"O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?Me whom thou settest in a barren land,Hungry and thirsty on the burning sand,Hungry and thirsty where no waters beNor shadows of date-bearing tree:--O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?""I came from Edom by as parched a track,As rough a track beneath My bleeding feet.I came from Edom seeking thee, and sweetI counted bitterness; I turned not backBut counted life as death, and trodThe winepress all alone: and I am God.""Yet, Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?For Thou art strong to comfort: and could IBut comfort one I love, who, like to die,Lifts feeble hands and eyes that fail to seeIn one last prayer for comfort--nay,I could not stand aside or turn away.""Alas! thou knowest that for thee I diedFor thee I thirsted with the dying thirst;I, Blessed, for thy sake was counted cursed,In sight of men and angels crucified:All this and more I bore to proveMy love, and wilt thou yet mistrust My love?""Lord, I am fain to think Thou lovest me,For Thou art all in all and I am Thine;And lo! Thy love is better than new wine,And I am sick of love in loving Thee.But dost Thou love me? speak and save,For jealousy is cruel as the grave.""Nay, if thy love is not an empty breathMy love is as thine own--deep answers deep.Peace, peace: I give to my beloved sleep,Not death but sleep, for love is strong as death:Take patience; sweet thy sleep shall be,Yea, thou shalt wake in Paradise with Me."
Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod?Lo, now Thy banner over me is love,All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod:For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod,Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove.What wilt Thou call me in our home above,Who now hast called me friend? how will it beWhen Thou for good wine settest forth the best?Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee,Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast:How will it be with me in time of love?
At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee,A rose of joy and happy love and peace,A rose with scarce a thorn:But in the chillness of a second mornMy rose bush drooped, and all its gay increaseWas but one thorn that wounded me.I plucked the thorn and offered it to Thee;And for my thorn Thou gavest love and peace,Not joy this mortal morn:If Thou hast given much treasure for a thorn,Wilt thou not give me for my rose increaseOf gladness, and all sweets to me?My thorny rose, my love and pain, to TheeI offer; and I set my heart in peace,And rest upon my thorn:For verily I think to-morrow mornShall bring me Paradise, my gift's increase,Yea, give Thy very Self to me.
God strengthen me to bear myself;That heaviest weight of all to bear,Inalienable weight of care.All others are outside myself;I lock my door and bar them out,The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.I lock my door upon myself,And bar them out; but who shall wallSelf from myself, most loathed of all?If I could once lay down myself,And start self-purged upon the raceThat all must run! Death runs apace.If I could set aside myself,And start with lightened heart uponThe road by all men overgone!God harden me against myself,This coward with pathetic voiceWho craves for ease and rest and joys:Myself, arch-traitor to myself;My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,My clog whatever road I go.Yet One there is can curb myself,Can roll the strangling load from me.Break off the yoke and set me free.
My sun has set, I dwellIn darkness as a dead man out of sight;And none remains, not one, that I should tellTo him mine evil plightThis bitter night.I will make fast my doorThat hollow friends may trouble me no more."Friend, open to Me."--Who is this that calls?Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:Cease crying, for I will not hearThy cry of hope or fear.Others were dear,Others forsook me: what art thou indeedThat I should heedThy lamentable need?Hungry should feed,Or stranger lodge thee here?"Friend, My Feet bleed.Open thy door to Me and comfort Me."I will not open, trouble me no more.Go on thy way footsore,I will not rise and open unto thee."Then is it nothing to thee? Open, seeWho stands to plead with thee.Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thouOne day entreat My FaceAnd howl for grace,And I be deaf as thou art now.Open to Me."Then I cried out upon him: Cease,Leave me in peace:Fear not that I should craveAught thou mayst have.Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.What, shall I not be letAlone, that thou dost vex me yet?But all night long that voice spake urgently:"Open to Me."Still harping in mine ears:"Rise, let Me in."Pleading with tears:"Open to Me that I may come to thee."While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:"My Feet bleed, see My Face,See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,My Heart doth bleed for thee,Open to Me."So till the break of day:Then died awayThat voice, in silence as of sorrow;Then footsteps echoing like a sighPassed me by,Lingering footsteps slow to pass.On the morrowI saw upon the grassEach footprint marked in blood, and on my doorThe mark of blood forevermore.
Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree,My God, for me;Though I till now be barren, now at length,Lord, give me strengthTo bring forth fruit to Thee.Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn,Spitting and scorn;Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet nowStrengthen me ThouThat better fruit be borne.Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots,Vine of sweet fruits,Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf,Of thousands Chief,Feed Thou my feeble shoots.
If I might only love my God and die!But now He bids me love Him and live on,Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,The pleasant half of life has quite gone by.My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high,And I forget how summer glowed and shone,While autumn grips me with its fingers wan,And frets me with its fitful windy sigh.When autumn passes then must winter numb,And winter may not pass a weary while,But when it passes spring shall flower again:And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile,Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane,Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heartTo love and not to love.Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apartInto Thy shrine, which is above,Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or careFor this mine ill?--I love thee here or there,I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.Lord, it was well with me in time gone byThat cometh not again,When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?I fresh, I cheerful: worn with painNow, out of sight and out of heart;O Lord, how long?--I watch thee as thou art,I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong."Lie still," "be strong," to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,What of to-morrow, Lord?Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,Be living green upon the swardNow but a barren grave to me,Be joy for sorrow?--Did I not die for thee?Do I not live for thee? leave Me to-morrow.
I would have gone; God bade me stay:I would have worked; God bade me rest.He broke my will from day to day,He read my yearnings unexpressed,And said them nay.Now I would stay; God bids me go:Now I would rest; God bids me work.He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,My soul is wrung with doubts that lurkAnd vex it so.I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;Day after day I plod and moil:But, Christ my God, when will it beThat I may let alone my toilAnd rest with Thee?
We meet in joy, though we part in sorrow;We part to-night, but we meet to-morrow.Be it flood or blood the path that's trod,All the same it leads home to God:Be it furnace-fire voluminous,One like God's Son will walk with us.What are these that glow from afar,These that lean over the golden bar,Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,With open arms and hearts of love?They the blessed ones gone before,They the blessed forevermore.Out of great tribulation they wentHome to their home of Heaven-content;Through flood, or blood, or furnace-fire,To the rest that fulfils desire.What are these that fly as a cloud,With flashing heads and faces bowed,In their mouths a victorious psalm,In their hands a robe and a palm?Welcoming angels these that shine,Your own angel, and yours, and mine;Who have hedged us both day and nightOn the left hand and on the right,Who have watched us both night and dayBecause the Devil keeps watch to slay.Light above light, and Bliss beyond bliss,Whom words cannot utter, lo, Who is This?As a King with many crowns He stands,And our names are graven upon His hands;As a Priest, with God-uplifted eyes,He offers for us His Sacrifice;As the Lamb of God for sinners slain,That we too may live He lives again;As our Champion behold Him stand,Strong to save us, at God's Right Hand.God the Father give us graceTo walk in the light of Jesus' Face.God the Son give us a partIn the hiding-place of Jesus' Heart:God the Spirit so hold us upThat we may drink of Jesus' cup.Death is short and life is long;Satan is strong, but Christ more strong.At His Word, Who hath led us hither,The Red Sea must part hither and thither.At His Word, Who goes before us too,Jordan must cleave to let us through.Yet one pang, searching and sore,And then Heaven forevermore;Yet one moment awful and dark,Then safety within the Veil and the Ark;Yet one effort by Christ His grace,Then Christ forever face to face.God the Father we will adore,In Jesus' Name, now and evermore:God the Son we will love and thankIn this flood and on the farther bank:God the Holy Ghost we will praise,In Jesus' Name, through endless days:God Almighty, God Three in One,God Almighty, God alone.
As eager home-bound traveller to the goal,Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,Or martyr panting for an aureole,My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attainThat hidden mansion of perpetual peace,Where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain:That gate stands open of perennial ease;I view the glory till I partly long,Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these.O, passing Angel, speed me with a song,A melody of heaven to reach my heartAnd rouse me to the race and make me strong;Till in such music I take up my part,Swelling those Hallelujahs full of rest,One, tenfold, hundred-fold, with heavenly art,Fulfilling north and south and east and west,Thousand, ten-thousand-fold, innumerable,All blent in one yet each one manifest;Each one distinguished and beloved as wellAs if no second voice in earth or heavenWere lifted up the Love of God to tell.Ah, Love of God, which Thine Own Self hast givenTo me most poor, and made me rich in love,Love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven.Draw Thou mine eyes, draw Thou my heart above,My treasure and my heart store Thou in Thee,Brood over me with yearnings of a dove;Be Husband, Brother, closest Friend to me;Love me as very mother loves her son,Her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee:Yea, more than mother loves her little one;For, earthly, even a mother may forgetAnd feel no pity for its piteous moan;But Thou, O Love of God, remember yet,Through the dry desert, through the waterflood(Life, death), until the Great White Throne is set.If now I am sick in chewing the bitter cudOf sweet past sin, though solaced by Thy grace,And ofttimes strengthened by Thy Flesh and Blood,How shall I then stand up before Thy face,When from Thine eyes repentance shall be hid,And utmost Justice stand in Mercy's place:When every sin I thought or spoke or didShall meet me at the inexorable bar,And there be no man standing in the midTo plead for me; while star fallen after starWith heaven and earth are like a ripened shock,And all time's mighty works and wonders areConsumed as in a moment; when no rockRemains to fall on me, no tree to hide,But I stand all creation's gazing-stock,Exposed and comfortless on every side,Placed trembling in the final balancesWhose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried?--Ah, Love of God, if greater love than thisHath no man, that a man die for his friend,And if such love of love Thine Own Love is,Plead with Thyself, with me, before the end;Redeem me from the irrevocable past;Pitch Thou Thy Presence round me to defend;Yea seek with piercèd feet, yea hold me fastWith piercèd hands whose wounds were made by love;Not what I am, remember what Thou wastWhen darkness hid from Thee Thy heavens above,And sin Thy Father's Face, while Thou didst drinkThe bitter cup of death, didst taste thereofFor every man; while Thou wast nigh to sinkBeneath the intense intolerable rod,Grown sick of love; not what I am, but thinkThy Life then ransomed mine, my God, my God.
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,And yet not weep?Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky,A horror of great darkness at broad noon,--I, only I.Yet give not o'er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.
Give me the lowest place: not that I dareAsk for that lowest place, but Thou hast diedThat I might live and shareThy glory by Thy side.Give me the lowest place: or if for meThat lowest place too high, make one more lowWhere I may sit and seeMy God and love Thee so.
Sonnets are full of love, and this my tomeHas many sonnets: so here now shall beOne sonnet more, a love sonnet, from meTo her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,To my first Love, my Mother, on whose kneeI learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;Whose service is my special dignity,And she my loadstar while I go and come.And so because you love me, and becauseI love you, Mother, I have woven a wreathOf rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:In you not fourscore years can dim the flameOf love, whose blessed glow transcends the lawsOf time and change and mortal life and death.
Where are the songs I used to know,Where are the notes I used to sing?I have forgotten everythingI used to know so long ago;Summer has followed after Spring;Now Autumn is so shrunk and sere,I scarcely think a sadder thingCan be the Winter of my year.Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest,When bushes put their berries on;While they their ruddy jewels don,He sings out of a ruddy breast;The hips and haws and ruddy breastMake one spot warm where snowflakes lieThey break and cheer the unlovely restOf Winter's pause--and why not I?
Boys.
Girls.
January.
February.
March.
April.
July.
May.
August.
June.
October.
September.
December.
November.
Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings.Various Flowers, Fruits, etc.
Scene:A Cottage with its Grounds.
[A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning onthe hearth; a table on which the breakfast things havebeen left standing. January discovered seated by thefire.]
January.
Cold the day and cold the drifted snow,Dim the day until the cold dark night.[Stirs the fire.
Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers glow:Some one may be plodding through the snowLonging for a light,For the light that you and I can show.If no one else should come,Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb,And never troublesome:Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb?Here's butter for my hunch of bread,And sugar for your crumb;Here's room upon the hearthrug,If you'll only come.In your scarlet waistcoat,With your keen bright eye,Where are you loitering?Wings were made to fly!Make haste to breakfast,Come and fetch your crumb,For I'm as glad to see youAs you are glad to come.[Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks atthe lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in,hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugarthrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal,when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs aguard in front of the fire, and opens to February, whoappears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.]
January.
Good-morrow, sister.
February.
Brother, joy to you!I've brought some snowdrops; only just a few,But quite enough to prove the world awake,Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dewAnd for the pale sun's sake.[She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retiresinto the background. While February stands arrangingthe remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on thewindow-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside.She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, withother sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towardsher.]
February.
O you, you little wonder, come--come in,You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb:You panting mother ewe, come too,And lead that tottering twinSafe in:Bring all your bleating kith and kin,Except the horny ram.[February opens a second door in the background, and thelittle flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartmentout of sight.]The lambkin tottering in its walkWith just a fleece to wear;The snowdrop drooping on its stalkSo slender,--Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair,Braving the cold for our delight,Both white,Both tender.[A rattling of doors and windows; branches seen without,tossing violently to and fro.]How the doors rattle, and the branches sway!Here's brother March comes whirling on his wayWith winds that eddy and sing.[She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, anddiscloses March hastening up, both hands full of violetsand anemones.]
February.
Come, show me what you bring;For I have said my say, fulfilled my day,And must away.
March.
[Stopping short on the threshold.]I blow an arouseThrough the world's wide houseTo quicken the torpid earth:Grappling I flingEach feeble thing,But bring strong life to the birth.I wrestle and frown,And topple down;I wrench, I rend, I uproot;Yet the violetIs born where I setThe sole of my flying foot,[Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires intothe background.]And in my wakeFrail wind-flowers quake,And the catkins promise fruit.I drive ocean ashoreWith rush and roar,And he cannot say me nay:My harpstrings allAre the forests tall,Making music when I play.And as others perforce,So I on my courseRun and needs must run,With sap on the mountAnd buds past countAnd rivers and clouds and sun,With seasons and breathAnd time and deathAnd all that has yet begun.[Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approachingaccompanied by a twittering of birds. April comesalong singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finishher song.]
April.
[Outside.]Pretty little threeSparrows in a tree,Light upon the wing;Though you cannot singYou can chirp of Spring:Chirp of Spring to me,Sparrows, from your tree.Never mind the showers,Chirp about the flowersWhile you build a nest:Straws from east and west,Feathers from your breast,Make the snuggest bowersIn a world of flowers.You must dart awayFrom the chosen spray,You intrusive thirdExtra little bird;Join the unwedded herd!These have done with play,And must work to-day.
April.
[Appearing at the open door.]Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly,Of all the flying months you're the most flying.
March.
You're hope and sweetness, April.
April.
Birth means dying,As wings and wind mean flying;So you and I and all things fly or die;And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers,And a lapful of flowers,And these dear nestlings aged three hours;And here's their mother sitting,Their father's merely flittingTo find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.[As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowersand nest full of birds. March wanders away into thegrounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs overthe hungry nestlings watching them.]
April.
What beaks you have, you funny things,What voices shrill and weak;Who'd think that anything that singsCould sing through such a beak?Yet you'll be nightingales one day,And charm the country-side,When I'm away and far awayAnd May is queen and bride.[May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss.April starts and looks round.]
April.
Ah May, good-morrow May, and so good-bye.
May.
That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh:Your sorrow's half in fun,Begun and doneAnd turned to joy while twenty seconds run.I've gathered flowers all as I came along,At every step a flowerFed by your last bright shower,--[She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, whostrolls away through the garden.]
May.
And gathering flowers I listened to the songOf every bird in bower.The world and I are far too full of blissTo think or plan or toil or care;The sun is waxing strong,The days are waxing long,And all that is,Is fair.Here are my buds of lily and of rose,And here's my namesake-blossom, may;And from a watery spotSee here forget-me-not,With all that blowsTo-day.Hark to my linnets from the hedges green,Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove,And every nightingaleAnd cuckoo tells its tale,And all they meanIs love.[June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowlytowards May, who, seeing her, exclaims]
May.
Surely you're come too early, sister June.
June.
Indeed I feel as if I came too soonTo round your young May moonAnd set the world a-gasping at my noon.Yet come I must. So here are strawberriesSun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please;And here are full-blown roses by the score,More roses, and yet more.[May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds.]
June.
The sun does all my long day's work for me,Raises and ripens everything;I need but sit beneath a leafy treeAnd watch and sing.[Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee,Or lulled by noontide's silence deep,I need but nestle down beneath my treeAnd drop asleep.[June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July,who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling.]
July.
[Behind the scenes.]Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled,Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled!Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow,Each in its way has not a fellow.[Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises slung upon hisshoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a platepiled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He stealsup to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.]
June.
What, here already?
July.
Nay, my tryst is kept;The longest day slipped by you while you slept.I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,[Hands her the plate.Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees,As downy, bask and boomIn sunshine and in gloom of trees.But get you in, a storm is at my heels;The whirlwind whistles and wheels,Lightning flashes and thunder peals,Flying and following hard upon my heels.[June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor.]
July.
The roar of a storm sweeps upFrom the east to the lurid west,The darkening sky, like a cup,Is filled with rain to the brink;The sky is purple and fire,Blackness and noise and unrest;The earth, parched with desire,Opens her mouth to drink.Send forth thy thunder and fire,Turn over thy brimming cup,O sky, appease the desireOf earth in her parched unrest;Pour out drink to her thirst,Her famishing life lift up;Make thyself fair as at first,With a rainbow for thy crest.Have done with thunder and fire,O sky with the rainbow crest;O earth, have done with desire,Drink, and drink deep, and rest.[Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds ofgrain.]
July.
Hail, brother August, flushed and warmAnd scatheless from my storm.Your hands are full of corn, I see,As full as hands can be:And earth and air both smell as sweet as balmIn their recovered calm,And that they owe to me.[July retires into a shrubbery.]
August.
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy,Barley bows a graceful head,Short and small shoots up canary,Each of these is some one's bread;Bread for man or bread for beast,Or at very leastA bird's savory feast.Men are brethren of each other,One in flesh and one in food;And a sort of foster brotherIs the litter, or the brood,Of that folk in fur or feather,Who, with men together,Breast the wind and weather.[August descries September toiling across the lawn.]
August.
My harvest home is ended; and I spySeptember drawing nighWith the first thought of Autumn in her eye,And the first sighOf Autumn wind among her locks that fly.[September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heapedhigh with fruit]
September.
Unload me, brother. I have brought a fewPlums and these pears for you,A dozen kinds of apples, one or twoMelons, some figs all bursting throughTheir skins, and pearled with dewThese damsons violet-blue.[While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to theground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly alongthe gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.]
September.
My song is half a sighBecause my green leaves die;Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying;And well may Autumn sigh,And well may IWho watch the sere leaves flying.My leaves that fade and fall,I note you one and all;I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling,Lamenting for your fall,And for the pallYou spread on earth in falling.And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours:A song of the last lilies, the last flowers,Amid my withering bowers.In the sunny garden bedLilies look so pale,Lilies droop the headIn the shady grassy vale;If all alike they pineIn shade and in shine,If everywhere they grieve,Where will lilies live?[October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing differentsorts of nuts in one hand, and a long ripe hop-bine trailingafter him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in hisbuttonhole.]
October.
Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over,Even if the year has done with corn and clover,With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact it's true,Some leaves remain and some flowers too.For me and you.Now see my crops:[Offering his produce to September.I've brought you nuts and hops;And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.[October wreaths the hop-bine about September's neck, andgives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together,but without shutting the door. She steps into the background:he advances to the hearth, removes the guard,stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnutsready to roast.]
October.