Thoughsummer long delayethHer blue and golden boon,Yet now at length she stayethHer wings above the noon;She sets the waters dreamingTo murmurous leafy tones,The weeded waters gleamingAbove the stepping-stones.Where fern and ivied willowLean o’er the seaward brook,I read a volume mellow—A poet’s fairy-book;The seaward brook is narrow,The hazel spans its pride,And like a painted arrowThe king-bird keeps the tide.
Thoughsummer long delayethHer blue and golden boon,Yet now at length she stayethHer wings above the noon;She sets the waters dreamingTo murmurous leafy tones,The weeded waters gleamingAbove the stepping-stones.Where fern and ivied willowLean o’er the seaward brook,I read a volume mellow—A poet’s fairy-book;The seaward brook is narrow,The hazel spans its pride,And like a painted arrowThe king-bird keeps the tide.
Thoughsummer long delayethHer blue and golden boon,Yet now at length she stayethHer wings above the noon;She sets the waters dreamingTo murmurous leafy tones,The weeded waters gleamingAbove the stepping-stones.
Where fern and ivied willowLean o’er the seaward brook,I read a volume mellow—A poet’s fairy-book;The seaward brook is narrow,The hazel spans its pride,And like a painted arrowThe king-bird keeps the tide.
Austereand clad in sombre robes of grey,With hands upfolded and with silent wings,In unimpassioned mystery the dayPasses; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.The dust of night is tangled in the boughsOf leafless lime and lilac, and the pineGrows blacker, and the star upon the browsOf sleep is set in heaven for a sign.Earth’s little weary peoples fall on peaceAnd dream of breaking buds and blossoming,Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,And all the coloured retinue of spring.
Austereand clad in sombre robes of grey,With hands upfolded and with silent wings,In unimpassioned mystery the dayPasses; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.The dust of night is tangled in the boughsOf leafless lime and lilac, and the pineGrows blacker, and the star upon the browsOf sleep is set in heaven for a sign.Earth’s little weary peoples fall on peaceAnd dream of breaking buds and blossoming,Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,And all the coloured retinue of spring.
Austereand clad in sombre robes of grey,With hands upfolded and with silent wings,In unimpassioned mystery the dayPasses; a lonely thrush its requiem sings.
The dust of night is tangled in the boughsOf leafless lime and lilac, and the pineGrows blacker, and the star upon the browsOf sleep is set in heaven for a sign.
Earth’s little weary peoples fall on peaceAnd dream of breaking buds and blossoming,Of primrose airs, of days of large increase,And all the coloured retinue of spring.
Godlaughed when he made GraftonThat’s under Bredon Hill,A jewel in a jewelled plain.The seasons work their willOn golden thatch and crumbling stone,And every soft-lipped breezeMakes music for the Grafton menIn comfortable trees.God’s beauty over GraftonStole into roof and wall,And hallowed every pavèd pathAnd every lowly stall,And to a woven wonderConspired with one accordThe labour of the servant,The labour of the Lord.And momently to GraftonComes in from vale and woldThe sound of sheep unshepherded,The sound of sheep in fold,And, blown along the basesOf lands that set their wideFrank brows to God, comes chantingThe breath of Bristol tide.
Godlaughed when he made GraftonThat’s under Bredon Hill,A jewel in a jewelled plain.The seasons work their willOn golden thatch and crumbling stone,And every soft-lipped breezeMakes music for the Grafton menIn comfortable trees.God’s beauty over GraftonStole into roof and wall,And hallowed every pavèd pathAnd every lowly stall,And to a woven wonderConspired with one accordThe labour of the servant,The labour of the Lord.And momently to GraftonComes in from vale and woldThe sound of sheep unshepherded,The sound of sheep in fold,And, blown along the basesOf lands that set their wideFrank brows to God, comes chantingThe breath of Bristol tide.
Godlaughed when he made GraftonThat’s under Bredon Hill,A jewel in a jewelled plain.The seasons work their willOn golden thatch and crumbling stone,And every soft-lipped breezeMakes music for the Grafton menIn comfortable trees.
God’s beauty over GraftonStole into roof and wall,And hallowed every pavèd pathAnd every lowly stall,And to a woven wonderConspired with one accordThe labour of the servant,The labour of the Lord.
And momently to GraftonComes in from vale and woldThe sound of sheep unshepherded,The sound of sheep in fold,And, blown along the basesOf lands that set their wideFrank brows to God, comes chantingThe breath of Bristol tide.
I wentbeneath the sunny skyWhen all things bowed to June’s desire,—The pansy with its steadfast eye,The blue shells on the lupin spire,The swelling fruit along the boughs,The grass grown heady in the rain,Dark roses fitted for the browsOf queens great kings have sung in vain;My little cat with tiger bars,Bright claws all hidden in content;Swift birds that flashed like darkling starsAcross the cloudy continent;The wiry-coated fellow curledStump-tailed upon the sunny flags;The bees that sacked a coloured worldOf treasure for their honey-bags.And all these things seemed very glad,The sun, the flowers, the birds on wing,The jolly beasts, the furry-cladFat bees, the fruit, and everything.But gladder than them all was I,Who, being man, might gather upThe joy of all beneath the sky,And add their treasure to my cup,And travel every shining way,And laugh with God in God’s delight,Create a world for every day,And store a dream for every night.
I wentbeneath the sunny skyWhen all things bowed to June’s desire,—The pansy with its steadfast eye,The blue shells on the lupin spire,The swelling fruit along the boughs,The grass grown heady in the rain,Dark roses fitted for the browsOf queens great kings have sung in vain;My little cat with tiger bars,Bright claws all hidden in content;Swift birds that flashed like darkling starsAcross the cloudy continent;The wiry-coated fellow curledStump-tailed upon the sunny flags;The bees that sacked a coloured worldOf treasure for their honey-bags.And all these things seemed very glad,The sun, the flowers, the birds on wing,The jolly beasts, the furry-cladFat bees, the fruit, and everything.But gladder than them all was I,Who, being man, might gather upThe joy of all beneath the sky,And add their treasure to my cup,And travel every shining way,And laugh with God in God’s delight,Create a world for every day,And store a dream for every night.
I wentbeneath the sunny skyWhen all things bowed to June’s desire,—The pansy with its steadfast eye,The blue shells on the lupin spire,
The swelling fruit along the boughs,The grass grown heady in the rain,Dark roses fitted for the browsOf queens great kings have sung in vain;
My little cat with tiger bars,Bright claws all hidden in content;Swift birds that flashed like darkling starsAcross the cloudy continent;
The wiry-coated fellow curledStump-tailed upon the sunny flags;The bees that sacked a coloured worldOf treasure for their honey-bags.
And all these things seemed very glad,The sun, the flowers, the birds on wing,The jolly beasts, the furry-cladFat bees, the fruit, and everything.
But gladder than them all was I,Who, being man, might gather upThe joy of all beneath the sky,And add their treasure to my cup,
And travel every shining way,And laugh with God in God’s delight,Create a world for every day,And store a dream for every night.
Come, sweetheart, listen, for I have a thingMost wonderful to tell you—news of spring.Albeit winter still is in the air,And the earth troubled, and the branches bare,Yet down the fields to-day I saw her pass—The spring—her feet went shining through the grass.She touched the ragged hedgerows—I have seenHer finger-prints, most delicately green;And she has whispered to the crocus leaves,And to the garrulous sparrows in the eaves.Swiftly she passed and shyly, and her fairYoung face was hidden in her cloudy hair.She would not stay, her season is not yet,But she has reawakened, and has setThe sap of all the world astir, and rentOnce more the shadows of our discontent.Triumphant news—a miracle I sing—The everlasting miracle of spring.
Come, sweetheart, listen, for I have a thingMost wonderful to tell you—news of spring.Albeit winter still is in the air,And the earth troubled, and the branches bare,Yet down the fields to-day I saw her pass—The spring—her feet went shining through the grass.She touched the ragged hedgerows—I have seenHer finger-prints, most delicately green;And she has whispered to the crocus leaves,And to the garrulous sparrows in the eaves.Swiftly she passed and shyly, and her fairYoung face was hidden in her cloudy hair.She would not stay, her season is not yet,But she has reawakened, and has setThe sap of all the world astir, and rentOnce more the shadows of our discontent.Triumphant news—a miracle I sing—The everlasting miracle of spring.
Come, sweetheart, listen, for I have a thingMost wonderful to tell you—news of spring.
Albeit winter still is in the air,And the earth troubled, and the branches bare,
Yet down the fields to-day I saw her pass—The spring—her feet went shining through the grass.
She touched the ragged hedgerows—I have seenHer finger-prints, most delicately green;
And she has whispered to the crocus leaves,And to the garrulous sparrows in the eaves.
Swiftly she passed and shyly, and her fairYoung face was hidden in her cloudy hair.
She would not stay, her season is not yet,But she has reawakened, and has set
The sap of all the world astir, and rentOnce more the shadows of our discontent.
Triumphant news—a miracle I sing—The everlasting miracle of spring.
Barefootwe went by Millers DaleWhen meadowsweet was golden gloomAnd happy love was in the valeSinging upon the summer bloomOf gipsy crop and branches laidOf willows over chanting pools,Barefoot by Millers Dale we madeOur summer festival of fools.Folly bright-eyed, and quick, and youngWas there with all his silly plots,And trotty wagtail stepped amongThe delicate forget-me-nots,And laughter played with us aboveThe rocky shelves and weeded holesAnd we had fellowship to loveThe pigeons and the water-voles.Time soon shall be when we are allStiller than ever runs the Wye,And every bitterness shall fallTo-morrow in obscurity,And wars be done, and treasons fail,Yet shall new friends go down to greetThe singing rocks of Millers Dale,And willow pools and meadowsweet.
Barefootwe went by Millers DaleWhen meadowsweet was golden gloomAnd happy love was in the valeSinging upon the summer bloomOf gipsy crop and branches laidOf willows over chanting pools,Barefoot by Millers Dale we madeOur summer festival of fools.Folly bright-eyed, and quick, and youngWas there with all his silly plots,And trotty wagtail stepped amongThe delicate forget-me-nots,And laughter played with us aboveThe rocky shelves and weeded holesAnd we had fellowship to loveThe pigeons and the water-voles.Time soon shall be when we are allStiller than ever runs the Wye,And every bitterness shall fallTo-morrow in obscurity,And wars be done, and treasons fail,Yet shall new friends go down to greetThe singing rocks of Millers Dale,And willow pools and meadowsweet.
Barefootwe went by Millers DaleWhen meadowsweet was golden gloomAnd happy love was in the valeSinging upon the summer bloomOf gipsy crop and branches laidOf willows over chanting pools,Barefoot by Millers Dale we madeOur summer festival of fools.
Folly bright-eyed, and quick, and youngWas there with all his silly plots,And trotty wagtail stepped amongThe delicate forget-me-nots,And laughter played with us aboveThe rocky shelves and weeded holesAnd we had fellowship to loveThe pigeons and the water-voles.
Time soon shall be when we are allStiller than ever runs the Wye,And every bitterness shall fallTo-morrow in obscurity,And wars be done, and treasons fail,Yet shall new friends go down to greetThe singing rocks of Millers Dale,And willow pools and meadowsweet.
Wherewall and sill and broken window-frameAre bright with flowers unroofed against the skies,And nothing but the nesting jackdaws’ criesBreaks the hushed even, once imperial cameThe muse that moved transfiguring the nameOf Puritan, and beautiful and wiseThe verses fell, forespeaking Paradise,And poetry set all this hall aflame.Now silence has come down upon the placeWhere life and song so wonderfully went,And the mole’s afoot now where that passion rang,Yet Comus now first moves his laurelled pace,For song and life for ever are unspent,And they are more than ghosts who lived and sang.
Wherewall and sill and broken window-frameAre bright with flowers unroofed against the skies,And nothing but the nesting jackdaws’ criesBreaks the hushed even, once imperial cameThe muse that moved transfiguring the nameOf Puritan, and beautiful and wiseThe verses fell, forespeaking Paradise,And poetry set all this hall aflame.Now silence has come down upon the placeWhere life and song so wonderfully went,And the mole’s afoot now where that passion rang,Yet Comus now first moves his laurelled pace,For song and life for ever are unspent,And they are more than ghosts who lived and sang.
Wherewall and sill and broken window-frameAre bright with flowers unroofed against the skies,And nothing but the nesting jackdaws’ criesBreaks the hushed even, once imperial cameThe muse that moved transfiguring the nameOf Puritan, and beautiful and wiseThe verses fell, forespeaking Paradise,And poetry set all this hall aflame.
Now silence has come down upon the placeWhere life and song so wonderfully went,And the mole’s afoot now where that passion rang,Yet Comus now first moves his laurelled pace,For song and life for ever are unspent,And they are more than ghosts who lived and sang.
Thesehills and waters fostered youAbiding in your argumentUntil all comely wisdom drewAbout you, and the years were spent.Now over hill and water staysA world more intimately wise,Built of your dedicated days,And seen in your beholding eyes.So, marvellous and far, the mind,That slept among them when beganWaters and hills, leaps up to findIts kingdom in the thought of man.
Thesehills and waters fostered youAbiding in your argumentUntil all comely wisdom drewAbout you, and the years were spent.Now over hill and water staysA world more intimately wise,Built of your dedicated days,And seen in your beholding eyes.So, marvellous and far, the mind,That slept among them when beganWaters and hills, leaps up to findIts kingdom in the thought of man.
Thesehills and waters fostered youAbiding in your argumentUntil all comely wisdom drewAbout you, and the years were spent.
Now over hill and water staysA world more intimately wise,Built of your dedicated days,And seen in your beholding eyes.
So, marvellous and far, the mind,That slept among them when beganWaters and hills, leaps up to findIts kingdom in the thought of man.
Comedown at dawn from windless hillsInto the valley of the lake,Where yet a larger quiet fillsThe hour, and mist and water makeWith rocks and reeds and island boughsOne silence and one element,Where wonder goes surely as onceIt wentBy Galilean prows.Moveless the water and the mist,Moveless the secret air above,Hushed, as upon some happy trystThe poised expectancy of love;What spirit is it that adoresWhat mighty presence yet unseen?What consummation works apaceBetweenThese rapt enchanted shores?Never did virgin beauty wakeDevouter to the bridal feastThan moves this hour upon the lakeIn adoration to the east;Here is the bride a god may know,The primal will, the young consent,Till surely upon the appointed moodIntentThe god shall leap—and, lo,Over the lake’s end strikes the sun,White, flameless fire; some purityThrilling the mist, a splendour wonOut of the world’s heart. Let there beThoughts, and atonements, and desires,Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue,Where now we move with mortal oarsAmongImmortal dews and fires.So the old mating goes apace,Wind with the sea, and blood with thought,Lover with lover; and the graceOf understanding comes unsoughtWhen stars into the twilight steer,Or thrushes build among the may,Or wonder moves between the hills,And dayComes up on Rydal mere.
Comedown at dawn from windless hillsInto the valley of the lake,Where yet a larger quiet fillsThe hour, and mist and water makeWith rocks and reeds and island boughsOne silence and one element,Where wonder goes surely as onceIt wentBy Galilean prows.Moveless the water and the mist,Moveless the secret air above,Hushed, as upon some happy trystThe poised expectancy of love;What spirit is it that adoresWhat mighty presence yet unseen?What consummation works apaceBetweenThese rapt enchanted shores?Never did virgin beauty wakeDevouter to the bridal feastThan moves this hour upon the lakeIn adoration to the east;Here is the bride a god may know,The primal will, the young consent,Till surely upon the appointed moodIntentThe god shall leap—and, lo,Over the lake’s end strikes the sun,White, flameless fire; some purityThrilling the mist, a splendour wonOut of the world’s heart. Let there beThoughts, and atonements, and desires,Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue,Where now we move with mortal oarsAmongImmortal dews and fires.So the old mating goes apace,Wind with the sea, and blood with thought,Lover with lover; and the graceOf understanding comes unsoughtWhen stars into the twilight steer,Or thrushes build among the may,Or wonder moves between the hills,And dayComes up on Rydal mere.
Comedown at dawn from windless hillsInto the valley of the lake,Where yet a larger quiet fillsThe hour, and mist and water makeWith rocks and reeds and island boughsOne silence and one element,Where wonder goes surely as onceIt wentBy Galilean prows.
Moveless the water and the mist,Moveless the secret air above,Hushed, as upon some happy trystThe poised expectancy of love;What spirit is it that adoresWhat mighty presence yet unseen?What consummation works apaceBetweenThese rapt enchanted shores?
Never did virgin beauty wakeDevouter to the bridal feastThan moves this hour upon the lakeIn adoration to the east;Here is the bride a god may know,The primal will, the young consent,Till surely upon the appointed moodIntentThe god shall leap—and, lo,
Over the lake’s end strikes the sun,White, flameless fire; some purityThrilling the mist, a splendour wonOut of the world’s heart. Let there beThoughts, and atonements, and desires,Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue,Where now we move with mortal oarsAmongImmortal dews and fires.
So the old mating goes apace,Wind with the sea, and blood with thought,Lover with lover; and the graceOf understanding comes unsoughtWhen stars into the twilight steer,Or thrushes build among the may,Or wonder moves between the hills,And dayComes up on Rydal mere.
Windand the robin’s note to-dayHave heard of autumn and betrayThe green long reign of summer.The rust is falling in the leaves,September stands beside the sheaves,The new, the happy comer.Not sad my season of the redAnd russet orchards gaily spreadFrom Cholesbury to Cooming,Nor sad when twilit valley treesAre ships becalmed on misty seas,And beetles go abooming.Now soon shall come the morning crowdsOf starlings, soon the coloured cloudsFrom oak and ash and willow,And soon the thorn and briar shall beRich in their crimson livery,In scarlet and in yellow.Spring laughed and thrilled a million veins,And summer shone above her rainsTo fill September’s faring;September talks as kings who knowThe world’s way and superbly goIn robes of wisdom’s wearing.
Windand the robin’s note to-dayHave heard of autumn and betrayThe green long reign of summer.The rust is falling in the leaves,September stands beside the sheaves,The new, the happy comer.Not sad my season of the redAnd russet orchards gaily spreadFrom Cholesbury to Cooming,Nor sad when twilit valley treesAre ships becalmed on misty seas,And beetles go abooming.Now soon shall come the morning crowdsOf starlings, soon the coloured cloudsFrom oak and ash and willow,And soon the thorn and briar shall beRich in their crimson livery,In scarlet and in yellow.Spring laughed and thrilled a million veins,And summer shone above her rainsTo fill September’s faring;September talks as kings who knowThe world’s way and superbly goIn robes of wisdom’s wearing.
Windand the robin’s note to-dayHave heard of autumn and betrayThe green long reign of summer.The rust is falling in the leaves,September stands beside the sheaves,The new, the happy comer.
Not sad my season of the redAnd russet orchards gaily spreadFrom Cholesbury to Cooming,Nor sad when twilit valley treesAre ships becalmed on misty seas,And beetles go abooming.
Now soon shall come the morning crowdsOf starlings, soon the coloured cloudsFrom oak and ash and willow,And soon the thorn and briar shall beRich in their crimson livery,In scarlet and in yellow.
Spring laughed and thrilled a million veins,And summer shone above her rainsTo fill September’s faring;September talks as kings who knowThe world’s way and superbly goIn robes of wisdom’s wearing.
NowJune walks on the waters,And the cuckoo’s last enchantmentPasses from Olton pools.Now dawn comes to my windowBreathing midsummer roses,And scythes are wet with dew.Is it not strange for everThat, bowered in this wonder,Man keeps a jealous heart?...That June and the June waters,And birds and dawn-lit roses,Are gospels in the wind,Fading upon the deserts,Poor pilgrim revelations?...Hist ... over Olton pools!
NowJune walks on the waters,And the cuckoo’s last enchantmentPasses from Olton pools.Now dawn comes to my windowBreathing midsummer roses,And scythes are wet with dew.Is it not strange for everThat, bowered in this wonder,Man keeps a jealous heart?...That June and the June waters,And birds and dawn-lit roses,Are gospels in the wind,Fading upon the deserts,Poor pilgrim revelations?...Hist ... over Olton pools!
NowJune walks on the waters,And the cuckoo’s last enchantmentPasses from Olton pools.
Now dawn comes to my windowBreathing midsummer roses,And scythes are wet with dew.
Is it not strange for everThat, bowered in this wonder,Man keeps a jealous heart?...
That June and the June waters,And birds and dawn-lit roses,Are gospels in the wind,
Fading upon the deserts,Poor pilgrim revelations?...Hist ... over Olton pools!
Forpeace, than knowledge more desirableInto your Sussex quietness I came,When summer’s green and gold and azure fellOver the world in flame.And peace upon your pasture-lands I found,Where grazing flocks drift on continually,As little clouds that travel with no soundAcross a windless sky.Out of your oaks the birds call to their matesThat brood among the pines, where hidden deepFrom curious eyes a world’s adventure waitsIn columned choirs of sleep.Under the calm ascension of the nightWe heard the mellow lapsing and returnOf night-owls purring in their groundling flightThrough lanes of darkling fern.Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawnBack to their lairs of light, and ranked alongFrom shire to shire the downs out of the dawnWere risen in golden song.. . . . . . . . . .I sing of peace who have known the large unrestOf men bewildered in their travelling,And I have known the bridal earth unblestBy the brigades of spring.I have known that loss. And now the broken thoughtOf nations marketing in death I know,The very winds to threnodies are wroughtThat on your downlands blow.I sing of peace. Was it but yesterdayI came among your roses and your corn?Then momently amid this wrath I prayFor yesterday reborn.
Forpeace, than knowledge more desirableInto your Sussex quietness I came,When summer’s green and gold and azure fellOver the world in flame.And peace upon your pasture-lands I found,Where grazing flocks drift on continually,As little clouds that travel with no soundAcross a windless sky.Out of your oaks the birds call to their matesThat brood among the pines, where hidden deepFrom curious eyes a world’s adventure waitsIn columned choirs of sleep.Under the calm ascension of the nightWe heard the mellow lapsing and returnOf night-owls purring in their groundling flightThrough lanes of darkling fern.Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawnBack to their lairs of light, and ranked alongFrom shire to shire the downs out of the dawnWere risen in golden song.. . . . . . . . . .I sing of peace who have known the large unrestOf men bewildered in their travelling,And I have known the bridal earth unblestBy the brigades of spring.I have known that loss. And now the broken thoughtOf nations marketing in death I know,The very winds to threnodies are wroughtThat on your downlands blow.I sing of peace. Was it but yesterdayI came among your roses and your corn?Then momently amid this wrath I prayFor yesterday reborn.
Forpeace, than knowledge more desirableInto your Sussex quietness I came,When summer’s green and gold and azure fellOver the world in flame.
And peace upon your pasture-lands I found,Where grazing flocks drift on continually,As little clouds that travel with no soundAcross a windless sky.
Out of your oaks the birds call to their matesThat brood among the pines, where hidden deepFrom curious eyes a world’s adventure waitsIn columned choirs of sleep.
Under the calm ascension of the nightWe heard the mellow lapsing and returnOf night-owls purring in their groundling flightThrough lanes of darkling fern.
Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawnBack to their lairs of light, and ranked alongFrom shire to shire the downs out of the dawnWere risen in golden song.. . . . . . . . . .I sing of peace who have known the large unrestOf men bewildered in their travelling,And I have known the bridal earth unblestBy the brigades of spring.
I have known that loss. And now the broken thoughtOf nations marketing in death I know,The very winds to threnodies are wroughtThat on your downlands blow.
I sing of peace. Was it but yesterdayI came among your roses and your corn?Then momently amid this wrath I prayFor yesterday reborn.
I neverwent to MambleThat lies above the Teme,So I wonder who’s in Mamble,And whether people seemWho breed and brew along thereAs lazy as the name,And whether any song thereSets alehouse wits aflame.The finger-post says Mamble,And that is all I knowOf the narrow road to Mamble,And should I turn and goTo that place of lazy tokenThat lies above the Teme,There might be a Mamble brokenThat was lissom in a dream.So leave the road to MambleAnd take another roadTo as good a place as MambleBe it lazy as a toad;Who travels Worcester countyTakes any place that comesWhen April tosses bountyTo the cherries and the plums.
I neverwent to MambleThat lies above the Teme,So I wonder who’s in Mamble,And whether people seemWho breed and brew along thereAs lazy as the name,And whether any song thereSets alehouse wits aflame.The finger-post says Mamble,And that is all I knowOf the narrow road to Mamble,And should I turn and goTo that place of lazy tokenThat lies above the Teme,There might be a Mamble brokenThat was lissom in a dream.So leave the road to MambleAnd take another roadTo as good a place as MambleBe it lazy as a toad;Who travels Worcester countyTakes any place that comesWhen April tosses bountyTo the cherries and the plums.
I neverwent to MambleThat lies above the Teme,So I wonder who’s in Mamble,And whether people seemWho breed and brew along thereAs lazy as the name,And whether any song thereSets alehouse wits aflame.
The finger-post says Mamble,And that is all I knowOf the narrow road to Mamble,And should I turn and goTo that place of lazy tokenThat lies above the Teme,There might be a Mamble brokenThat was lissom in a dream.
So leave the road to MambleAnd take another roadTo as good a place as MambleBe it lazy as a toad;Who travels Worcester countyTakes any place that comesWhen April tosses bountyTo the cherries and the plums.
Merelythe moonlightPiercing the boughs of my may-tree,Falling upon my ferns;Only the nightTouching my ferns with silver bloomOf sea-flowers here in the sleeping city—And suddenly the imagination burnsWith knowledge of many a dark significant doomOut of antiquity,Sung to hushed halls by troubadoursWho knew the ways of the heart because they had seenThe moonlight washing the garden’s deeper greenTo silver flowers,Falling with tidings out of the moon, as nowIt falls on the ferns under my may-tree bough.
Merelythe moonlightPiercing the boughs of my may-tree,Falling upon my ferns;Only the nightTouching my ferns with silver bloomOf sea-flowers here in the sleeping city—And suddenly the imagination burnsWith knowledge of many a dark significant doomOut of antiquity,Sung to hushed halls by troubadoursWho knew the ways of the heart because they had seenThe moonlight washing the garden’s deeper greenTo silver flowers,Falling with tidings out of the moon, as nowIt falls on the ferns under my may-tree bough.
Merelythe moonlightPiercing the boughs of my may-tree,Falling upon my ferns;Only the nightTouching my ferns with silver bloomOf sea-flowers here in the sleeping city—And suddenly the imagination burnsWith knowledge of many a dark significant doomOut of antiquity,Sung to hushed halls by troubadoursWho knew the ways of the heart because they had seenThe moonlight washing the garden’s deeper greenTo silver flowers,Falling with tidings out of the moon, as nowIt falls on the ferns under my may-tree bough.
Atthe top of the house the apples are laid in rows,And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and thoseApples are deep-sea apples of green. There goesA cloud on the moon in the autumn night.A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and thenThere is no sound at the top of the house of menOr mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon againDapples the apples with deep-sea light.They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streamsOut of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,And quiet is the steep stair under.In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keepTryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deepOn moon-washed apples of wonder.
Atthe top of the house the apples are laid in rows,And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and thoseApples are deep-sea apples of green. There goesA cloud on the moon in the autumn night.A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and thenThere is no sound at the top of the house of menOr mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon againDapples the apples with deep-sea light.They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streamsOut of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,And quiet is the steep stair under.In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keepTryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deepOn moon-washed apples of wonder.
Atthe top of the house the apples are laid in rows,And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and thoseApples are deep-sea apples of green. There goesA cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and thenThere is no sound at the top of the house of menOr mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon againDapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streamsOut of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keepTryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deepOn moon-washed apples of wonder.
Morningand night I bringClear water from the spring,And through the lyric noonI hear the larks in tune,And when the shadows fallThere’s providence for all.My garden is alightWith currants red and white;And my blue curtains peepOn starry courses deep,When down her silver tidesThe moon on Cotswold rides.My path of paven greyIs thoroughfare all dayFor fellowship, till timeBids us with candles climbThe little whitewashed stairAbove my lavender.
Morningand night I bringClear water from the spring,And through the lyric noonI hear the larks in tune,And when the shadows fallThere’s providence for all.My garden is alightWith currants red and white;And my blue curtains peepOn starry courses deep,When down her silver tidesThe moon on Cotswold rides.My path of paven greyIs thoroughfare all dayFor fellowship, till timeBids us with candles climbThe little whitewashed stairAbove my lavender.
Morningand night I bringClear water from the spring,And through the lyric noonI hear the larks in tune,And when the shadows fallThere’s providence for all.
My garden is alightWith currants red and white;And my blue curtains peepOn starry courses deep,When down her silver tidesThe moon on Cotswold rides.
My path of paven greyIs thoroughfare all dayFor fellowship, till timeBids us with candles climbThe little whitewashed stairAbove my lavender.
Blackin the summer night my Cotswold hillAslant my window sleeps, beneath a skyDeep as the bedded violets that fillMarch woods with dusky passion. As I lieAbed between cool walls I watch the hostOf the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,And drowsily the habit of these mostBeloved of English lands moves in my brain,While silence holds dominion of the dark,Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.I see the valleys in their morning mistWreathed under limpid hills in moving light,Happy with many a yeoman melodist:I see the little roads of twinkling whiteBusy with fieldward teams and market gearOf rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tellThe many-minded changes of the year,Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;I see the sun persuade the mist away,Till town and stead are shining to the day.I see the wagons move along the rowsOf ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,I see the lissom husbandman who knowsDeep in his heart the beauty of his power,As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids onThe harvest home. I hear the rickyard fillWith gossip as in generations gone,While wagon follows wagon from the hill.I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.I see the barns and comely manors plannedBy men who somehow moved in comely thought,Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,As men upon some godlike business wrought;I see the little cottages that keepTheir beauty still where since PlantagenetHave come the shepherds happily to sleep,Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.And now the valleys that upon the sunBroke from their opal veils, are veiled again,And the last light upon the wolds is done,And silence falls on flocks and fields and men;And black upon the night I watch my hill,And the stars shine, and there an owly wingBrushes the night, and all again is still,And, from this land of worship that I sing,I turn to sleep, content that from my siresI draw the blood of England’s midmost shires.
Blackin the summer night my Cotswold hillAslant my window sleeps, beneath a skyDeep as the bedded violets that fillMarch woods with dusky passion. As I lieAbed between cool walls I watch the hostOf the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,And drowsily the habit of these mostBeloved of English lands moves in my brain,While silence holds dominion of the dark,Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.I see the valleys in their morning mistWreathed under limpid hills in moving light,Happy with many a yeoman melodist:I see the little roads of twinkling whiteBusy with fieldward teams and market gearOf rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tellThe many-minded changes of the year,Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;I see the sun persuade the mist away,Till town and stead are shining to the day.I see the wagons move along the rowsOf ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,I see the lissom husbandman who knowsDeep in his heart the beauty of his power,As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids onThe harvest home. I hear the rickyard fillWith gossip as in generations gone,While wagon follows wagon from the hill.I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.I see the barns and comely manors plannedBy men who somehow moved in comely thought,Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,As men upon some godlike business wrought;I see the little cottages that keepTheir beauty still where since PlantagenetHave come the shepherds happily to sleep,Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.And now the valleys that upon the sunBroke from their opal veils, are veiled again,And the last light upon the wolds is done,And silence falls on flocks and fields and men;And black upon the night I watch my hill,And the stars shine, and there an owly wingBrushes the night, and all again is still,And, from this land of worship that I sing,I turn to sleep, content that from my siresI draw the blood of England’s midmost shires.
Blackin the summer night my Cotswold hillAslant my window sleeps, beneath a skyDeep as the bedded violets that fillMarch woods with dusky passion. As I lieAbed between cool walls I watch the hostOf the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,And drowsily the habit of these mostBeloved of English lands moves in my brain,While silence holds dominion of the dark,Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.
I see the valleys in their morning mistWreathed under limpid hills in moving light,Happy with many a yeoman melodist:I see the little roads of twinkling whiteBusy with fieldward teams and market gearOf rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tellThe many-minded changes of the year,Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;I see the sun persuade the mist away,Till town and stead are shining to the day.
I see the wagons move along the rowsOf ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,I see the lissom husbandman who knowsDeep in his heart the beauty of his power,As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids onThe harvest home. I hear the rickyard fillWith gossip as in generations gone,While wagon follows wagon from the hill.I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.
I see the barns and comely manors plannedBy men who somehow moved in comely thought,Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,As men upon some godlike business wrought;I see the little cottages that keepTheir beauty still where since PlantagenetHave come the shepherds happily to sleep,Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.
And now the valleys that upon the sunBroke from their opal veils, are veiled again,And the last light upon the wolds is done,And silence falls on flocks and fields and men;And black upon the night I watch my hill,And the stars shine, and there an owly wingBrushes the night, and all again is still,And, from this land of worship that I sing,I turn to sleep, content that from my siresI draw the blood of England’s midmost shires.
Thebird in the cornIs a marvellous crow.He was laid and was bornIn the season of snow;And he chants his old catchesLike a ghost under hatches.He comes from the shadesOf his wood very early,And works in the bladesOf the wheat and the barley,And he’s happy, althoughHe’s a grumbleton crow.The larks have devicesFor sunny delight,And the sheep in their fleecesAre woolly and white;But these things are the scornOf the bird in the corn.And morning goes by,And still he is there,Till a rose in the skyCalls him back to his lairIn the boughs where the gloomIs a part of his plume.But the boy in the laneWith his gun, by and by,To the heart of the grainWill narrowly spy,And the twilight will come,And no crow will fly home.
Thebird in the cornIs a marvellous crow.He was laid and was bornIn the season of snow;And he chants his old catchesLike a ghost under hatches.He comes from the shadesOf his wood very early,And works in the bladesOf the wheat and the barley,And he’s happy, althoughHe’s a grumbleton crow.The larks have devicesFor sunny delight,And the sheep in their fleecesAre woolly and white;But these things are the scornOf the bird in the corn.And morning goes by,And still he is there,Till a rose in the skyCalls him back to his lairIn the boughs where the gloomIs a part of his plume.But the boy in the laneWith his gun, by and by,To the heart of the grainWill narrowly spy,And the twilight will come,And no crow will fly home.
Thebird in the cornIs a marvellous crow.He was laid and was bornIn the season of snow;And he chants his old catchesLike a ghost under hatches.
He comes from the shadesOf his wood very early,And works in the bladesOf the wheat and the barley,And he’s happy, althoughHe’s a grumbleton crow.
The larks have devicesFor sunny delight,And the sheep in their fleecesAre woolly and white;But these things are the scornOf the bird in the corn.
And morning goes by,And still he is there,Till a rose in the skyCalls him back to his lairIn the boughs where the gloomIs a part of his plume.
But the boy in the laneWith his gun, by and by,To the heart of the grainWill narrowly spy,And the twilight will come,And no crow will fly home.
NowLove, her mantle thrown,Goes naked by,Threading the woods alone,Her royal eyeHappy because the primroses againBreak on the winter continence of men.I saw her pass to-dayIn Warwickshire,With the old imperial way,The old desire,Fresh as among those other flowers they wentMore beautiful for Adon’s discontent.Those other years she madeHer festivalWhen the blue eggs were laidAnd lambs were tall,By the Athenian rivers while the reedsMade love melodious for the Ganymedes.And now through Cantlow brakes,By Wilmcote hill,To Avon-side, she makesHer garlands still,And I who watch her flashing limbs am oneWith youth whose days three thousand years are done.
NowLove, her mantle thrown,Goes naked by,Threading the woods alone,Her royal eyeHappy because the primroses againBreak on the winter continence of men.I saw her pass to-dayIn Warwickshire,With the old imperial way,The old desire,Fresh as among those other flowers they wentMore beautiful for Adon’s discontent.Those other years she madeHer festivalWhen the blue eggs were laidAnd lambs were tall,By the Athenian rivers while the reedsMade love melodious for the Ganymedes.And now through Cantlow brakes,By Wilmcote hill,To Avon-side, she makesHer garlands still,And I who watch her flashing limbs am oneWith youth whose days three thousand years are done.
NowLove, her mantle thrown,Goes naked by,Threading the woods alone,Her royal eyeHappy because the primroses againBreak on the winter continence of men.
I saw her pass to-dayIn Warwickshire,With the old imperial way,The old desire,Fresh as among those other flowers they wentMore beautiful for Adon’s discontent.
Those other years she madeHer festivalWhen the blue eggs were laidAnd lambs were tall,By the Athenian rivers while the reedsMade love melodious for the Ganymedes.
And now through Cantlow brakes,By Wilmcote hill,To Avon-side, she makesHer garlands still,And I who watch her flashing limbs am oneWith youth whose days three thousand years are done.
Sweetin the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake;The leaves are dumb,And the tides are still,And no calls comeFrom the flocks on the hill.Forgotten nowAre nightingales,And on his boughThe linnet fails,—Midway the mereMy mirrored boatShall rest and hearA slenderer note.Though, heart, you measureBut one proud rhyme,You build a treasureConfounding time—Sweet in the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake.
Sweetin the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake;The leaves are dumb,And the tides are still,And no calls comeFrom the flocks on the hill.Forgotten nowAre nightingales,And on his boughThe linnet fails,—Midway the mereMy mirrored boatShall rest and hearA slenderer note.Though, heart, you measureBut one proud rhyme,You build a treasureConfounding time—Sweet in the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake.
Sweetin the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake;The leaves are dumb,And the tides are still,And no calls comeFrom the flocks on the hill.
Forgotten nowAre nightingales,And on his boughThe linnet fails,—Midway the mereMy mirrored boatShall rest and hearA slenderer note.
Though, heart, you measureBut one proud rhyme,You build a treasureConfounding time—Sweet in the rushesThe reed-singers makeA music that hushesThe life of the lake.
“Hush!” was my whisperAt the stair-topWhen the waggoners were down belowHome from the barley-crop.Through the high windowLooked the harvest moon,While the waggoners sangA harvest tune,—“Hush!” was my whisper whenMarjory steptDown from her attic-room,A true-love-adept.“Fill a can, fill a can,”Waggoners of heart were they,“Harvest-home, harvest-home,Barleycorn is home to-day.” ...“Marjory, hush now—Harvest—you hear?”—Red was the moon’s roseOn the full year,The cobwebs shook, so wellDid the waggoners sing—“Hush!”—there was beauty atThat harvesting.
“Hush!” was my whisperAt the stair-topWhen the waggoners were down belowHome from the barley-crop.Through the high windowLooked the harvest moon,While the waggoners sangA harvest tune,—“Hush!” was my whisper whenMarjory steptDown from her attic-room,A true-love-adept.“Fill a can, fill a can,”Waggoners of heart were they,“Harvest-home, harvest-home,Barleycorn is home to-day.” ...“Marjory, hush now—Harvest—you hear?”—Red was the moon’s roseOn the full year,The cobwebs shook, so wellDid the waggoners sing—“Hush!”—there was beauty atThat harvesting.
“Hush!” was my whisperAt the stair-topWhen the waggoners were down belowHome from the barley-crop.Through the high windowLooked the harvest moon,While the waggoners sangA harvest tune,—“Hush!” was my whisper whenMarjory steptDown from her attic-room,A true-love-adept.
“Fill a can, fill a can,”Waggoners of heart were they,“Harvest-home, harvest-home,Barleycorn is home to-day.” ...“Marjory, hush now—Harvest—you hear?”—Red was the moon’s roseOn the full year,The cobwebs shook, so wellDid the waggoners sing—“Hush!”—there was beauty atThat harvesting.
Ringedhigh with turf the arena lies,The neighbouring world unseen, unheard,Here are but unhorizoned skies,And on the skies a passing bird,The conies and a wandering sheep,The castings of the chambered mole,—These, and the haunted years that keepLost agonies of blood and soul.They say that in the midnight moonThe ghostly legions gather yet,And hear a ghostly timbrel-tune,And see a ghostly combat met.These are but yeoman’s tales. And hereNo marvel on the midnight falls,But starlight marvellously clear,Being girdled in these shadowy walls.Yet now strange glooms of ancestryCreep on me through this morning light,Some spectral self is seeking me ...I will not parley with the night.
Ringedhigh with turf the arena lies,The neighbouring world unseen, unheard,Here are but unhorizoned skies,And on the skies a passing bird,The conies and a wandering sheep,The castings of the chambered mole,—These, and the haunted years that keepLost agonies of blood and soul.They say that in the midnight moonThe ghostly legions gather yet,And hear a ghostly timbrel-tune,And see a ghostly combat met.These are but yeoman’s tales. And hereNo marvel on the midnight falls,But starlight marvellously clear,Being girdled in these shadowy walls.Yet now strange glooms of ancestryCreep on me through this morning light,Some spectral self is seeking me ...I will not parley with the night.
Ringedhigh with turf the arena lies,The neighbouring world unseen, unheard,Here are but unhorizoned skies,And on the skies a passing bird,
The conies and a wandering sheep,The castings of the chambered mole,—These, and the haunted years that keepLost agonies of blood and soul.
They say that in the midnight moonThe ghostly legions gather yet,And hear a ghostly timbrel-tune,And see a ghostly combat met.
These are but yeoman’s tales. And hereNo marvel on the midnight falls,But starlight marvellously clear,Being girdled in these shadowy walls.
Yet now strange glooms of ancestryCreep on me through this morning light,Some spectral self is seeking me ...I will not parley with the night.
I havea place in a little garden,That laurel-leaf and fernKeep a cool place though fires of summerAll the green grasses burn.Little cool winds creep there aboutWhen winds all else are dead,And tired limbs there find gentle keeping,And humours of sloth are shed.So do your songs come always to me,Poets of age and age,Clear and cool as rivers of windThreading my hermitage,Stilling my mind from tribulationOf life half-seen, half-heard,With images made in the brain’s quietness,And the leaping of a word.
I havea place in a little garden,That laurel-leaf and fernKeep a cool place though fires of summerAll the green grasses burn.Little cool winds creep there aboutWhen winds all else are dead,And tired limbs there find gentle keeping,And humours of sloth are shed.So do your songs come always to me,Poets of age and age,Clear and cool as rivers of windThreading my hermitage,Stilling my mind from tribulationOf life half-seen, half-heard,With images made in the brain’s quietness,And the leaping of a word.
I havea place in a little garden,That laurel-leaf and fernKeep a cool place though fires of summerAll the green grasses burn.Little cool winds creep there aboutWhen winds all else are dead,And tired limbs there find gentle keeping,And humours of sloth are shed.
So do your songs come always to me,Poets of age and age,Clear and cool as rivers of windThreading my hermitage,Stilling my mind from tribulationOf life half-seen, half-heard,With images made in the brain’s quietness,And the leaping of a word.
Highup in the sky there, now, you know,In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,Tenantless, and no creature there to goNear it but Mrs. Fry’s fat cows, and sheepDove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hearsUnder that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,The windows are uncurtained; on the stairsSilence is but by tip-toe silence met.All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put byFrom use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May—A home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the dayTo the candles and linen.... Yet in the silence creep,This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,Breathing upon that still, insensible place,Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,Signs that even the curious man would miss,Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,Very soon, when up from the valley in June will rideLovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wideBow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower....The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb—But we are there—we are waiting ourselves who come.
Highup in the sky there, now, you know,In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,Tenantless, and no creature there to goNear it but Mrs. Fry’s fat cows, and sheepDove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hearsUnder that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,The windows are uncurtained; on the stairsSilence is but by tip-toe silence met.All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put byFrom use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May—A home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the dayTo the candles and linen.... Yet in the silence creep,This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,Breathing upon that still, insensible place,Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,Signs that even the curious man would miss,Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,Very soon, when up from the valley in June will rideLovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wideBow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower....The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb—But we are there—we are waiting ourselves who come.
Highup in the sky there, now, you know,In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,Tenantless, and no creature there to goNear it but Mrs. Fry’s fat cows, and sheepDove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hearsUnder that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,The windows are uncurtained; on the stairsSilence is but by tip-toe silence met.All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put byFrom use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.
Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May—A home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the dayTo the candles and linen.... Yet in the silence creep,This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,Breathing upon that still, insensible place,Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,Signs that even the curious man would miss,Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,Very soon, when up from the valley in June will rideLovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wideBow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower....
The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb—But we are there—we are waiting ourselves who come.
To Mrs. Thomas Hardy
I donot use to listen wellAt sermon time,I ’ld rather hear the plainest rhymeThan tales the parsons tell;The homespun of experienceThey will not wear,But walk a transcendental airIn dusty rags of sense.But humbly in your little churchAlone I watch;Old rector, lift again the latch,Here is a heart to search.Come, with a simple word and wiseQuicken my brain,And while upon the painted paneThe painted butterfliesBeat in the early April beams,You shall instructMy spirit in the knowledge pluckedFrom your still Dorset dreams.Your word shall strive with no obscureDebated text,Your vision being unperplexed,Your loving purpose pure.I know you’ll speak of April flowers,Or lambs in pen,Or happy-hearted maids and menWeaving their April hours.Or rising to your thought will come,For lessoning,Those lovers of an older spring,That now in tombs are dumb.And brooding in your theme shall be,Half said, half heard,The presage of a poet’s wordTo mock mortality.. . . . . . . . . .The years are on your grave the while,And yet, almost,I think to see your surpliced ghostStand hesitant in the aisle,Find me sole congregation there,Assess my mood,Know mine a kindred solitude,And climb the pulpit-stair.
I donot use to listen wellAt sermon time,I ’ld rather hear the plainest rhymeThan tales the parsons tell;The homespun of experienceThey will not wear,But walk a transcendental airIn dusty rags of sense.But humbly in your little churchAlone I watch;Old rector, lift again the latch,Here is a heart to search.Come, with a simple word and wiseQuicken my brain,And while upon the painted paneThe painted butterfliesBeat in the early April beams,You shall instructMy spirit in the knowledge pluckedFrom your still Dorset dreams.Your word shall strive with no obscureDebated text,Your vision being unperplexed,Your loving purpose pure.I know you’ll speak of April flowers,Or lambs in pen,Or happy-hearted maids and menWeaving their April hours.Or rising to your thought will come,For lessoning,Those lovers of an older spring,That now in tombs are dumb.And brooding in your theme shall be,Half said, half heard,The presage of a poet’s wordTo mock mortality.. . . . . . . . . .The years are on your grave the while,And yet, almost,I think to see your surpliced ghostStand hesitant in the aisle,Find me sole congregation there,Assess my mood,Know mine a kindred solitude,And climb the pulpit-stair.
I donot use to listen wellAt sermon time,I ’ld rather hear the plainest rhymeThan tales the parsons tell;
The homespun of experienceThey will not wear,But walk a transcendental airIn dusty rags of sense.
But humbly in your little churchAlone I watch;Old rector, lift again the latch,Here is a heart to search.
Come, with a simple word and wiseQuicken my brain,And while upon the painted paneThe painted butterflies
Beat in the early April beams,You shall instructMy spirit in the knowledge pluckedFrom your still Dorset dreams.
Your word shall strive with no obscureDebated text,Your vision being unperplexed,Your loving purpose pure.
I know you’ll speak of April flowers,Or lambs in pen,Or happy-hearted maids and menWeaving their April hours.
Or rising to your thought will come,For lessoning,Those lovers of an older spring,That now in tombs are dumb.
And brooding in your theme shall be,Half said, half heard,The presage of a poet’s wordTo mock mortality.. . . . . . . . . .The years are on your grave the while,And yet, almost,I think to see your surpliced ghostStand hesitant in the aisle,
Find me sole congregation there,Assess my mood,Know mine a kindred solitude,And climb the pulpit-stair.
Theraining hour is done,And, threaded on the bough,The May-buds in the sunAre shining emeralds now.As transitory theseAs things of April will,Yet, trembling in the trees,Is briefer beauty still.For, flowering from the skyUpon an April day,Are silver buds that lieAmid the buds of May.The April emeralds now,While thrushes fill the lane,Are linked along the boughWith silver buds of rain.And, straightly though to earthThe buds of silver slip,The green buds keep the mirthOf that companionship.
Theraining hour is done,And, threaded on the bough,The May-buds in the sunAre shining emeralds now.As transitory theseAs things of April will,Yet, trembling in the trees,Is briefer beauty still.For, flowering from the skyUpon an April day,Are silver buds that lieAmid the buds of May.The April emeralds now,While thrushes fill the lane,Are linked along the boughWith silver buds of rain.And, straightly though to earthThe buds of silver slip,The green buds keep the mirthOf that companionship.
Theraining hour is done,And, threaded on the bough,The May-buds in the sunAre shining emeralds now.
As transitory theseAs things of April will,Yet, trembling in the trees,Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the skyUpon an April day,Are silver buds that lieAmid the buds of May.
The April emeralds now,While thrushes fill the lane,Are linked along the boughWith silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earthThe buds of silver slip,The green buds keep the mirthOf that companionship.