"We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet."You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread."
Long ago and long ago,And long ago still,There dwelt three merry maidensUpon a distant hill.One was tall Meggan,And one was dainty May,But one was fair Margaret,More fair than I can say,Long ago and long ago.When Meggan plucked the thorny rose,And when May pulled the brier,Half the birds would swoop to see,Half the beasts draw nigher;Half the fishes of the streamsWould dart up to admire:But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,Or poppy hot aflame,All the beasts and all the birdsAnd all the fishes cameTo her hand more soft than snow.Strawberry leaves and May-dewIn brisk morning air,Strawberry leaves and May-dewMake maidens fair."I go for strawberry-leaves,"Meggan said one day:"Fair Margaret can bide at home,But you come with me, May;Up the hill and down the hill,Along the winding way,You and I are used to go."So these two fair sistersWent with innocent willUp the hill and down again,And round the homestead hill:While the fairest sat at home,Margaret like a queen,Like a blush-rose, like the moonIn her heavenly sheen,Fragrant-breathed as milky cowOr field of blossoming bean,Graceful as an ivy boughBorn to cling and lean;Thus she sat to sing and sew.When she raised her lustrous eyesA beast peeped at the door;When she downward cast her eyesA fish gasped on the floor;When she turned away her eyesA bird perched on the sill,Warbling out its heart of love,Warbling, warbling still,With pathetic pleadings low.Light-foot May with MegganSought the choicest spot,Clothed with thyme-alternate grass:Then, while day waxed hot,Sat at ease to play and rest,A gracious rest and play;The loveliest maidens near or far,When Margaret was away,Who sat at home to sing and sew.Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks,Wind-play tossed their hair,Creeping things among the grassStroked them here and there;Meggan piped a merry note,A fitful, wayward lay,While shrill as bird on topmost twigPiped merry May;Honey-smooth the double flow.Sped a herdsman from the vale,Mounting like a flame,All on fire to hear and seeWith floating locks he came.Looked neither north nor south,Neither east nor west,But sat him down at Meggan's feetAs love-bird on his nest,And wooed her with a silent awe,With trouble not expressed;She sang the tears into his eyes,The heart out of his breast:So he loved her, listening so.She sang the heart out of his breast,The words out of his tongue;Hand and foot and pulse he pausedTill her song was sung.Then he spoke up from his placeSimple words and true:"Scanty goods have I to give,Scanty skill to woo;But I have a will to work,And a heart for you:Bid me stay or bid me go."Then Meggan mused within herself:"Better be first with him,Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits,Who shines my brightness dim,Forever second where she sits,However fair I be:I will be lady of his love,And he shall worship me;I will be lady of his herdsAnd stoop to his degree,At home where kids and fatlings grow."Sped a shepherd from the heightHeadlong down to look,(White lambs followed, lured by loveOf their shepherd's crook):He turned neither east nor west,Neither north nor south,But knelt right down to May, for loveOf her sweet-singing mouth;Forgot his flocks, his panting flocksIn parching hillside drouth;Forgot himself for weal or woe.Trilled her song and swelled her songWith maiden coy capriceIn a labyrinth of throbs,Pauses, cadences;Clear-noted as a dropping brook,Soft-noted like the bees,Wild-noted as the shivering windForlorn through forest trees:Love-noted like the wood-pigeonWho hides herself for love,Yet cannot keep her secret safe,But cooes and cooes thereof:Thus the notes rang loud or low.He hung breathless on her breath;Speechless, who listened well;Could not speak or think or wishTill silence broke the spell.Then he spoke, and spread his handsPointing here and there:"See my sheep and see the lambs,Twin lambs which they bare.All myself I offer you,All my flocks and care,Your sweet song hath moved me so."In her fluttered heart young MayMused a dubious while:"If he loves me as he says"--Her lips curved with a smile:"Where Margaret shines like the sun,I shine but like a moon;If sister Meggan makes her choiceI can make mine as soon;At cockcrow we were sister-maids,We may be brides at noon."Said Meggan, "Yes"; May said not "No."Fair Margaret stayed alone at home,Awhile she sang her song,Awhile sat silent, then she thought:"My sisters loiter long."That sultry noon had waned away,Shadows had waxen great:"Surely," she thought within herself,"My sisters loiter late."She rose, and peered out at the door,With patient heart to wait,And heard a distant nightingaleComplaining of its mate;Then down the garden slope she walked,Down to the garden gate,Leaned on the rail and waited so.The slope was lightened by her eyesLike summer lightning fair,Like rising of the haloed moonLightened her glimmering hair,While her face lightened like the sunWhose dawn is rosy white.Thus crowned with maiden majestyShe peered into the night,Looked up the hill and down the hill,To left hand and to right,Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.Waiting thus in wearinessShe marked the nightingaleTelling, if any one would heed,Its old complaining tale.Then lifted she her voice and sang,Answering the bird:Then lifted she her voice and sang,Such notes were never heardFrom any bird when Spring's in blow.The king of all that countryCoursing far, coursing near,Curbed his amber-bitted steed,Coursed amain to hear;All his princes in his train,Squire, and knight, and peer,With his crown upon his head,His sceptre in his hand,Down he fell at Margaret's kneesLord king of all that land,To her highness bending low.Every beast and bird and fishCame mustering to the sound,Every man and every maidFrom miles of country round:Meggan on her herdsman's arm,With her shepherd, May,Flocks and herds trooped at their heelsAlong the hillside way;No foot too feeble for the ascent,Not any head too gray;Some were swift and none were slow.So Margaret sang her sisters homeIn their marriage mirth;Sang free birds out of the sky,Beasts along the earth,Sang up fishes of the deep,--All breathing things that moveSang from far and sang from nearTo her lovely love;Sang together friend and foe;Sang a golden-bearded kingStraightway to her feet,Sang him silent where he kneltIn eager anguish sweet.But when the clear voice died away,When longest echoes died,He stood up like a royal manAnd claimed her for his bride.So three maids were wooed and wonIn a brief May-tide,Long ago and long ago.
"Jessie, Jessie Cameron,Hear me but this once," quoth he."Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,But I'm no mate for you," quoth she.Day was verging toward the nightThere beside the moaning sea,Dimness overtook the lightThere where the breakers be."O Jessie, Jessie Cameron,I have loved you long and true."--"Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,But I'm no mate for you."She was a careless, fearless girl,And made her answer plain;Outspoken she to earl or churl,Kind-hearted in the main,But somewhat heedless with her tongue,And apt at causing pain;A mirthful maiden she and young,Most fair for bliss or bane."O, long ago I told you so,I tell you so to-day:Go you your way, and let me goJust my own free way."The sea swept in with moan and foamQuickening the stretch of sand;They stood almost in sight of home;He strove to take her hand."O, can't you take your answer then,And won't you understand?For me you're not the man of men,I've other plans are planned.You're good for Madge, or good for Cis,Or good for Kate, may be:But what's to me the good of thisWhile you're not good for me?"They stood together on the beach,They two alone,And louder waxed his urgent speech,His patience almost gone:"O, say but one kind word to me,Jessie, Jessie Cameron."--"I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she,And pride was in her tone.And pride was in her lifted head,And in her angry eye,And in her foot, which might have fled,But would not fly.Some say that he had gypsy blood,That in his heart was guile:Yet he had gone through fire and floodOnly to win her smile.Some say his grandam was a witch,A black witch from beyond the Nile,Who kept an image in a nicheAnd talked with it the while.And by her hut far down the laneSome say they would not pass at night,Lest they should hear an unked strainOr see an unked sight.Alas, for Jessie Cameron!--The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher:She should have hastened to be gone,--The sea swept higher, breaking by her:She should have hastened to her homeWhile yet the west was flushed with fire,But now her feet are in the foam,The sea-foam, sweeping higher.O mother, linger at your door,And light your lamp to make it plain;But Jessie she comes home no more,No more again.They stood together on the strand,They only, each by each;Home, her home, was close at hand,Utterly out of reach.Her mother in the chimney nookHeard a startled sea-gull screech,But never turned her head to lookTowards the darkening beach:Neighbors here and neighbors thereHeard one scream, as if a birdShrilly screaming cleft the air:--That was all they heard.Jessie she comes home no more,Comes home never;Her lover's step sounds at his doorNo more forever.And boats may search upon the seaAnd search along the river,But none know where the bodies be:Sea-winds that shiver,Sea-birds that breast the blast,Sea-waves swelling,Keep the secret first and lastOf their dwelling.Whether the tide so hemmed them roundWith its pitiless flow,That when they would have gone they foundNo way to go;Whether she scorned him to the lastWith words flung to and fro,Or clung to him when hope was past,None will ever know:Whether he helped or hindered her,Threw up his life or lost it well,The troubled sea, for all its stir,Finds no voice to tell.Only watchers by the dyingHave thought they heard one pray,Wordless, urgent; and replying,One seem to say him nay:And watchers by the dead have heardA windy swell from miles away,With sobs and screams, but not a wordDistinct for them to say:And watchers out at sea have caughtGlimpse of a pale gleam here or there,Come and gone as quick as thought,Which might be hand or hair.
Gone were but the Winter,Come were but the Spring,I would go to a covertWhere the birds sing;Where in the white-thornSingeth a thrush,And a robin singsIn the holly-bush.Full of fresh scentsAre the budding boughs,Arching high overA cool green house:Full of sweet scents,And whispering airWhich sayeth softly:"We spread no snare;"Here dwell in safety,Here dwell alone,With a clear streamAnd a mossy stone."Here the sun shinethMost shadily;Here is heard an echoOf the far sea,Though far off it be."
"O whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?""From the other world I come back to you,My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew.You know the old, whilst I know the new:But to-morrow you shall know this too.""O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray;O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away:Here I feel warm and well-content and gay:Give me another year, another day.""Am I so changed in a day and a nightThat mine own only love shrinks from me with fright,Is fain to turn away to left or right,And cover up his eyes from the sight?""Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend,I loved you for life, but life has an end;Through sickness I was ready to tend;But death mars all, which we cannot mend."Indeed I loved you; I love you yetIf you will stay where your bed is set,Where I have planted a violetWhich the wind waves, which the dew makes wet.""Life is gone, then love too is gone,It was a reed that I leant upon:Never doubt I will leave you aloneAnd not wake you rattling bone with bone."I go home alone to my bed,Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head,Roofed in with a load of lead,Warm enough for the forgotten dead."But why did your tears soak through the clay,And why did your sobs wake me where I lay?I was away, far enough away:Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."
She gave up beauty in her tender youth,Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways;She covered up her eyes lest they should gazeOn vanity, and chose the bitter truth.Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth,Servant of servants, little known to praise,Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days:She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth,That with the poor and stricken she might makeA home, until the least of all sufficedHer wants; her own self learned she to forsake,Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss.So with calm will she chose and bore the cross,And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.
They knelt in silent anguish by her bed,And could not weep; but calmly there she lay.All pain had left her; and the sun's last rayShone through upon her, warming into redThe shady curtains. In her heart she said:"Heaven opens; I leave these and go away:The Bridegroom calls,--shall the Bride seek to stay?"Then low upon her breast she bowed her head.O lily-flower, O gem of priceless worth,O dove with patient voice and patient eyes,O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth,O maid replete with loving purities,Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earthTo raise it with the saints in Paradise.
Young Love lies sleepingIn May-time of the year,Among the lilies,Lapped in the tender light:White lambs come grazing,White doves come building there;And round about himThe May-bushes are white.Soft moss the pillowFor O, a softer cheek;Broad leaves cast shadowUpon the heavy eyes:There winds and watersGrow lulled and scarcely speak;There twilight lingersThe longest in the skies.Young Love lies dreaming;But who shall tell the dream?A perfect sunlightOn rustling forest tips;Or perfect moonlightUpon a rippling stream;Or perfect silence,Or song of cherished lips.Burn odors round himTo fill the drowsy air;Weave silent dancesAround him to and fro;For O, in waking,The sights are not so fair,And song and silenceAre not like these below.Young Love lies dreamingTill summer days are gone,Dreaming and drowsingAway to perfect sleep:He sees the beautySun hath not looked upon,And tastes the fountainUnutterably deep.Him perfect musicDoth hush unto his rest,And through the pausesThe perfect silence calms:O, poor the voicesOf earth from east to west,And poor earth's stillnessBetween her stately palms.Young Love lies drowsingAway to poppied death;Cool shadows deepenAcross the sleeping face:So fails the summerWith warm, delicious breath;And what hath autumnTo give us in its place?Draw close the curtainsOf branched evergreen;Change cannot touch themWith fading fingers sere:Here the first violetsPerhaps will bud unseen,And a dove, maybe,Return to nestle here.
I took my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak(O my love, O my love);Yet a woman's words are weak:You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it down,And said: It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.As you set it down it broke,--Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgment that I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor questioned since,Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God;Now let Thy judgment stand,--Yea, judge me now.This contemned of a man,This marred one heedless day,This heart take Thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away,--Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand,--I shall not die, but live,--Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
A song in a cornfieldWhere corn begins to fall,Where reapers are reaping,Reaping one, reaping all.Sing pretty Lettice,Sing Rachel, sing May;Only Marian cannot singWhile her sweetheart's away.Where is he gone toAnd why does he stay?He came across the green seaBut for a day,Across the deep green seaTo help with the hay.His hair was curly yellowAnd his eyes were gray,He laughed a merry laughAnd said a sweet say.Where is he gone toThat he comes not home?To-day or to-morrowHe surely will come.Let him haste to joyLest he lag for sorrow,For one weeps to-dayWho'll not weep to-morrow:To-day she must weepFor gnawing sorrow,To-night she may sleepAnd not wake to-morrow.May sang with RachelIn the waxing warm weather,Lettice sang with them,They sang all together:--"Take the wheat in your armWhilst day is broad above,Take the wheat to your bosom,But not a false false love.Out in the fieldsSummer heat gloweth,Out in the fieldsSummer wind bloweth,Out in the fieldsSummer friend showeth,Out in the fieldsSummer wheat groweth:But in the winterWhen summer heat is deadAnd summer wind has veeredAnd summer friend has fled,Only summer wheat remaineth,White cakes and bread.Take the wheat, clasp the wheatThat's food for maid and dove;Take the wheat to your bosom,But not a false false love."A silence of full noontide heatGrew on them at their toil:The farmer's dog woke up from sleep,The green snake hid her coilWhere grass stood thickest; bird and beastSought shadows as they could,The reaping men and women pausedAnd sat down where they stood;They ate and drank and were refreshed,For rest from toil is good.While the reapers took their ease,Their sickles lying by,Rachel sang a second strain,And singing seemed to sigh:--"There goes the swallow,--Could we but follow!Hasty swallow stay,Point us out the way;Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow."There went the swallow,--Too late to follow:Lost our note of way,Lost our chance to-day;Good by swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow."After the swallowAll sweet things follow:All things go their way,Only we must stay,Must not follow: good by swallow, good swallow."Then listless Marian raised her headAmong the nodding sheaves;Her voice was sweeter than that voice;She sang like one who grieves:Her voice was sweeter than its wontAmong the nodding sheaves;All wondered while they heard her singLike one who hopes and grieves:--"Deeper than the hail can smite,Deeper than the frost can bite,Deep asleep through day and night,Our delight."Now thy sleep no pang can break,No to-morrow bid thee wake,Not our sobs who sit and acheFor thy sake."Is it dark or light below?O, but is it cold like snow?Dost thou feel the green things growFast or slow?"Is it warm or cold beneath,O, but is it cold like death?Cold like death, without a breath,Cold like death?"If he comes to-dayHe will find her weeping;If he comes to-morrowHe will find her sleeping;If he comes the next dayHe'll not find her at all,He may tear his curling hair,Beat his breast and call.
On the wind of JanuaryDown flits the snow,Travelling from the frozen NorthAs cold as it can blow.Poor robin redbreast,Look where he comes;Let him in to feel your fire,And toss him of your crumbs.On the wind in FebruarySnow-flakes float still,Half inclined to turn to rain,Nipping, dripping, chill.Then the thaws swell the streams,And swollen rivers swell the sea:--If the winter ever endsHow pleasant it will be.In the wind of windy MarchThe catkins drop down,Curly, caterpillar-like,Curious green and brown.With concourse of nest-building birdsAnd leaf-buds by the way,We begin to think of flowersAnd life and nuts some day.With the gusts of AprilRich fruit-tree blossoms fall,On the hedged-in orchard-green,From the southern wall.Apple-trees and pear-treesShed petals white or pink,Plum-trees and peach-trees;While sharp showers sink and sink.Little brings the May breezeBeside pure scent of flowers,While all things wax and nothing wanesIn lengthening daylight hours.Across the hyacinth bedsThe wind lags warm and sweet,Across the hawthorn tops,Across the blades of wheat.In the wind of sunny JuneThrives the red rose crop,Every day fresh blossoms blowWhile the first leaves drop;White rose and yellow roseAnd moss-rose choice to find,And the cottage cabbage-roseNot one whit behind.On the blast of scorched JulyDrives the pelting hail,From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blotBlue heaven grown lurid-pale.Weedy waves are tossed ashore,Sea-things strange to sightGasp upon the barren shoreAnd fade away in light.In the parching August wind,Cornfields bow the head,Sheltered in round valley depths,On low hills outspread.Early leaves drop loitering downWeightless on the breeze,First-fruits of the year's decayFrom the withering trees.In brisk wind of SeptemberThe heavy-headed fruitsShake upon their bending boughsAnd drop from the shoots;Some glow golden in the sun,Some show green and streakedSome set forth a purple bloom,Some blush rosy-cheeked.In strong blast of OctoberAt the equinox,Stirred up in his hollow bedBroad ocean rocks;Plunge the ships on his bosom,Leaps and plunges the foam,--It's O for mothers' sons at sea,That they were safe at home!In slack wind of NovemberThe fog forms and shifts;All the world comes out againWhen the fog lifts.Loosened from their sapless twigsLeaves drop with every gust;Drifting, rustling, out of sightIn the damp or dust.Last of all, December,The year's sands nearly run,Speeds on the shortest day,Curtails the sun;With its bleak raw windLays the last leaves low,Brings back the nightly frosts,Brings back the snow.
How comes it, Flora, that, whenever wePlay cards together, you invariably,However the pack parts,Still hold the Queen of Hearts?I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze,Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:But, sift them as I will,Your ways are secret still.I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again;But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain:Vain hope, vain forethought, too;That Queen still falls to you.I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the dealWas dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel:"There should be one card more,"You said, and searched the floor.I cheated once: I made a private notchIn Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch;Yet such another backDeceived me in the pack:The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknownAn imitative dint that seemed my own;This notch, not of my doing,Misled me to my ruin.It baffles me to puzzle out the clew,Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you:Unless, indeed, it beNatural affinity.
I will tell you when they met:In the limpid days of Spring;Elder boughs were budding yet,Oaken boughs looked wintry still,But primrose and veined violetIn the mossful turf were set,While meeting birds made haste to singAnd build with right good will.I will tell you when they parted:When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown,Then they parted heavy-hearted;The full rejoicing sun looked downAs grand as in the days before;Only they had lost a crown;Only to them those days of yoreCould come back nevermore.When shall they meet? I cannot tell,Indeed, when they shall meet again,Except some day in Paradise:For this they wait, one waits in pain.Beyond the sea of death love liesForever, yesterday, to-day;Angels shall ask them, "Is it well?"And they shall answer, "Yea."
"Croak, croak, croak,"Thus the Raven spoke,Perched on his crooked treeAs hoarse as hoarse could be.Shun him and fear him,Lest the Bridegroom hear him;Scout him and rout himWith his ominous eye about him.Yet, "Croak, croak, croak,"Still tolled from the oak;From that fatal black bird,Whether heard or unheard:"O ship upon the high seas,Freighted with lives and spices,Sink, O ship," croaked the Raven:"Let the Bride mount to heaven."In a far foreign landUpon the wave-edged sand,Some friends gaze wistfullyAcross the glittering sea."If we could clasp our sister,"Three say, "now we have missed her!""If we could kiss our daughter!"Two sigh across the water.O, the ship sails fast,With silken flags at the mast,And the home-wind blows soft;But a Raven sits aloft,Chuckling and choking,Croaking, croaking, croaking:--Let the beacon-fire blaze higher;Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.On a sloped sandy beach,Which the spring-tide billows reach,Stand a watchful throngWho have hoped and waited long:"Fie on this ship, that tarriesWith the priceless freight it carries.The time seems long and longer:O languid wind, wax stronger";--Whilst the Raven perched at easeStill croaks and does not cease,One monotonous noteTolled from his iron throat:"No father, no mother,But I have a sable brother:He sees where ocean flows to,And he knows what he knows, too."A day and a nightThey kept watch worn and white;A night and a dayFor the swift ship on its way:For the Bride and her maidens,--Clear chimes the bridal cadence,--For the tall ship that neverHove in sight forever.On either shore, someStand in grief loud or dumbAs the dreadful dreadGrows certain though unsaid.For laughter there is weeping,And waking instead of sleeping,And a desperate sorrowMorrow after morrow.O, who knows the truth,How she perished in her youth,And like a queen went downPale in her royal crown?How she went up to gloryFrom the sea-foam chill and hoary,From the sea-depth black and rivenTo the calm that is in Heaven?They went down, all the crew,The silks and spices too,The great ones and the small,One and all, one and all.Was it through stress of weather,Quicksands, rocks, or all together?Only the Raven knows this,And he will not disclose this.--After a day and a yearThe bridal bells chime clear;After a year and a dayThe Bridegroom is brave and gay:Love is sound, faith is rotten;The old Bride is forgotten:--Two ominous Ravens onlyRemember, black and lonely.
These two pieces, written during the suspense of a greatnation's agony, aim at expressing human sympathy, not politicalbias.
All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine,All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed;Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:When, as one man's hand, a cloudRose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunderIn rain and fire and thunder.Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest?Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield?Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness,And they reap a red crop from the field.Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright,Though your souls be called to-night.A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads,A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth:Tears and blood have a cry that pierces HeavenThrough all its Hallelujah swells of mirth;God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yetHe doth not forget.Mournful Mother, prone in dust weeping,Who shall comfort thee for those who are not?As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure,And heat the furnace sevenfold hot:As thou once, now these to thee--who pitieth theeFrom sea to sea?O thou King, terrible in strength, and buildingThy strong future on thy past!Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach,Yet he shall drink at the last.Art thou greater than great Babylon,Which lies overthrown?Take heed, ye unwise among the people;O ye fools, when will ye understand?--He that planted the ear shall He not hear,Nor He smite who formed the hand?"Vengeance is Mine, is Mine," thus saith the Lord:--O Man, put up thy sword.
She sitteth still who used to dance,She weepeth sore and more and more--Let us sit with thee weeping sore,O fair France!She trembleth as the days advanceWho used to be so light of heart:--We in thy trembling bear a part,Sister France!Her eyes shine tearful as they glance:"Who shall give back my slaughtered sons?"Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."--Alas, France!She struggles in a deathly trance,As in a dream her pulses stir,She hears the nations calling her,"France, France, France!"Thou people of the lifted lance,Forbear her tears, forbear her blood:Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood,Back from France.Eye not her loveliness askance,Forge not for her a galling chain;Leave her at peace to bloom again,Vine-clad France.A time there is for change and chance,A time for passing of the cup:And One abides can yet bind upBroken France.A time there is for change and chance:Who next shall drink the trembling cup,Wring out its dregs and suck them upAfter France?
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)We stood together in an open field;Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,Sporting at ease and courting full in view.When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;So farewell life and love and pleasures new.Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow topsBent in a wind which bore to me a soundOf far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
ConsiderThe lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--We are as they;Like them we fade away,As doth a leaf.ConsiderThe sparrows of the air of small account:Our God doth viewWhether they fall or mount,--He guards us too.ConsiderThe lilies that do neither spin nor toil,Yet are most fair:--What profits all this careAnd all this coil?ConsiderThe birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;God gives them food:--Much more our Father seeksTo do us good.
While roses are so red,While lilies are so white,Shall a woman exalt her faceBecause it gives delight?She's not so sweet as a rose,A lily's straighter than she,And if she were as red or whiteShe'd be but one of three.Whether she flush in love's summerOr in its winter grow pale,Whether she flaunt her beautyOr hide it away in a veil,Be she red or white,And stand she erect or bowed,Time will win the race he runs with herAnd hide her away in a shroud.
You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear,For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see;And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,'T will be little lord or lady at my knee.O, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil,That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost?You're as white as I turned once down by the mill,When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl(It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me),Philip with the merry life in lip and curl,Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint;I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad,Till I raised my wail of desolate complaintFor you, my cousin, brother, all I had.They said I looked so pale,--some say so fair,--My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life:I know I missed a ringlet from my hairNext morning; and now I am his wife.Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring,I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe:All day long I sit in the sun and sing,Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.And I'm the rose of roses says my lord;And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky,While I hold him fast with the golden cordOf a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.His mother said "fie," and his sisters cried "shame,"His high-born ladies cried "shame" from their place:They said "fie" when they only heard my name,But fell silent when they saw my face.Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you thinkI was so fair when we played boy and girl,Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brinkOf our stream which the mill-wheel sent awhirl?If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now,Sitting where a score of servants stand,With a coronet on high days for my browAnd almost a sceptre for my hand.You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown,A stranger on land and at home on the sea,Coasting as best you may from town to town:Coasting along do you often think of me?I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower,With hands grown white through having naught to do:Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hourTill I nigh wish myself a child with you.