Crack your first nut and light your first fire,Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar;Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher;Logs are cheery as sun or as star,Logs we can find wherever we are.Spring one soft day will open the leaves,Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers;Never fancy my whistling wind grieves,Never fancy I've tears in my showers;Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours![Sees November approaching.
October.
Here comes my youngest sister, looking dimAnd grim,With dismal ways.What cheer, November?
November.
[Entering and shutting the door.]Nought have I to bring,Tramping a-chill and shivering,Except these pine-cones for a blaze,--Except a fog which follows,And stuffs up all the hollows,--Except a hoar frost here and there,--Except some shooting starsWhich dart their luminous carsTrackless and noiseless through the keen night air.[October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background,while November throws her pine cones on thefire, and sits down listlessly.]
November.
The earth lies fast asleep, grown tiredOf all that's high or deep;There's nought desired and nought requiredSave a sleep.I rock the cradle of the earth,I lull her with a sigh;And know that she will wake to mirthBy and by.[Through the window December is seen running and leapingin the direction of the door. He knocks.]
November.
[Calls out without rising.]Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last:Come in, December.[He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens inberry, etc.]
November.
Come, and shut the door,For now it's snowing fast;It snows, and will snow more and more;Don't let it drift in on the floor.But you, you're all aglow; how can you beRosy and warm and smiling in the cold?
December.
Nay, no closed doors for me,But open doors and open hearts and gleeTo welcome young and old.Dimmest and brightest month am I;My short days end, my lengthening days begin;What matters more or less sun in the sky,When all is sun within?[He begins making a wreath as he sings.Ivy and privet dark as night,I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show,And holly for a beauty and delight,And milky mistletoe.While high above them all I setYew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale;Then Spring her snowdrop and her violetMay keep, so sweet and frail;May keep each merry singing bird,Of all her happy birds that singing build:For I've a carol which some shepherds heardOnce in a wintry field.[While December concludes his song all the other Monthstroop in from the garden, or advance out of the background.The Twelve join hands in a circle, and begindancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls.]
A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking,Two idle people, without pause or aim;While in the ominous west there gathers darknessFlushed with flame.A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping,Two drowsy people pillowed round about;While in the ominous west across the darknessFlame leaps out.Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless,Better a wrecked life than a life so soft;The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fireLit aloft.
To come back from the sweet South, to the NorthWhere I was born, bred, look to die;Come back to do my day's work in its day,Play out my play--Amen, amen, say I.To see no more the country half my own,Nor hear the half familiar speech,Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak NorthWhence I came forth--The South lies out of reach.But when our swallows fly back to the South,To the sweet South, to the sweet South,The tears may come again into my eyesOn the old wise,And the sweet name to my mouth.
The mystery of Life, the mysteryOf Death, I seeDarkly as in a glass;Their shadows pass,And talk with me.As the flush of a Morning Sky,As a Morning Sky colorless--Each yields its measure of lightTo a wet world or a dry;Each fares through day to nightWith equal pace,And then each oneIs done.As the Sun with glory and graceIn his face,Benignantly hot,Graciously radiant and keen,Ready to rise and to run,--Not without spot,Not even the Sun.As the MoonOn the wax, on the wane,With night for her noon;Vanishing soon,To appear again.As Roses that droopHalf warm, half chill, in the languid May,And breathe out a scentSweet and faint;Till the wind gives one swoopTo scatter their beauty away.As Lilies a multitude,One dipping, one rising, one sinking,On rippling waters, clear blueAnd pure for their drinking;One new dead, and one opened anew,And all good.As a cankered pale Flower,With death for a dower,Each hour of its life half dead;With death for a crownWeighing downIts head.As an Eagle, half strength and half grace,Most potent to faceUnwinking the splendor of light;Harrying the East and the West,Soaring aloft from our sight;Yet one day or one night dropped to rest,On the low common earthOf his birth.As a Dove,Not alone,In a world of her ownFull of fluttering soft noisesAnd tender sweet voicesOf love.As a MouseKeeping houseIn the fork of a tree,With nuts in a crevice,And an acorn or two;What cares heFor blossoming boughs,Or the song-singing beviesOf birds in their glee,Scarlet, or golden, or blue?As a Mole grubbing underground;When it comes to the lightIt grubs its way back again,Feeling no bias of furTo hamper it in its stir,Scant of pleasure and pain,Sinking itself out of sightWithout sound.As Waters that drop and drop,Weariness without end,That drop and never stop,Wear that nothing can mend,Till one day they drop--Stop--And there's an end,And matters mend.As Trees, beneath whose skinWe mark not the sap beginTo swell and rise,Till the whole bursts out in green:We mark the falling leavesWhen the wide world grievesAnd sighs.As a Forest on fire,Where maddened creatures desireWet mud or wingsBeyond all those thingsWhich could assuage desireOn this side the flaming fire.As Wind with a sob and sighTo which there comes no replyBut a rustle and shiverFrom rushes of the river;As Wind with a desolate moan,Moaning on alone.As a Desert all sand,Blank, neither water nor landFor solace, or dwelling, or culture,Where the storms and the wild creatures howl;Given over to lion and vulture,To ostrich, and jackal, and owl:Yet somewhere an oasis lies;There waters ariseTo nourish one seedling of balm,Perhaps, or one palm.As the Sea,Murmuring, shifting, swaying;One time sunnily playing,One time wrecking and slaying;In whichever mood it be,Worst or best,Never at rest.As still Waters and deep,As shallow Waters that brawl,As rapid Waters that leapTo their fall.As Music, as Color, as Shape,Keys of rapture and painTurning in vainIn a lock which turns not again,While breaths and moments escape.As Spring, all bloom and desire;As Summer, all gift and fire;As Autumn, a dying glow;As Winter, with nought to show:Winter which lays its dead all out of sight,All clothed in white,All waiting for the long-awaited light.
There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;What seems is not always as it seems.I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,And there I saw three barges of manifold adorningWent sailing toward the East:The first had sails like fire,The next like glittering wire,But sackcloth were the sails of the least;And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.The first choir breathed in flutes,And fingered soft guitars;The second won from lutesHarmonious chords and jars,With drums for stormy bars:But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;Notes of triumph, thenAn alarm again,As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;Sighs, but scarce of woe;All the sighingWooed such sweet replying;All the sighing, sweet and low,Used to come and goFor more pleasure, merely so.Yet at intervals some one grew tiredOf everything desired,And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,Out of sight.The second crew seemed everWider-visioned, graver,More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;With heads erect and proud,And voices sometimes loud;With endless tacking, counter-tacking,All things grasping, all things lacking,It would seem;Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,Drifting on as in a dream.Hoarding to their utmost bent,Feasting to their fill,Yet gnawed by discontent,Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.Their freight was not a treasure,Their music not a pleasure;The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,Sceptre and crown changed hands.The third crew as they wentSeemed mostly different;They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,As all the world might see.They labored at the oar,While on their heads they boreThe fiery stress of sunshine more and more.They labored at the oar hand-sore,Till rain went splashing,And spray went dashing,Down on them, and up on them, more and more.Their sails were patched and rent,Their masts were bent,In peril of their lives they worked and went.For them no feast was spread,No soft luxurious bedScented and white,No crown or sceptre hung in sight;In weariness and painfulness,In thirst and sore distress,They rowed and steered from left to rightWith all their might.Their trumpeters and harpers round aboutIncessantly played out,And sometimes they made answer with a shout;But oftener they groaned or wept,And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.I wept for pity watching them, but moreI wept heart-soreOnce and again to seeSome weary man plunge overboard, and swimTo Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:And there all welcomed him.The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,Yet all the crews were interchangeable;Now one man, now another,--Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,--Changed openly, or changed by stealth,Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.The most left Love ship, hauling wealthUp Worm ship's side;While some few hollow-eyedLeft either for the sack-sailed boat;But this, though not remote,Was worst to mount, and whoso left it onceScarce ever came again,But seemed to loathe his erst companions,And wish and work them bane.Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,Whence a waterspoutInstantaneously leaped out,Roaring as it reared its head.Soon I spied a something dim,Many-handed, grim,That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;It puffed their sails full outWith puffs of smoky breathFrom a smouldering lip,And cleared the waterspoutWhich reeled roaring round aboutThreatening death.With a horny hand it steered,And a horn appearedOn its sneering head uprearedHaughty and highAgainst the blackening lowering sky.With a hoof it swayed the waves;They opened here and there,Till I spied deep ocean gravesFull of skeletonsThat were men and women onceFoul or fair;Full of things that creepAnd fester in the deepAnd never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.The third bark held aloofFrom the Monster with the hoof,Despite his urgent beck,And fraught with guileAbominable his smile;Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.Then full of awe,With these same eyes I sawHis head incredible retract its hornRounding like babe's new born,While silvery phosphorescence playedAbout his dis-horned head.The sneer smoothed from his lip,He beamed blandly on the ship;All winds sank to a moan,All waves to a monotone(For all these seemed his realm),While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.Then a cry well nigh of despairShrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.The harpers harped no more,While the trumpeters sounded soreAn alarm to wake the dead from their bed:To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,Or no more help or hope for ever!--The planks strained as though they must part asunder,The masts bent as though they must dip under,And the winds and the waves at lengthGirt up their strength,And the depths were laid bare,And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunderThrough the rain-choked air,And sea and sky seemed to kissIn the horror and the hissOf the whole world shuddering everywhere.Lo! a Flyer swooping downWith wings to span the globe,And splendor for his robeAnd splendor for his crown.He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,And spun the Monster overboard:And that monstrous thing abhorred,Gnashing with balked desire,Wriggled like a worm infirmUp the WormOf the loathly figurehead.There he crouched and gnashed;And his head re-horned, and gashedFrom the other's grapple, dripped bloody red.I saw that thing accurstWreak his worstOn the first and second crew:Some with baited hookHe angled for and took,Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,Some he did to deathWith hoof or horn or blasting breath.I heard a voice of wailingWhere the ships went sailing,A sorrowful voice prevailingAbove the sound of the sea,Above the singers' voices,And musical merry noises;All songs had turned to sighing,The light was failing,The day was dying--Ah me,That such a sorrow should be!There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the landWhen Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksandTo its grave in the bitter wave.There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the landWhen Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,And the bitter wave was its grave.But land and sea waxed hoaryIn whiteness of a gloryNever told in storyNor seen by mortal eye,When the third ship crossed the barWhere whirls and breakers are,And steered into the splendors of the sky;That third bark and that leastWhich had never seemed to feast,Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.
I dreamed and did not seek: to-day I seekWho can no longer dream;But now am all behindhand, waxen weak,And dazed amid so many things that gleamYet are not what they seem.I dreamed and did not work: to-day I workKept wide awake by careAnd loss, and perils dimly guessed to lurk;I work and reap not, while my life goes bareAnd void in wintry air.I hope indeed; but hope itself is fearViewed on the sunny side;I hope, and disregard the world that's here,The prizes drawn, the sweet things that betide;I hope, and I abide.
"Should one of us remember,And one of us forget,I wish I knew what each will do--But who can tell as yet?""Should one of us remember,And one of us forget,I promise you what I will do--And I'm content to wait for you,And not be sure as yet."
Beatrice, immortalized by "altissimo poeta ... cotantoamante;" Laura, celebrated by a great though an inferior bard,--havealike paid the exceptional penalty of exceptional honor,and have come down to us resplendent with charms, but (atleast, to my apprehension) scant of attractiveness.These heroines of world-wide fame were preceded by a bevyof unnamed ladies "donne innominate" sung by a school ofless conspicuous poets; and in that land and that period whichgave simultaneous birth to Catholics, to Albigenses, and toTroubadours, one can imagine many a lady as sharing herlover's poetic aptitude, while the barrier between them mightbe one held sacred by both, yet not such as to render mutuallove incompatible with mutual honor.Had such a lady spoken for herself, the portrait left us mighthave appeared more tender, if less dignified, than any drawneven by a devoted friend. Or had the Great Poetess of ourown day and nation only been unhappy instead of happy, hercircumstances would have invited her to bequeath to us, inlieu of the "Portuguese Sonnets," an inimitable "donna innominata"drawn not from fancy but from feeling, and worthyto occupy a niche beside Beatrice and Laura.
"Lo di che han detto a' dolci amici addio."--Dante."Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!"--Petrarca.Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:--Or come not yet, for it is over then,And long it is before you come again,So far between my pleasures are and few.While, when you come not, what I do I doThinking "Now when he comes," my sweetest "when:"For one man is my world of all the menThis wide world holds; O love, my world is you.Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pangBecause the pang of parting comes so soon;My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moonBetween the heavenly days on which we meet:Ah me, but where are now the songs I sangWhen life was sweet because you called them sweet?
"Era già l'ora che volge il desio."--Dante."Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima."--Petrarca.I wish I could remember that first day,First hour, first moment of your meeting me,If bright or dim the season, it might beSummer or Winter for aught I can say;So unrecorded did it slip away,So blind was I to see and to foresee,So dull to mark the budding of my treeThat would not blossom yet for many a May.If only I could recollect it, suchA day of days! I let it come and goAs traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;If only now I could recall that touch,First touch of hand in hand--Did one but know!
"O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto!"--Dante."Immaginata guida la conduce."--Petrarca.
I dream of you to wake: would that I mightDream of you and not wake but slumber on;Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,As Summer ended Summer birds take flight.In happy dreams I hold you full in sight,I blush again who waking look so wan;Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.Thus only in a dream we are at one,Thus only in a dream we give and takeThe faith that maketh rich who take or give;If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake,To die were surely sweeter than to live,Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.
"Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda."--Dante."Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore."--Petrarca.I loved you first: but afterwards your loveOutsoaring mine, sang such a loftier songAs drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.Which owes the other most? my love was long,And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;I loved and guessed at you, you construed meAnd loved me for what might or might not be--Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.For verily love knows not "mine" or "thine;"With separate "I" and "thou" free love has done,For one is both and both are one in love:Rich love knows nought of "thine that is not mine;"Both have the strength and both the length thereof,Both of us of the love which makes us one.
"Amor che a nulla amato amar perdona."--Dante."Amor m'addusse in si gioiosa spene."--Petrarca.O my heart's heart, and you who are to meMore than myself myself, God be with you,Keep you in strong obedience leal and trueTo Him whose noble service setteth free,Give you all good we see or can foresee,Make your joys many and your sorrows few,Bless you in what you bear and what you do,Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?To love you without stint and all I canTo-day, to-morrow, world without an end;To love you much and yet to love you more,As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.
"Or puoi la quantitateComprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda."--Dante."Non vo' che da tal nodo amor mi scioglia."--Petrarca.Trust me, I have not earned your dear rebuke,I love, as you would have me, God the most;Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless lookUnready to forego what I forsook;This say I, having counted up the cost,This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook,Yet while I love my God the most, I deemThat I can never love you overmuch;I love Him more, so let me love you too;Yea, as I apprehend it, love is suchI cannot love you if I love not Him,I cannot love Him if I love not you.
"Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto."--Dante."Ragionando con meco ed io con lui."--Petrarca."Love me, for I love you"--and answer me,"Love me, for I love you"--so shall we standAs happy equals in the flowering landOf love, that knows not a dividing sea.Love builds the house on rock and not on sand,Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately;And who hath found love's citadel unmanned?And who hath held in bonds love's liberty?My heart's a coward though my words are brave--We meet so seldom, yet we surely partSo often; there's a problem for your art!Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,Though jealousy be cruel as the grave,And death be strong, yet love is strong as death.
"Come dicesse a Dio: D'altro non calme."--Dante."Spero trovar pietà non che perdono."--Petrarca."I, if I perish, perish"--Esther spake:And bride of life or death she made her fairIn all the lustre of her perfumed hairAnd smiles that kindle longing but to slake.She put on pomp of loveliness, to takeHer husband through his eyes at unaware;She spread abroad her beauty for a snare,Harmless as doves and subtle as a snake.She trapped him with one mesh of silken hair,She vanquished him by wisdom of her wit,And built her people's house that it should stand:--If I might take my life so in my hand,And for my love to Love put up my prayer,And for love's sake by Love be granted it!
"O dignitosa coscienza e netta!"--Dante."Spirto più acceso di virtuti ardenti."--Petrarca.Thinking of you, and all that was, and allThat might have been and now can never be,I feel your honored excellence, and seeMyself unworthy of the happier call:For woe is me who walk so apt to fall,So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee,Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!)Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite,Because not loveless; love may toil all night,But take at morning; wrestle till the breakOf day, but then wield power with God and man:--So take I heart of grace as best I can,Ready to spend and be spent for your sake.
"Con miglior corso e con migliore stella."--Dante."La vita fugge e non s'arresta un' ora."--Petrarca.Time flies, hope flags, life plies a wearied wing;Death following hard on life gains ground apace;Faith runs with each and rears an eager face,Outruns the rest, makes light of everything,Spurns earth, and still finds breath to pray and sing;While love ahead of all uplifts his praise,Still asks for grace and still gives thanks for grace,Content with all day brings and night will bring.Life wanes; and when love folds his wings aboveTired hope, and less we feel his conscious pulse,Let us go fall asleep, dear friend, in peace:A little while, and age and sorrow cease;A little while, and life reborn annulsLoss and decay and death, and all is love.
"Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti."--Dante."Contando i casi della vita nostra."--Petrarca.Many in aftertimes will say of you"He loved her"--while of me what will they say?Not that I loved you more than just in play,For fashion's sake as idle women do.Even let them prate; who know not what we knewOf love and parting in exceeding pain,Of parting hopeless here to meet again,Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.But by my heart of love laid bare to you,My love that you can make not void nor vain,Love that foregoes you but to claim anewBeyond this passage of the gate of death,I charge you at the Judgment make it plainMy love of you was life and not a breath.
"Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona."--Dante."Amor vien nel bel viso di costei."--Petrarca.If there be any one can take my placeAnd make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,Think not that I can grudge it, but believeI do commend you to that nobler grace,That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceiveI too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave,And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.For if I did not love you, it might beThat I should grudge you some one dear delight;But since the heart is yours that was mine own,Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,Your honorable freedom makes me free,And you companioned I am not alone.
"E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore."--Dante."Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia."--Petrarca.
If I could trust mine own self with your fate,Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand?Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand,Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date;Who numbereth the innumerable sand,Who weighs the wind and water with a weight,To Whom the world is neither small nor great,Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we planned.Searching my heart for all that touches you,I find there only love and love's goodwillHelpless to help and impotent to do,Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;And therefore I commend you back to HimWhose love your love's capacity can fill.
"E la Sua Volontade è nostra pace."--Dante."Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome."--Petrarca.Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever thereDwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,To shame a cheek at best but little fair,--Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,--I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,Except such common flowers as blow with corn.Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;The silence of a heart which sang its songsWhile youth and beauty made a summer morn,Silence of love that cannot sing again.
Beautiful, tender, wasting away for sorrow;Thus to-day; and how shall it be with thee to-morrow?Beautiful, tender--what else?A hope tells.Beautiful, tender, keeping the jubileeIn the land of home together, past death and sea;No more change or death, no moreSalt sea-shore.
Oh why is heaven built so far,Oh why is earth set so remote?I cannot reach the nearest starThat hangs afloat.I would not care to reach the moon,One round monotonous of change;Yet even she repeats her tuneBeyond my range.I never watch the scattered fireOf stars, or sun's far-trailing train,But all my heart is one desire,And all in vain:For I am bound with fleshly bands,Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,And catch at hope.
Lovely Spring,A brief sweet thing,Is swift on the wing;Gracious Summer,A slow sweet comer,Hastens past;Autumn while sweetIs all incompleteWith a moaning blast,--Nothing can last,Can be cleaved unto,Can be dwelt upon;It is hurried through,It is come and gone,Undone it cannot be done,It is ever to do,Ever old, ever new,Ever waxing oldAnd lapsing to Winter cold.
The buttercup is like a golden cup,The marigold is like a golden frill,The daisy with a golden eye looks up,And golden spreads the flag beside the rill,And gay and golden nods the daffodil,The gorsey common swells a golden sea,The cowslip hangs a head of golden tips,And golden drips the honey which the beeSucks from sweet hearts of flowers and stores and sips.
Johnny had a golden headLike a golden mop in blow,Right and left his curls would spreadIn a glory and a glow,And they framed his honest faceLike stray sunbeams out of place.Long and thick, they half could hideHow threadbare his patched jacket hung;They used to be his Mother's pride;She praised them with a tender tongue,And stroked them with a loving fingerThat smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.On a doorstep Johnny sat,Up and down the street looked he;Johnny did not own a hat,Hot or cold tho' days might be;Johnny did not own a bootTo cover up his muddy foot.Johnny's face was pale and thin,Pale with hunger and with crying;For his Mother lay within,Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying,While Johnny racked his brains to thinkHow to get her help and drink,Get her physic, get her tea,Get her bread and something nice;Not a penny piece had he,And scarce a shilling might suffice;No wonder that his soul was sad,When not one penny piece he had.As he sat there thinking, moping,Because his Mother's wants were many,Wishing much but scarcely hopingTo earn a shilling or a penny,A friendly neighbor passed him byAnd questioned him: Why did he cry?Alas! his trouble soon was told:He did not cry for cold or hunger,Though he was hungry both and cold;He only felt more weak and younger,Because he wished so to be oldAnd apt at earning pence or gold.Kindly that neighbor was, but poor,Scant coin had he to give or lend;And well he guessed there needed moreThan pence or shillings to befriendThe helpless woman in her strait,So much loved, yet so desolate.One way he saw, and only one:He would--he could not--give the advice,And yet he must: the widow's sonHad curls of gold would fetch their price;Long curls which might be clipped, and soldFor silver, or perhaps for gold.Our Johnny, when he understoodWhich shop it was that purchased hair,Ran off as briskly as he could,And in a trice stood cropped and bare,Too short of hair to fill a locket,But jingling money in his pocket.Precious money--tea and bread,Physic, ease, for Mother dear,Better than a golden head:Yet our hero dropped one tearWhen he spied himself close shorn,Barer much than lamb new born.His Mother throve upon the money,Ate and revived and kissed her son:But oh! when she perceived her Johnny,And understood what he had doneAll and only for her sake,She sobbed as if her heart must break.
There's no replyingTo the Wind's sighing,Telling, foretelling,Dying, undying,Dwindling and swelling,Complaining, droning,Whistling and moaning,Ever beginning,Ending, repeating,Hinting and dinning,Lagging and fleeting--We've no replyingLiving or dyingTo the Wind's sighing.What are you telling,Variable Wind-tone?What would be teaching,O sinking, swelling,Desolate Wind-moan?Ever for everTeaching and preaching,Never, ah neverMaking us wiser--The earliest riserCatches no meaning,The last who hearkensGarners no gleaningOf wisdom's treasure,While the world darkens:--Living or dying,In pain, in pleasure,We've no replyingTo wordless flyingWind's sighing.