this fair lady's lover died?
Was this dear lady's lover dead?Had she come here to wait untilHer heart and soul were comforted?Why was it not within her willTo seek the lady on the hill?
Was this dear lady's lover dead?
Had she come here to wait until
Her heart and soul were comforted?
Why was it not within her will
To seek the lady on the hill?
She, too, was lonely; for he hadBeheld her just this morning, whenHer last kiss made her lover gladWho went to fight the heathen-men:(He said he would return again!)
She, too, was lonely; for he had
Beheld her just this morning, when
Her last kiss made her lover glad
Who went to fight the heathen-men:
(He said he would return again!)
That lady would have charityHe knew, because her love was great;And this one—fairer even than she—Should enter in her open gateAnd be no more disconsolate!
That lady would have charity
He knew, because her love was great;
And this one—fairer even than she—
Should enter in her open gate
And be no more disconsolate!
Under the sun, the KingfisherKnew no one else might comfort her.
Under the sun, the Kingfisher
Knew no one else might comfort her.
THE CONQUEROR
I will go now where my dear Lady is,And tell her how I won in this great fight;Ye know not death who say this shape is hisThat loometh up between me and the light.As if death could wish anything of oneWho hath to-day brought many men to death!Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sunHath seen since morning much that wearieth.Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land;Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea;And dead forgotten men stretched on the sandClose to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;What day hath seen such things and hath not fled?What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds,The flashing swords of men well-helmeted,The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?Ye know not death; this thing is but the night.Wherefore I should be glad that it is come:For when I left my Lady for this fight,I said, "At sunset I am coming home.""When you return, I shall be here," she said,"God knows that I must pray a little while."And as she put my helmet on my head,She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.And still she waiteth underneath the trees.(When we had gone a little on our wayI turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees:I heard her praying many times to-day.)Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth stillWatching and praying till I come to her.She saw the sun drop down behind the hillAnd wondereth I am a loiterer.So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword!(Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?)This day is won;—but now the great rewardCometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!I am well rested now.—Nay, I can riseWithout your help! Why do ye look at meWith so much pain and pity in your eyes,Who gained with me to-day this victory?I think we should be glad we are not dead,—Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you,No Lady who is all uncomforted,And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.Yea, I must go.—What? Am I tired yet?Let me lie here and rest my aching side.The thought of her hath made me quite forgetHow sharp his sword was just before he died.
I will go now where my dear Lady is,And tell her how I won in this great fight;Ye know not death who say this shape is hisThat loometh up between me and the light.
I will go now where my dear Lady is,
And tell her how I won in this great fight;
Ye know not death who say this shape is his
That loometh up between me and the light.
As if death could wish anything of oneWho hath to-day brought many men to death!Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sunHath seen since morning much that wearieth.
As if death could wish anything of one
Who hath to-day brought many men to death!
Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sun
Hath seen since morning much that wearieth.
Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land;Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea;And dead forgotten men stretched on the sandClose to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;
Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land;
Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea;
And dead forgotten men stretched on the sand
Close to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;
What day hath seen such things and hath not fled?What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds,The flashing swords of men well-helmeted,The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?
What day hath seen such things and hath not fled?
What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds,
The flashing swords of men well-helmeted,
The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?
Ye know not death; this thing is but the night.Wherefore I should be glad that it is come:For when I left my Lady for this fight,I said, "At sunset I am coming home."
Ye know not death; this thing is but the night.
Wherefore I should be glad that it is come:
For when I left my Lady for this fight,
I said, "At sunset I am coming home."
"When you return, I shall be here," she said,"God knows that I must pray a little while."And as she put my helmet on my head,She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.
"When you return, I shall be here," she said,
"God knows that I must pray a little while."
And as she put my helmet on my head,
She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.
And still she waiteth underneath the trees.(When we had gone a little on our wayI turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees:I heard her praying many times to-day.)
And still she waiteth underneath the trees.
(When we had gone a little on our way
I turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees:
I heard her praying many times to-day.)
Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth stillWatching and praying till I come to her.She saw the sun drop down behind the hillAnd wondereth I am a loiterer.
Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth still
Watching and praying till I come to her.
She saw the sun drop down behind the hill
And wondereth I am a loiterer.
So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword!(Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?)This day is won;—but now the great rewardCometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!
So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword!
(Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?)
This day is won;—but now the great reward
Cometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!
I am well rested now.—Nay, I can riseWithout your help! Why do ye look at meWith so much pain and pity in your eyes,Who gained with me to-day this victory?
I am well rested now.—Nay, I can rise
Without your help! Why do ye look at me
With so much pain and pity in your eyes,
Who gained with me to-day this victory?
I think we should be glad we are not dead,—Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you,No Lady who is all uncomforted,And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.
I think we should be glad we are not dead,
—Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you,
No Lady who is all uncomforted,
And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.
Yea, I must go.—What? Am I tired yet?Let me lie here and rest my aching side.The thought of her hath made me quite forgetHow sharp his sword was just before he died.
Yea, I must go.—What? Am I tired yet?
Let me lie here and rest my aching side.
The thought of her hath made me quite forget
How sharp his sword was just before he died.