Last night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.And cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGray granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.
Last night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.
And cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.
In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGray granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.
It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.
From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.
It was the lovely moon—she liftedSlowly her white brow amongBronze cloud-waves that ebbed and driftedFaintly, faintlier afar.Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,Watching the earth that dwindled underFaintly, faintlier afar.It was the lovely moon that lovelikeHovered over the wandering, tiredEarth, her bosom gray and dovelike,Hovering beautiful as a dove....The lovely moon:—her soft light fallingLightly on roof and poplar and pine—Tree to tree whispering and calling,Wonderful in the silvery shineOf the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.
It was the lovely moon—she liftedSlowly her white brow amongBronze cloud-waves that ebbed and driftedFaintly, faintlier afar.Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,Watching the earth that dwindled underFaintly, faintlier afar.It was the lovely moon that lovelikeHovered over the wandering, tiredEarth, her bosom gray and dovelike,Hovering beautiful as a dove....The lovely moon:—her soft light fallingLightly on roof and poplar and pine—Tree to tree whispering and calling,Wonderful in the silvery shineOf the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.
Far off a lonely houndTelling his loneliness all roundTo the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;And, answering, the soundOf that yet lonelier sea-houndTelling his loneliness to the solitary stars.Hearing, the kennelled houndSome neighbourhood and comfort found,And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.But that wild sea-houndUnkennelled, called all night all round—The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.
Far off a lonely houndTelling his loneliness all roundTo the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;
And, answering, the soundOf that yet lonelier sea-houndTelling his loneliness to the solitary stars.
Hearing, the kennelled houndSome neighbourhood and comfort found,And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.
But that wild sea-houndUnkennelled, called all night all round—The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.
Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping onThe still warm, tender cheek of night,And with her cloudy hairBrushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone;Only remains soft easeful light,And shadow everywhere,And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begunDreaming of day renewed and brightWith beams than day's more fair;Scarce the full circle of the day is run,Nor the yellow moon to her full heightRisen through the misty air.But from the increasing shadowiness is spunA shadowy shape growing clear to sight,And fading. Was it Hector there,Great-helmed, severe?—and as the last sun shoneSeeming in solemn splendour dightSuch as dream heroes bear;And such his shape as heroes stare uponIn sleep's tumultuary fightWhen a cry's heard, "Beware!" ...—'Twas Hector, but the moment-splendour's gone:Shadow fast deepens into night,Night spreads—cold, wide, bare.
Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping onThe still warm, tender cheek of night,And with her cloudy hair
Brushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone;Only remains soft easeful light,And shadow everywhere,
And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begunDreaming of day renewed and brightWith beams than day's more fair;
Scarce the full circle of the day is run,Nor the yellow moon to her full heightRisen through the misty air.
But from the increasing shadowiness is spunA shadowy shape growing clear to sight,And fading. Was it Hector there,
Great-helmed, severe?—and as the last sun shoneSeeming in solemn splendour dightSuch as dream heroes bear;
And such his shape as heroes stare uponIn sleep's tumultuary fightWhen a cry's heard, "Beware!" ...
—'Twas Hector, but the moment-splendour's gone:Shadow fast deepens into night,Night spreads—cold, wide, bare.
There is a place of grassWith daisies like white pools,Or shining islands in a seaOf brightening waves.Swallows, darting, brushThe waves of gentle green,As though a wide still lake it were,Not living grass.Evening draws over all,Grass and flowers and sky,And one rich bird prolongs the sweetOf day on the edge of dark.The grass is dim, the starsLean down the height of heaven;And the trees, listening in all their leaves,Scarce-breathing stand.Nothing is as it was:The bird on the bough sings on;The night, pure from the cloud of day,Is listening.
There is a place of grassWith daisies like white pools,Or shining islands in a seaOf brightening waves.
Swallows, darting, brushThe waves of gentle green,As though a wide still lake it were,Not living grass.
Evening draws over all,Grass and flowers and sky,And one rich bird prolongs the sweetOf day on the edge of dark.
The grass is dim, the starsLean down the height of heaven;And the trees, listening in all their leaves,Scarce-breathing stand.
Nothing is as it was:The bird on the bough sings on;The night, pure from the cloud of day,Is listening.
Small yellow stonesThat, lifted, through my idle fingers fallLeaving a score—And these I toss between the parted lipsOf the lapping sea,And the sea tosses again with millions more—Yellow and white stones;Then drawing back her snaky long waves all,Leaves the stonesYellow and white upon the sandy shore....As they were bonesYellow and white left on the silent shoreOf an unfoaming far unvisioned Sea.
Small yellow stonesThat, lifted, through my idle fingers fallLeaving a score—And these I toss between the parted lipsOf the lapping sea,And the sea tosses again with millions more—Yellow and white stones;Then drawing back her snaky long waves all,Leaves the stonesYellow and white upon the sandy shore....As they were bonesYellow and white left on the silent shoreOf an unfoaming far unvisioned Sea.
The angry windThat cursed at meWas nothing but an evil spriteVexed with any man's delight.And strange it seemedThat a dark windShould run down from a mountain steepAnd shout as though the world were asleep.But when he ceasedAnd silence was—Who could but fear what evil spriteCrept through the tunnels of the night?
The angry windThat cursed at meWas nothing but an evil spriteVexed with any man's delight.
And strange it seemedThat a dark windShould run down from a mountain steepAnd shout as though the world were asleep.
But when he ceasedAnd silence was—Who could but fear what evil spriteCrept through the tunnels of the night?
Clear from the deep sky pours the moonHer silver on the heavy dark;The small stars blink.Against the moon the maple boughFlutters distinct her leafy spears;All sound falls weak....Weak the train's whistle, the dog's bark,Slow steps; and rustling into her nestAt last, the thrush.All's still; only earth turns and breathes.Then that amazing trembling noteCleaves the deep waveOf silence. Shivers even that silvery one;Sigh all the trees, even the cedar dark----O joy, and I.
Clear from the deep sky pours the moonHer silver on the heavy dark;The small stars blink.
Against the moon the maple boughFlutters distinct her leafy spears;All sound falls weak....
Weak the train's whistle, the dog's bark,Slow steps; and rustling into her nestAt last, the thrush.
All's still; only earth turns and breathes.Then that amazing trembling noteCleaves the deep wave
Of silence. Shivers even that silvery one;Sigh all the trees, even the cedar dark----O joy, and I.
It was a night of smell and dewWhen very old things seemed how new;When speech was softest in the stillAir that loitered down the hill;When the lime's sweetness could but creepLike music to slow ears of sleep;When far below the lapping seaLisped but of tired tranquillity....No, 'twas a night that seemed almostOf real night the little ghost,As though a painter painted itOut of the shallows of his wit—The easy air, the whispered trees,Faint prattle of strait distant seas,Pettiness all: but hark, hark!Large and rich in the narrow darkMusic rose. Was music neverBraver in her pure endeavourAgainst the meanness of the world.Her purple banner she unfurledOf stars and suns upon the nightAmazed with the strange living light.The notes rose where the dark trees knelt;Their fiery joy made stillness meltAs flame in woods the low boughs burns,Sere leaves, dry bushes, flame-shaped ferns.The notes rose as great birds that riseMajestically in lofty skies,And in white clouds are lost; and thenBriefly they hushed, and woke againRenewed.Slowly silence cameAs smoke after sinking flameThat spreads and thins across the skyWhen day pales before it die.
It was a night of smell and dewWhen very old things seemed how new;When speech was softest in the stillAir that loitered down the hill;When the lime's sweetness could but creepLike music to slow ears of sleep;When far below the lapping seaLisped but of tired tranquillity....No, 'twas a night that seemed almostOf real night the little ghost,As though a painter painted itOut of the shallows of his wit—The easy air, the whispered trees,Faint prattle of strait distant seas,Pettiness all: but hark, hark!Large and rich in the narrow darkMusic rose. Was music neverBraver in her pure endeavourAgainst the meanness of the world.Her purple banner she unfurledOf stars and suns upon the nightAmazed with the strange living light.The notes rose where the dark trees knelt;Their fiery joy made stillness meltAs flame in woods the low boughs burns,Sere leaves, dry bushes, flame-shaped ferns.The notes rose as great birds that riseMajestically in lofty skies,And in white clouds are lost; and thenBriefly they hushed, and woke againRenewed.Slowly silence cameAs smoke after sinking flameThat spreads and thins across the skyWhen day pales before it die.
The naked stars, deep beyond deep,Burn purely through the nervèd night.Over the narrow sleepOf men tired of light;Deep within deep, as clouds behindHuge grey clouds hidden gleaming rise,Untroubled by sharp windIn cold desert skies.Cold deserts now with infinite hostOf gathered spears at watch o'er smallArmies of men lostIn glooms funereal.O bitter light, all-threatening stars,O tired ghosts of men that sleepAfter stern mortal wars'Neath skies chill and steep.These mortal hills, this flickering sea,This shadowy and thoughtful night,Throb with infinity,Burn with immortal light.
The naked stars, deep beyond deep,Burn purely through the nervèd night.Over the narrow sleepOf men tired of light;
Deep within deep, as clouds behindHuge grey clouds hidden gleaming rise,Untroubled by sharp windIn cold desert skies.
Cold deserts now with infinite hostOf gathered spears at watch o'er smallArmies of men lostIn glooms funereal.
O bitter light, all-threatening stars,O tired ghosts of men that sleepAfter stern mortal wars'Neath skies chill and steep.
These mortal hills, this flickering sea,This shadowy and thoughtful night,Throb with infinity,Burn with immortal light.
It stands thereTall and solitary on the edgeOf the last hill, green on the green hill.Ten o'clock the tree's called, no one knows why.Perhaps it was planted there at ten o'clockOr someone was hanged there at ten o'clock—A hundred such good reasons might be found,But no one knows. It vexed me that none knew,Seeing it miles and miles off and then nearerAnd nearer yet until, beneath the hill,I looked up, up, and saw it nodding there,A single tree upon the sharp-edged hill,Holding its leaves though in the orchard allLeaves and fruit were stripped or hung but fewRed and yellow over the littered grass.—It vexed me, the brave tree and senseless name,As I went through the valley looking upAnd then looked round on elm and beech and chestnutAnd all that lingering flame amid the hedgeThat marked the miles and miles.Then I forgot:For through the apple-orchard's shadow I sawBetween the dark boughs of the cherry-orchardA great slow fire which Time had lit to burnThe mortal seasons up, and leave bare blackUnchanging Winter.Weston-sub-Edge.
It stands thereTall and solitary on the edgeOf the last hill, green on the green hill.Ten o'clock the tree's called, no one knows why.Perhaps it was planted there at ten o'clockOr someone was hanged there at ten o'clock—A hundred such good reasons might be found,But no one knows. It vexed me that none knew,Seeing it miles and miles off and then nearerAnd nearer yet until, beneath the hill,I looked up, up, and saw it nodding there,A single tree upon the sharp-edged hill,Holding its leaves though in the orchard allLeaves and fruit were stripped or hung but fewRed and yellow over the littered grass.—It vexed me, the brave tree and senseless name,As I went through the valley looking upAnd then looked round on elm and beech and chestnutAnd all that lingering flame amid the hedgeThat marked the miles and miles.Then I forgot:For through the apple-orchard's shadow I sawBetween the dark boughs of the cherry-orchardA great slow fire which Time had lit to burnThe mortal seasons up, and leave bare blackUnchanging Winter.
Weston-sub-Edge.
The moon gave no light.The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white,From the soft south west.The wind, that cannot rest,Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yewUntil the tree was restless too.Of all the winds I knewI thought, and how they muttered in the yew,Or raved under the eaves,Or nosed the fallen dry leaves,Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round,With snapped limbs littering the ground.And I thought how the yewBetween the window and the west his shadow threw,Grave and immense,Darkening the dark past thought and sense,And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright:But the moon gave no light.
The moon gave no light.The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white,From the soft south west.The wind, that cannot rest,Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yewUntil the tree was restless too.
Of all the winds I knewI thought, and how they muttered in the yew,Or raved under the eaves,Or nosed the fallen dry leaves,Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round,With snapped limbs littering the ground.
And I thought how the yewBetween the window and the west his shadow threw,Grave and immense,Darkening the dark past thought and sense,And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright:But the moon gave no light.
Than these November skiesIs no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;Into their gray the subtle spiesOf colour creep,Changing that high austerity to delight,Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peersEre a thin flushing cloud againShuts up that loveliness, or shares.The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, asReluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,Holding in bright caprice their rain.And when of colours none,Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,Is truly seen,—In all the myriad gray,In silver height and dusky deep, remainThe loveliest,Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
Than these November skiesIs no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;Into their gray the subtle spiesOf colour creep,Changing that high austerity to delight,Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peersEre a thin flushing cloud againShuts up that loveliness, or shares.The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, asReluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,Holding in bright caprice their rain.And when of colours none,Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,Is truly seen,—In all the myriad gray,In silver height and dusky deep, remainThe loveliest,Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
Winter is fallenOn the wretched grass,Dark winds have stolenAll the colour that was.No leaf shivers:The bare boughs bend and creak as the wind moans byFled is the fitful gleam of brightnessFrom the stooping sky.A robin scattersLike bright rain his song,Of merry mattersThe sparrows gossip long.Snow in the skyLingers, soon to cover the world with white,And hush the slender enchanting musicAnd chill the delight.But snow new fallenOn the stiffened grassGives back beauty stolenBy the winds as they pass:—Turns the climbing hedgeInto a gleaming ladder of frozen light:And hark, in the cold enchanted silenceA cry of delight!
Winter is fallenOn the wretched grass,Dark winds have stolenAll the colour that was.No leaf shivers:The bare boughs bend and creak as the wind moans byFled is the fitful gleam of brightnessFrom the stooping sky.
A robin scattersLike bright rain his song,Of merry mattersThe sparrows gossip long.Snow in the skyLingers, soon to cover the world with white,And hush the slender enchanting musicAnd chill the delight.
But snow new fallenOn the stiffened grassGives back beauty stolenBy the winds as they pass:—Turns the climbing hedgeInto a gleaming ladder of frozen light:And hark, in the cold enchanted silenceA cry of delight!
A late and lonely figure stains the snow,Into the thickening darkness dims and dies.Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies.A whimpering windSounds, then's still and whimpers again.Yet 'twas a morn of oh, such air and light!The early sun ran laughing over the snow,The laden trees held out their arms all whiteAnd whiteness shook on the white below.Lovely the shadows were,Deep purple niches, 'neath a dome of light.And now night's fall'n, the west wind begins to creepAmong the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;An hour—and the world stirs that was asleep,A trickle of water's heard, stealthy and slow,First faintly here and there,And then continual everywhere.And morn will look astonished for the snow,And the warm, wind will laugh, "It's gone, gone, gone!"—And will, when the immortal soft airs blow,This mortal face of things change and be goneSo—and with none to hearHow in the night the wind crept near?
A late and lonely figure stains the snow,Into the thickening darkness dims and dies.Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies.A whimpering windSounds, then's still and whimpers again.
Yet 'twas a morn of oh, such air and light!The early sun ran laughing over the snow,The laden trees held out their arms all whiteAnd whiteness shook on the white below.Lovely the shadows were,Deep purple niches, 'neath a dome of light.
And now night's fall'n, the west wind begins to creepAmong the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;An hour—and the world stirs that was asleep,A trickle of water's heard, stealthy and slow,First faintly here and there,And then continual everywhere.
And morn will look astonished for the snow,And the warm, wind will laugh, "It's gone, gone, gone!"—And will, when the immortal soft airs blow,This mortal face of things change and be goneSo—and with none to hearHow in the night the wind crept near?
The seaWas even as a little child that sleepsAnd keepsAll night its great unconsciousness of day.No sprayFlashed when the wave rose, drooped, and slowly drew away.No soundFrom all that slumbering, full-bosomed water came;The seaLay mute in childlike sleep, the moon was a gold candle-flame.No soundSave when a faint and mothlike air fluttered around.No sound:But as a child that dreams and in his full sleep cries,So turned the sleeping sea and heaved her bosom of slow sighs.
The seaWas even as a little child that sleepsAnd keepsAll night its great unconsciousness of day.No sprayFlashed when the wave rose, drooped, and slowly drew away.No soundFrom all that slumbering, full-bosomed water came;The seaLay mute in childlike sleep, the moon was a gold candle-flame.No soundSave when a faint and mothlike air fluttered around.No sound:But as a child that dreams and in his full sleep cries,So turned the sleeping sea and heaved her bosom of slow sighs.
Weave cunningly the webOf twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve!And at the slow day's ebbWith small blue stars the purple curtain weave.If any wind there be,Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o'er the sea;If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather.Call the last birds together.O Eve, and let no wispOf day's distraction thine enchantment mar;Thy soft spell lispAnd lure the sweetness down of each blue star.Then let that low moan beA while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea;So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh,Hearing the swallows cry!
Weave cunningly the webOf twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve!And at the slow day's ebbWith small blue stars the purple curtain weave.If any wind there be,Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o'er the sea;If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather.Call the last birds together.
O Eve, and let no wispOf day's distraction thine enchantment mar;Thy soft spell lispAnd lure the sweetness down of each blue star.Then let that low moan beA while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea;So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh,Hearing the swallows cry!
Why dost thou, darksome Nightingale,Sing so distractingly—and here?Dawn's preludings prick my ear,Faint light is creeping up the vale,While on these dead thy rarerSong falls, dark night-farer.Were it not better thou shouldst singWhere the drenched lilac droops her plume,Spreading frail banners of perfume?Or where the easeless pines enringThe river-lullèd villageWhose lads the lilac pillage?Oh, if aught songful these hid bonesMight reach, like the slow subtle rain,Surely the dead had risen againAnd listened, white by the white stones;Back to rich life song-charmed,By ghostly joys alarmed.This may not be. And yet, oh stillPour like night dew thy richer speechSome late-lost youth perchance to reach,Or unloved girl; and stir and fillTheir passionless cold bosomsUnder red wallflower blossoms!
Why dost thou, darksome Nightingale,Sing so distractingly—and here?Dawn's preludings prick my ear,Faint light is creeping up the vale,While on these dead thy rarerSong falls, dark night-farer.
Were it not better thou shouldst singWhere the drenched lilac droops her plume,Spreading frail banners of perfume?Or where the easeless pines enringThe river-lullèd villageWhose lads the lilac pillage?
Oh, if aught songful these hid bonesMight reach, like the slow subtle rain,Surely the dead had risen againAnd listened, white by the white stones;Back to rich life song-charmed,By ghostly joys alarmed.
This may not be. And yet, oh stillPour like night dew thy richer speechSome late-lost youth perchance to reach,Or unloved girl; and stir and fillTheir passionless cold bosomsUnder red wallflower blossoms!
Under the linden branchesThey sit and whisper;Hardly a quiverOf leaves, hardly a lisp orSigh in the air.Under the linden branchesThey sit, and shiverAt the slow air's fingersDrawn through the linden branchesWhere the year's sweet lingers;And sudden avalanchesOf memories, fears,Shake from the linden branchesUpon them sittingWith hardly a sigh or a whisperOr quiver of tears.
Under the linden branchesThey sit and whisper;Hardly a quiverOf leaves, hardly a lisp orSigh in the air.Under the linden branchesThey sit, and shiverAt the slow air's fingersDrawn through the linden branchesWhere the year's sweet lingers;And sudden avalanchesOf memories, fears,Shake from the linden branchesUpon them sittingWith hardly a sigh or a whisperOr quiver of tears.
The wind fought with the angry trees.All morning in immense uneaseThey wrestled, and ruin strawed the ground,And the north sky frowned.The oak and aspen arms were heldDefiant, but the death was knelledOf slender saplings, snappy boughs,Twigs brittle as men's vows.How moaned the trees the struggle through!Anger almost to madness grew.The aspen screamed, and came a roarOf the great wind locked in anguish sore,Desolate with defeat ... and thenQuiet fell again:The trees slept quiet as great cowsThat lie at noon under broad boughs.How pure, how strange the calm; but hist!...Was it the trees by the wind kissed?Or from afar, where the wind's hid,A throb, a sob?
The wind fought with the angry trees.All morning in immense uneaseThey wrestled, and ruin strawed the ground,And the north sky frowned.The oak and aspen arms were heldDefiant, but the death was knelledOf slender saplings, snappy boughs,Twigs brittle as men's vows.How moaned the trees the struggle through!Anger almost to madness grew.The aspen screamed, and came a roarOf the great wind locked in anguish sore,Desolate with defeat ... and thenQuiet fell again:The trees slept quiet as great cowsThat lie at noon under broad boughs.How pure, how strange the calm; but hist!...Was it the trees by the wind kissed?Or from afar, where the wind's hid,A throb, a sob?
O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves!As yet the evesAre golden and the simple moon looks throughThe clouds and you.O linger yet although the night be blind,And in the windYou wake and lisp and shiver at the stirAnd sigh of herWhose rimy fingers chill you each and all:And so you fallAs dead as hopes or dreams or whispered vows....Othenthe boughsThat bore your busy multitude shall feelThe cold light stealBetween them, and the timorous child shall start,Hearing his heartDrubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo,The ghostly glowOf the wild moon, caught in the barren armsOf leafless branches loud with night's alarms!
O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves!As yet the evesAre golden and the simple moon looks throughThe clouds and you.O linger yet although the night be blind,And in the windYou wake and lisp and shiver at the stirAnd sigh of herWhose rimy fingers chill you each and all:And so you fallAs dead as hopes or dreams or whispered vows....Othenthe boughsThat bore your busy multitude shall feelThe cold light stealBetween them, and the timorous child shall start,Hearing his heartDrubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo,The ghostly glowOf the wild moon, caught in the barren armsOf leafless branches loud with night's alarms!
Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright.She in the long fresh grass scattered her rainsSparkling and glittering like a host of stars,But not like stars cold, severe, terrible.Hers was the laughter of the wind that leapedArm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide.Hers the bright light within the quick greenOf every new leaf on the oldest tree.It was her swimming made the river runShining as the sun;Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark,Singing in the incessant lark....All this was hers—yet all this had not beenExcept 'twas seen.It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright;My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins,The vehemence of transfiguring thought—Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains—That made thy wonders wonderful.For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee,Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play,Empty of meaning and so of all delight.Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss,Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth,And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.
Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright.She in the long fresh grass scattered her rainsSparkling and glittering like a host of stars,But not like stars cold, severe, terrible.Hers was the laughter of the wind that leapedArm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide.Hers the bright light within the quick greenOf every new leaf on the oldest tree.It was her swimming made the river runShining as the sun;Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark,Singing in the incessant lark....All this was hers—yet all this had not beenExcept 'twas seen.It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright;My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins,The vehemence of transfiguring thought—Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains—That made thy wonders wonderful.For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee,Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play,Empty of meaning and so of all delight.Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss,Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth,And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.
The noisy fire,The drumming wind,The creaking trees,And all that humOf summer airAnd all the long inquietudeOf breaking seas——Sweet and delightful areIn loneliness.But more than theseThe quiet lightFrom the morn's sunAnd night's astonished moon,Falling gently upon breaking seas.Such quietnessAnother beauty is—Ah, and those starsSo gravely stillMore than light, than beauty pourUpon the strangenessOf the heart's breaking seas.
The noisy fire,The drumming wind,The creaking trees,And all that humOf summer airAnd all the long inquietudeOf breaking seas——
Sweet and delightful areIn loneliness.But more than theseThe quiet lightFrom the morn's sunAnd night's astonished moon,Falling gently upon breaking seas.
Such quietnessAnother beauty is—Ah, and those starsSo gravely stillMore than light, than beauty pourUpon the strangenessOf the heart's breaking seas.
Away, away—Through that strange void and vastBrimmed with dying day;Away,So that I feelOnly the windOf the world's swift-rolling wheel.See what a mazeOf whirling rays!The sharp windWeakens; the airIs but thin air,Not fume and flying fire....O, heart's desire,Now thou art stillAnd the air chill.And but a stemOf clear cold lightShines in this stony dark.Farewell, world of sense,Too fair, too fairTo be so false!Hence, henceRosy memories,Delight of ears, hands, eyes.RiseWhen I bid, O thouTide of the dark,Whelming the pale last,Reflection of that vastToo-fair deceit.Ah, sweetTo miss the vexing heatOf the heart's desire:Only to knowAll's lost, lost....SweetTo know the lack of sweet.—Thou fool!See how the steady darkIs filled with eyes—Eyes that smile,Hot, then how cool!Eyes that were stars till thouMad'st them eyes.O, the tormentingLook, the unrelentingPassionate kissOf their wild light on thine—Light of thine eyes!As if one couldLoathe the world for too much sweetness!All the air's a flame,Wonderful—yet the sameThou'st hated,Being briefly satedWith sweet of sweetness.Forgive a heart whose madnessWas not of madness born,But of mere wildWaste of desire....Who does not knowOne speaks so, or so,Out of mere passionThat sees not loveFrom hate, nor life from death,Nor hell from heaven?In the East—oh, that flashedBrightness, pastThe loveliness evenOf sunset's flush!
Away, away—Through that strange void and vastBrimmed with dying day;Away,So that I feelOnly the windOf the world's swift-rolling wheel.
See what a mazeOf whirling rays!The sharp windWeakens; the airIs but thin air,Not fume and flying fire....O, heart's desire,Now thou art stillAnd the air chill.
And but a stemOf clear cold lightShines in this stony dark.Farewell, world of sense,Too fair, too fairTo be so false!Hence, henceRosy memories,Delight of ears, hands, eyes.RiseWhen I bid, O thouTide of the dark,Whelming the pale last,Reflection of that vastToo-fair deceit.
Ah, sweetTo miss the vexing heatOf the heart's desire:Only to knowAll's lost, lost....SweetTo know the lack of sweet.
—Thou fool!See how the steady darkIs filled with eyes—Eyes that smile,Hot, then how cool!Eyes that were stars till thouMad'st them eyes.O, the tormentingLook, the unrelentingPassionate kissOf their wild light on thine—Light of thine eyes!
As if one couldLoathe the world for too much sweetness!All the air's a flame,Wonderful—yet the sameThou'st hated,Being briefly satedWith sweet of sweetness.
Forgive a heart whose madnessWas not of madness born,But of mere wildWaste of desire....Who does not knowOne speaks so, or so,Out of mere passionThat sees not loveFrom hate, nor life from death,Nor hell from heaven?
In the East—oh, that flashedBrightness, pastThe loveliness evenOf sunset's flush!
The holy mountains,The gay streams,Heavy shadows,And tall, trembling trees;The light that sleepsBetween the heavy shadows,Wind that creepsFaintly, from far-off seas——The mountains' light,Waters' noise,Trees' shadows,Clear, slow, calm air,Are dreams, dreams,And far, far-fallen echoesOf secret worldsAnd inconceivable dark seas.
The holy mountains,The gay streams,Heavy shadows,And tall, trembling trees;The light that sleepsBetween the heavy shadows,Wind that creepsFaintly, from far-off seas——
The mountains' light,Waters' noise,Trees' shadows,Clear, slow, calm air,Are dreams, dreams,And far, far-fallen echoesOf secret worldsAnd inconceivable dark seas.
If thou hast griefAnd passion vex the spirit that is in thee—There was a stony beachWhere the heat flickered and the little wavesWhispered each to each.Dove-coloured was that stony beach,And white birds hungering hovered overThe shining waves;And men had kindled thereA great fierce heap of golden flame—Spoiled grasses with dead buttercups and pale clover.The agonising flameYearned in its vitals towards the quiet airAnd died in a little smoke.And on the coloured beach the black warm ashRemained.Then on that warm ashAnother heap of grasses was outpoured,And instant cameAnother knot of struggling yellow smokeThat burst into new agonies of flame,Dying into a drift of smoke;And on the coloured beach the black cold ashRemained.Or is thy grief too deep,Passion too dear, the spirit in thee asleep?—Twelve deep and sombre, still,Expectant, hushed,The miles-long crowd stood—and then listening.The nervous drums,The unendurable, low reeds:Silence—and then the nearing drumsAgain, again the thrilling reeds,And then(The deep crowd hushed)Following an almightier KingThat rode unseen,Drew near the tributary magnificence....Hushed, hushed,The deep crowd stood, devouring, listening;But a child on his father's shoulder cried,"Hurrah, hurrah!"—Only have thou no fearPride, but no fear.
If thou hast griefAnd passion vex the spirit that is in thee—
There was a stony beachWhere the heat flickered and the little wavesWhispered each to each.Dove-coloured was that stony beach,And white birds hungering hovered overThe shining waves;And men had kindled thereA great fierce heap of golden flame—Spoiled grasses with dead buttercups and pale clover.The agonising flameYearned in its vitals towards the quiet airAnd died in a little smoke.And on the coloured beach the black warm ashRemained.
Then on that warm ashAnother heap of grasses was outpoured,And instant cameAnother knot of struggling yellow smokeThat burst into new agonies of flame,Dying into a drift of smoke;And on the coloured beach the black cold ashRemained.
Or is thy grief too deep,Passion too dear, the spirit in thee asleep?—
Twelve deep and sombre, still,Expectant, hushed,The miles-long crowd stood—and then listening.The nervous drums,The unendurable, low reeds:Silence—and then the nearing drumsAgain, again the thrilling reeds,And then(The deep crowd hushed)Following an almightier KingThat rode unseen,Drew near the tributary magnificence....Hushed, hushed,The deep crowd stood, devouring, listening;But a child on his father's shoulder cried,"Hurrah, hurrah!"—
Only have thou no fearPride, but no fear.
Music comesSweetly from the trembling stringWhen wizard fingers sweepDreamily, half asleep;When through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep,Oboe oboe following,Flute answering clear high flute,Voices, voices—falling mute,And the jarring drums.At night I heardFirst a waking birdOut of the quiet darkness sing....Music comesStrangely to the brain asleep!And I heardSoft, wizard fingers sweepMusic from the trembling string,And through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep;Oboe oboe following,Flute calling clear high flute,Voices faint, falling mute,And low jarring drums;Then all those airsSweetly jangled—newly strange,Rich with change....Was it the wind in the reeds?Did the wind rangeOver the trembling string;Into flute and oboe pouringSolemn music; sinking, soaringLow to high,Up and down the sky?Was it the wind jarringDrowsy far-off drums?Strangely to the brain asleepMusic comes.
Music comesSweetly from the trembling stringWhen wizard fingers sweepDreamily, half asleep;When through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep,Oboe oboe following,Flute answering clear high flute,Voices, voices—falling mute,And the jarring drums.
At night I heardFirst a waking birdOut of the quiet darkness sing....Music comesStrangely to the brain asleep!And I heardSoft, wizard fingers sweepMusic from the trembling string,And through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep;Oboe oboe following,Flute calling clear high flute,Voices faint, falling mute,And low jarring drums;Then all those airsSweetly jangled—newly strange,Rich with change....Was it the wind in the reeds?Did the wind rangeOver the trembling string;Into flute and oboe pouringSolemn music; sinking, soaringLow to high,Up and down the sky?Was it the wind jarringDrowsy far-off drums?
Strangely to the brain asleepMusic comes.
He stands on the kerbWatching the street.He's always watching there,Listening to the beatOf time in the street,Listening to the thronging feet,Laughing at the world that goesScowling or laughing by.He sees Time go by,An old lonely man,Crooked and furtive and slow.He laughs as he seesTime shambling byWhile he stands at his ease,Until Time smiles wanly backAt his laughing eye.Greed's great paunch,Lean Envy's ill looks,Fond forgetful Love,He reads them like books:Whatever their tongueHe reads them like children's books,Stands staring and laughing thereAs all they go by.O, he laughs as he seesThe fat and the thin,The simple, the solemn and wiseNod-nodding by.He stares in their eyes,Till they're angry and murmur,Poor fool!And he hears and he laughs againFrom the depth of his folly.Even when with heavyPlume and pallThe sleeky coaches roll by,Coffin, flowers and all,He laughs, for he seesCrouched on the coffin a smallYellowy shape go by—Death, uneasy and melancholy.
He stands on the kerbWatching the street.He's always watching there,Listening to the beatOf time in the street,Listening to the thronging feet,Laughing at the world that goesScowling or laughing by.
He sees Time go by,An old lonely man,Crooked and furtive and slow.He laughs as he seesTime shambling byWhile he stands at his ease,Until Time smiles wanly backAt his laughing eye.
Greed's great paunch,Lean Envy's ill looks,Fond forgetful Love,He reads them like books:Whatever their tongueHe reads them like children's books,Stands staring and laughing thereAs all they go by.
O, he laughs as he seesThe fat and the thin,The simple, the solemn and wiseNod-nodding by.He stares in their eyes,Till they're angry and murmur,Poor fool!And he hears and he laughs againFrom the depth of his folly.
Even when with heavyPlume and pallThe sleeky coaches roll by,Coffin, flowers and all,He laughs, for he seesCrouched on the coffin a smallYellowy shape go by—Death, uneasy and melancholy.
Standing close by youIn the cold lightOf two tall candlesThat measure the dark of night,I hear the mouse,The only thing that's movingIn the quiet house.Don't you hear it,That furious mouse?How can you sleep so deepAnd that noise in the house?Won't you stirAt the furious scratchingIn the cupboard there?No! a sharper soundWould wake you not;Not the sweetest flutingTease you back to thought.Yet the scratching mouseMakes all my flesh a nervousHaunted house.O, the dream, the dreamMust be sweet and deepIf life's scratching's heard notOn your cold sleep.Yet if you should hear it,So furious and fretful—How could you bear it?
Standing close by youIn the cold lightOf two tall candlesThat measure the dark of night,I hear the mouse,The only thing that's movingIn the quiet house.
Don't you hear it,That furious mouse?How can you sleep so deepAnd that noise in the house?Won't you stirAt the furious scratchingIn the cupboard there?
No! a sharper soundWould wake you not;Not the sweetest flutingTease you back to thought.Yet the scratching mouseMakes all my flesh a nervousHaunted house.
O, the dream, the dreamMust be sweet and deepIf life's scratching's heard notOn your cold sleep.Yet if you should hear it,So furious and fretful—How could you bear it?
I have found happiness who looked not for it.There was a green fresh hedge,And willows by the river side,And whistling sedge.The heaviness I felt was all around.No joy sang in the wind.Only dull slow life everywhere,And in my mind.Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed.Heaviness turned to mirth:The willows the stream's cheek caressed,The sun the earth.What was it in the bird's song worked such change?The grass was wonderful.I did not dream such beauty wasIn things so dull.What was it in the bird's song gave the waterThat living, sentient look?Lent the rare brightness to the hedge?That sweetness shookDown on the green path by the running water?Or the small daisies litWith light of the white northern starsIn dark skies set?What was it made the whole world marvellous?Mere common things were joys.The cloud running upon the grass,Children's faint noise,The trees that grow straight up and stretch wide arms,The snow heaped in the skies,The light falling so simply on all;My lifted eyesThat all this startling aching beauty saw?I felt the sharp excessOf joy like the strong sun at noon—Insupportable bliss!
I have found happiness who looked not for it.There was a green fresh hedge,And willows by the river side,And whistling sedge.
The heaviness I felt was all around.No joy sang in the wind.Only dull slow life everywhere,And in my mind.
Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed.Heaviness turned to mirth:The willows the stream's cheek caressed,The sun the earth.
What was it in the bird's song worked such change?The grass was wonderful.I did not dream such beauty wasIn things so dull.
What was it in the bird's song gave the waterThat living, sentient look?Lent the rare brightness to the hedge?That sweetness shook
Down on the green path by the running water?Or the small daisies litWith light of the white northern starsIn dark skies set?
What was it made the whole world marvellous?Mere common things were joys.The cloud running upon the grass,Children's faint noise,
The trees that grow straight up and stretch wide arms,The snow heaped in the skies,The light falling so simply on all;My lifted eyes
That all this startling aching beauty saw?I felt the sharp excessOf joy like the strong sun at noon—Insupportable bliss!
Most comfortable Light,Light of the small lamp burning up the night,With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark;Pure golden perfect spark;Or sudden wind-bright flame,That but the strong-handed wind can urge or tame;Chill loveliest light the kneeling clouds between,Silverly serene;Comfort of happy light,That mouse-like leaps amid brown leaves, cheating sight;Clear naked stars, burning with swift intenseEarthward intelligence;—Sensitive, singlePoints in the dark inane that purely tingleWith eager fire, pouring night's circles throughTheir living blue;Dark light still waters hold;Broad silver moonpath trodden into gold:Candle-flame glittering through the traveller's night—Most comfortable light....And lovelier, the eyeWhere light from darkness shines unfathomably,Light secret, clear, shallow, profound, known, strange,Constant alone in change:—Not that wild light that turnsHunted from dying eyes when the last fire burns;O, not that bitter light of wounded things,When bony anguish springsSudden, intolerable;Nor light of mad eyes gleaming up from hell....Come not again, wild light! Shine not again,Hill-flare of pain!But thou, most holy light....Not the noon blaze that stings, too fiercely bright,Not that unwinking stare of shameless day;But thou, the gray,Nun-like and silent, still,Fine-breathed on many an eastern bare green hill;Keen light of gray eyes, cool rain, and stern spears;Sad light, but not to tears:——O, comfort thou of eyesWatching expectant from chill northern skies,Excellent joy for lids heavy with night—Strange with delight!
Most comfortable Light,Light of the small lamp burning up the night,With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark;Pure golden perfect spark;
Or sudden wind-bright flame,That but the strong-handed wind can urge or tame;Chill loveliest light the kneeling clouds between,Silverly serene;
Comfort of happy light,That mouse-like leaps amid brown leaves, cheating sight;Clear naked stars, burning with swift intenseEarthward intelligence;—
Sensitive, singlePoints in the dark inane that purely tingleWith eager fire, pouring night's circles throughTheir living blue;
Dark light still waters hold;Broad silver moonpath trodden into gold:Candle-flame glittering through the traveller's night—Most comfortable light....
And lovelier, the eyeWhere light from darkness shines unfathomably,Light secret, clear, shallow, profound, known, strange,Constant alone in change:—
Not that wild light that turnsHunted from dying eyes when the last fire burns;O, not that bitter light of wounded things,When bony anguish springs
Sudden, intolerable;Nor light of mad eyes gleaming up from hell....Come not again, wild light! Shine not again,Hill-flare of pain!
But thou, most holy light....Not the noon blaze that stings, too fiercely bright,Not that unwinking stare of shameless day;But thou, the gray,
Nun-like and silent, still,Fine-breathed on many an eastern bare green hill;Keen light of gray eyes, cool rain, and stern spears;Sad light, but not to tears:—
—O, comfort thou of eyesWatching expectant from chill northern skies,Excellent joy for lids heavy with night—Strange with delight!