III

Awake, awake! The silence hath a voice;Not thine, thou heart of fire, palpitatingUntil all griefs change countenance and rejoice,And all joys ache o’er-ripe since thou dost sing,Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands,Harsh iteration! note untuneable!Which shears the breathing quiet with a bladeOf ragged edge! Say, wilt thou ne’er be stillCrier in June’s high progress, whose commandsUpon no heedless drowzed heart are laid?

Nay, cease not till thy breast disquietedHath won a term of ease; the dewy grassTrackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread,And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass,To faint on yon soft-bosom’d pastoral steepThee bird the Night accepts; and I, through thee,Reach to embalmèd hearts of summers dead,Feel round my feet old, inland meadows deep,And bow o’er flowers that not a leaf have shed,Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea.

Evenwhile I muse thy halting-place doth shift,Now nearer, now more distant—I have seenWhen April, through her shining hair adrift,Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green,The voiceful, wandering envoy of the Spring;Thee, never; though the mower’s scythe hath dashedThy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant,Viewless; then last we lose thee, and thy wingBrushes Nilotic maize and thou dost chauntHaply all night to stony ears of Pasht.

Ah, now an end to thy inveterate tale!The silence melts from the mid spheres of heaven;Enough! before this peace has time to failFrom out my soul, or yon white cloud has drivenUp the moon’s path I turn, and I will restOnce more with summer in my heart. Farewell!Shut are the wild-rose cups; no moth’s awhirr;My room will be moon-silvered from the westFor one more hour; thy note shall be a burrTo tease out thought and catch the slumbrous spell.

Thealtar-lights burn low, the incense-fumeSickens: O listen, how the priestly prayerRuns as a fenland stream; a dim despairHails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhumeA clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb.But come thou forth into the vital airKeen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer,And if perchance some faint cold star illumeHer brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn?An altar of the natural rock may riseSomewhere for men who seek; there may be borneOn the night-wind authentic prophecies:If not, let this—to breathe sane breath—suffice,Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.

Seekerfor Eldorado, magic land,Whose gold is beauty fine-spun, amber-clear,O’er what Moon-mountains, down what Valley of fearBy what love waters fringed with pallid sand,Did thy foot falter? Say what airs have fannedThy fervid brow, blown from no terrene sphere,What rustling wings, what echoes thrilled thine earFrom mighty tombs whose brazen ports expand?Seeker, who never quite attained, yet caught,Moulded and fashioned, as by strictest lawThe rainbow’d moon-mist and the flying gleamTo mortal loveliness, for pity and awe,To us what carven dreams thy hand has broughtDreams with the serried logic of a dream.

SinceThou dost clothe Thyself to-day in cloud,Lord God in heaven, and no voice low or loudProclaims Thee,—see, I turn me to the Earth,Its wisdom and its sorrow and its mirth,Thy Earth perchance, but sure my very own,And precious to me grows the clod, the stone,A voiceless moor’s brooding monotony,A keen star quivering through the sunset dye,Young wrinkled beech leaves, saturate with light,The arching wave’s suspended malachite;I turn to men, Thy sons perchance, but sureMy brethren, and no face shall be too poorTo yield me some unquestionable gainOf wonder, laughter, loathing, pity, pain,Some dog-like craving caught in human eyes,Some new-waked spirit’s April ecstasies;These will not fail nor foil me; while I liveThere will be actual truck in take and give,But Thou hast foiled me; therefore undistraught,I cease from seeking what will not be sought,Or sought, will not be found through joy or fear,If still Thou claimst me, seek me. I am here.

Door, little door,Shadowed door in the innermost room of my heart,I lean and listen, withdrawn from the stir and apart,For a word of the wordless love.And still you hide,Yourself of me, who are more than myself, within,And I wait if perchance a whisper I may winFrom my soul on the other side.What do I catchAfloat on the air, for something is said or done?Are there two who speak—my soul and the nameless One?Little door, could I lift the latch.Sigh for some wantMeasureless sigh of desire, or a speechless prayer?Rustle of robe of a priest at sacrifice thereBenediction or far-heard chaunt?Could we but meet,Myself and my hidden self in a still amaze!But the tramp of men comes up, and the roll of drays,And a woman’s cry from the street!

Door, little door,Shadowed door in the innermost room of my heart,I lean and listen, withdrawn from the stir and apart,For a word of the wordless love.

And still you hide,Yourself of me, who are more than myself, within,And I wait if perchance a whisper I may winFrom my soul on the other side.

What do I catchAfloat on the air, for something is said or done?Are there two who speak—my soul and the nameless One?Little door, could I lift the latch.

Sigh for some wantMeasureless sigh of desire, or a speechless prayer?Rustle of robe of a priest at sacrifice thereBenediction or far-heard chaunt?

Could we but meet,Myself and my hidden self in a still amaze!But the tramp of men comes up, and the roll of drays,And a woman’s cry from the street!

Whodared to pluck the sleeve of Hannibal,And hale him from the shades? Who bade the man,Indomitable of brain, return to planA vast revenge and vowed? Wild clarions call;Dusk faces flame; the turreted brute-wallMoves, tramples, overwhelms; van clashes van;Roman, Numidian, Carthaginian;And griefs are here, unbowed, imperial.Who caught the world’s fierce tides? An English girl.Shy dreamer ’neath fledged elm and apple-bloom,With Livy or Polybius on her knee,Whose dreams were light as dew and pure as pearl,—Yet poignant-witted; thew’d for thought; girl-groomSped to her Lord across the Midland Sea.

Thanksspoken under rainy skies,And tossed by March winds of the North,And faint ere they can find your eyes,Pale thanks are mine and poor in worth,Matched with your gift of dews and light,Quick heart-beats of the Southern spring,Provençal flowers, pearl-pure, blood-bright,Which heard the Mid-sea murmuring.Listen! a lark in Irish air,A silver spray of ecstasy!O wind of March blow wide and bearThis song of home as thanks for me.Nay, but yourself find thanks more meet;Blossoms like these which drank the skyStrew in some shadowy alcove-seat,And lay your violin where they lie;Leave them; but with the first star rise,And bring the bow, and poise at restThe enchanted wood. Ah, shrill sweet cries!A prisoned heart is in its breast.

Thanksspoken under rainy skies,And tossed by March winds of the North,And faint ere they can find your eyes,Pale thanks are mine and poor in worth,

Matched with your gift of dews and light,Quick heart-beats of the Southern spring,Provençal flowers, pearl-pure, blood-bright,Which heard the Mid-sea murmuring.

Listen! a lark in Irish air,A silver spray of ecstasy!O wind of March blow wide and bearThis song of home as thanks for me.

Nay, but yourself find thanks more meet;Blossoms like these which drank the skyStrew in some shadowy alcove-seat,And lay your violin where they lie;

Leave them; but with the first star rise,And bring the bow, and poise at restThe enchanted wood. Ah, shrill sweet cries!A prisoned heart is in its breast.

Soends your fingers’ fine intrigue!The netted guile! Nor yonder sat heIn pump and frill who made the gigue,Your Neapolitan Scarlatti.The twilight yields you to me; strange!My dainty sprite, a most rare vision!Well, is it not a wise exchange,Live maid for ghost of dead musician?Yet gently let the shadows troopTo darkness; lightly lie the dust onDamon and Chloe, hose and hoop,My bevy of the days Augustan.What led my fancy down the track,Through century-silent, shadowy mazes?Perhaps that foolish bric-à-bracYour pseudo-classic shelf that graces.Or haply something I divined,While on your face I stayed a dweller,Of that fair ancestress—unsigned—It pleases you to name a Kneller;And still your fingers ran the keys,Through quaint encounter, pretty wrangleLight laughter, interspace of ease,Fine turn, and softly-severed tangle,Gigue, minuet, rondo, ritornelle—Quaint jars with rose-leaf memories scented,Stored with glad sound, when life went well,Ere melancholy was invented,When pleasure ran, a rippling tide,And Phillida with Phyllis carolled,Ere Werther yet for Lotte sighed,Or English maids adored Childe Harold;Ere music shook the central heart,Or soared to spheral heights inhuman,Ere Titans stormed the heaven of art,Let by the hammer-welder, Schumann.Ah, well, we sigh beneath the load,We sing our pain, our pride, our passion,And Weltschmerz is the modern mode,But sweet seventeen is still a fashion.Let be a while the Infinite,Those chords with tremulous fervour laden,Where Chopin’s fire and dew unite—I choose instead one mortal maiden.Let sorrow rave, and sadness fret,And all our century’s ailments pester,I am not quite despairful yet—There, at the keyboard, sits a Hester.

Soends your fingers’ fine intrigue!The netted guile! Nor yonder sat heIn pump and frill who made the gigue,Your Neapolitan Scarlatti.

The twilight yields you to me; strange!My dainty sprite, a most rare vision!Well, is it not a wise exchange,Live maid for ghost of dead musician?

Yet gently let the shadows troopTo darkness; lightly lie the dust onDamon and Chloe, hose and hoop,My bevy of the days Augustan.

What led my fancy down the track,Through century-silent, shadowy mazes?Perhaps that foolish bric-à-bracYour pseudo-classic shelf that graces.

Or haply something I divined,While on your face I stayed a dweller,Of that fair ancestress—unsigned—It pleases you to name a Kneller;

And still your fingers ran the keys,Through quaint encounter, pretty wrangleLight laughter, interspace of ease,Fine turn, and softly-severed tangle,

Gigue, minuet, rondo, ritornelle—Quaint jars with rose-leaf memories scented,Stored with glad sound, when life went well,Ere melancholy was invented,

When pleasure ran, a rippling tide,And Phillida with Phyllis carolled,Ere Werther yet for Lotte sighed,Or English maids adored Childe Harold;

Ere music shook the central heart,Or soared to spheral heights inhuman,Ere Titans stormed the heaven of art,Let by the hammer-welder, Schumann.

Ah, well, we sigh beneath the load,We sing our pain, our pride, our passion,And Weltschmerz is the modern mode,But sweet seventeen is still a fashion.

Let be a while the Infinite,Those chords with tremulous fervour laden,Where Chopin’s fire and dew unite—I choose instead one mortal maiden.

Let sorrow rave, and sadness fret,And all our century’s ailments pester,I am not quite despairful yet—There, at the keyboard, sits a Hester.

Songthat is pent in me,Song that is aching,Ne’er to escape from me,Sleeping or waking,Down aspic! the dust of me,Blown the world overA century henceWill envenom a lover.His red lips grow vocal,His great word is new,And the world knows my secret,Is dreaming of you.

Songthat is pent in me,Song that is aching,Ne’er to escape from me,Sleeping or waking,

Down aspic! the dust of me,Blown the world overA century henceWill envenom a lover.

His red lips grow vocal,His great word is new,And the world knows my secret,Is dreaming of you.

Forevery child new-born God brings to birthA little grave-digger, deft at his trade,Who ’neath his master’s feet still voids the earth,There where one day the man’s dark plunge is made.Do you know yours? Hideous perhaps is he,You shudder seeing the workman at his task;Such gracious looks commend who waits on meI yield whole-hearted, nor for quarter ask.A child rose-white, sweet-lipped, my steps he pressesOn to the pit with coaxings and caresses,Lovelier assassin none could choose to have.Rogue, hast thou done? Let’s haste. The hour comes quick,Give with a kiss the last stroke of the pick,And gently lay me in my flowery grave.

Forevery child new-born God brings to birthA little grave-digger, deft at his trade,Who ’neath his master’s feet still voids the earth,There where one day the man’s dark plunge is made.

Do you know yours? Hideous perhaps is he,You shudder seeing the workman at his task;Such gracious looks commend who waits on meI yield whole-hearted, nor for quarter ask.

A child rose-white, sweet-lipped, my steps he pressesOn to the pit with coaxings and caresses,Lovelier assassin none could choose to have.Rogue, hast thou done? Let’s haste. The hour comes quick,Give with a kiss the last stroke of the pick,And gently lay me in my flowery grave.

Aswith splendour of morningAround me thou flamest,O Spring time, my lover,With a thousand delights and desires;To my heart comes throngingThe sacred senseOf thy glow everlasting,O infinite beauty!Would I might seize theeIn these my arms!Ah! on thy bosomI lie sore yearning;Thy flowers, thy grasses,Press close to my heart;Fresh breeze of the mornThy coolest the burningThirst of my breast.With love the nightingaleCalls to me from the misty valley!I come, I am coming!Whither? Ah, whither?Upward! Upward the urge is!Lower the clouds come drifting,They stoop to the longing of love.For me! for me!Borne in the lap of youUpwards!Embracing, embraced!Upwards, even to the bosomOf thee all-loving, my Father!

Aswith splendour of morningAround me thou flamest,O Spring time, my lover,With a thousand delights and desires;To my heart comes throngingThe sacred senseOf thy glow everlasting,O infinite beauty!

Would I might seize theeIn these my arms!

Ah! on thy bosomI lie sore yearning;Thy flowers, thy grasses,Press close to my heart;Fresh breeze of the mornThy coolest the burningThirst of my breast.With love the nightingaleCalls to me from the misty valley!

I come, I am coming!Whither? Ah, whither?Upward! Upward the urge is!Lower the clouds come drifting,They stoop to the longing of love.For me! for me!Borne in the lap of youUpwards!Embracing, embraced!Upwards, even to the bosomOf thee all-loving, my Father!

Myslender, wondering Nautilus,Sunk in the ooze—a thing how frail!—Because you choose to have it thusThrough wavering waters luminousRises once more, sets up the sail;It trembles to the sun, has fearOf life, that knew no fear of death:Ah! may kind Ariel, hovering near,Speed the toy onward with his breath!

Myslender, wondering Nautilus,Sunk in the ooze—a thing how frail!—Because you choose to have it thusThrough wavering waters luminousRises once more, sets up the sail;

It trembles to the sun, has fearOf life, that knew no fear of death:Ah! may kind Ariel, hovering near,Speed the toy onward with his breath!

Notyet to life inured, the Muse’s son,Born to be lord of visions, Chatterton,A youth, nor yet the master of his dream,Poor, proud, o’erwrought, perplex’d in the extremeBy poetry, his demon, and by love—Powers of the deep below, the height above—Ringed by a world with dreams and love at strife,Rejects in fiery spleen the gift of life.Condemn, but pity!In the South, they say,Boys in their sportive mood affect a play;The brands aglow they fashion in a ring,Then in the ardent cirque a scorpion fling;Crouched motionless the creature lies, untilUrged by the fire you see him throb and thrill,Whereon the laughter peals! Anon, he’ll shapeRight on the flames his course to make escape,And backward draws o’erpowered. Fresh shouts of glee!Next round the circle curving timorouslyHe seeks impossible exit; now, once more,Quailing, and in the centre as before,He shrinks despairing; lest, he knows his part,Turns on himself, grown bold, his poisoned dart,And on the instant dies. O then at heightWe hear the cries uproarious of delight!Doubtless the wretch on mortal crime was bent,Doubtless the boys were good and innocent.Play not, O world of men, the savage boy,Make not the poet, quickener of earth’s joy,Your scorpion! Hardly once a hundred yearsCompact of spirit and fire and dew, appearsHe through whose song the spheral harmoniesVibrate in mortal hearing. Nay, be wise,For your own joy, and see he lacks not bread,If ye but wreathe the white brows of the dead,’Tis ye yourselves are disinherited.

Condemn, but pity!In the South, they say,Boys in their sportive mood affect a play;The brands aglow they fashion in a ring,Then in the ardent cirque a scorpion fling;Crouched motionless the creature lies, untilUrged by the fire you see him throb and thrill,Whereon the laughter peals! Anon, he’ll shapeRight on the flames his course to make escape,And backward draws o’erpowered. Fresh shouts of glee!Next round the circle curving timorouslyHe seeks impossible exit; now, once more,Quailing, and in the centre as before,He shrinks despairing; lest, he knows his part,Turns on himself, grown bold, his poisoned dart,And on the instant dies. O then at heightWe hear the cries uproarious of delight!Doubtless the wretch on mortal crime was bent,Doubtless the boys were good and innocent.

Play not, O world of men, the savage boy,Make not the poet, quickener of earth’s joy,Your scorpion! Hardly once a hundred yearsCompact of spirit and fire and dew, appearsHe through whose song the spheral harmoniesVibrate in mortal hearing. Nay, be wise,For your own joy, and see he lacks not bread,If ye but wreathe the white brows of the dead,’Tis ye yourselves are disinherited.

Whendid such moons upheave?When were such pure dawns born?Yet fly morn into eve,Fly eve into morn.Lily and iris blooms,Blooms of the orchard close,Pass—for she comes, she comes,Your sovereign, the rose.Lark, that is heart of the height,Thrush, that is voice of the vale,Cease, it is nearing, the nightOf the nightingale.Hasten great noon that glows,Night, when the swift stars pale,Hasten noon of the rose,Night of the nightingale.

Whendid such moons upheave?When were such pure dawns born?Yet fly morn into eve,Fly eve into morn.

Lily and iris blooms,Blooms of the orchard close,Pass—for she comes, she comes,Your sovereign, the rose.

Lark, that is heart of the height,Thrush, that is voice of the vale,Cease, it is nearing, the nightOf the nightingale.

Hasten great noon that glows,Night, when the swift stars pale,Hasten noon of the rose,Night of the nightingale.

WhenMinerva, granting gracesTo her darling, her Prometheus,Brought a brimming bowl of nectarTo the underworld from heavenTo rejoice his race of mortals,And to quicken in their bosomOf all gracious arts the impulse,Fearing Jupiter should see her,With a rapid foot she hastened,And the golden bowl was shaken,And there fell some slender sprinklingsOn the verdurous plain below her.Whereupon the bees grew busyWith the same in eager sucking.Came the butterfly as eagerSome small drop to gather also.Even the spider, the unshapely,Hither crept and sucked with gusto.Happy are they to have tasted,They and other delicate creatures,For they share henceforth with mortalsArt, of all earth’s joys the fairest.

Whereupon the bees grew busyWith the same in eager sucking.Came the butterfly as eagerSome small drop to gather also.Even the spider, the unshapely,Hither crept and sucked with gusto.Happy are they to have tasted,They and other delicate creatures,For they share henceforth with mortalsArt, of all earth’s joys the fairest.

Ona point of rock I sat one morning,Gazed with fixèd eyes upon the vapour,Like a sheet of solid grey outspreadingDid it cover all in plain and mountain.By my side meanwhile a boy had placed him,And he spake. “Good friend, how can’st thou calmlyStare upon the void grey sheet before thee?Hast thou then for painting and for modellingAll desire, it seemeth, lost for ever?”On the child I looked, and thought in secret,“Would the little lad then play the Master?”“If thou wouldst be ever sad and idle,”Spake the boy, “no thing of skill can follow.Look! I’ll paint you straight a little picture,Teach you how to paint a pretty picture.”And thereon forth stretched he his forefinger,Which was rosy even as a rose blossom,To the ample canvas strained before himSet to work at sketching with his finger.There on high a glorious sun he painted,Which mine eyes with its effulgence dazzled,And the fringe of clouds he made it golden.Through the clouds he let press forth the sunbeams,Then the tree-tops delicate, light, he painted,Late refreshed and quickened. Over the hillrangeHill behind hill folded, for a background.Nor were waters wanting. There below themHe the river limned, so true to Nature,That it seemed to sparkle in the sunbeams,That against its banks it seemed to murmur.And there stood beside the river flowers,And their colours glowed upon the meadow,Gold and an enamel green and purple;As if all were emerald and carbuncle.Pure and clear above he limned the heaven,And the azure mountains far and further,So that I, new-born and all enraptured,Gazed on now the painter, now the picture.“I have given thee proof, perhaps,” so spake he,“That this handicraft I’ve comprehendedBut the hardest part is yet to follow.”Then and with his finger-tip he outlined,Using utmost care beside the thicket,At the point where from earth’s gleaming surfaceWas the sun cast back in all its radiance—Outlined there the loveliest of maidens,Fair of form, now clad in richest raiment,Brown her hair and ’neath it cheeks the freshestAnd the cheeks were of the self-same colourAs the pretty finger that had drawn them.“O my boy,” I cried, “declare what masterDid receive thee in his school as pupil,That so swiftly and so true to NatureThou with skill beginn’st and well completest?”But while yet I spake a breeze uprises.And behold, it sets astir the summits,Curleth every wave upon the river,Puffs the veil out of the charming maiden.And, what me the astonished, more astonished,Now the maiden’s foot is put in motion,She advances, and to the place draws nearer,Where I sit beside the cunning Master.Now when all things, all things are in motion,Trees and river, flowers and veil outblowing,And the slender foot of her the fairest,Think you I upon my rock stayed seated,Speechless as a rock and as immobile?

Ona point of rock I sat one morning,Gazed with fixèd eyes upon the vapour,Like a sheet of solid grey outspreadingDid it cover all in plain and mountain.

By my side meanwhile a boy had placed him,And he spake. “Good friend, how can’st thou calmlyStare upon the void grey sheet before thee?Hast thou then for painting and for modellingAll desire, it seemeth, lost for ever?”

On the child I looked, and thought in secret,“Would the little lad then play the Master?”

“If thou wouldst be ever sad and idle,”Spake the boy, “no thing of skill can follow.Look! I’ll paint you straight a little picture,Teach you how to paint a pretty picture.”

And thereon forth stretched he his forefinger,Which was rosy even as a rose blossom,To the ample canvas strained before himSet to work at sketching with his finger.There on high a glorious sun he painted,Which mine eyes with its effulgence dazzled,And the fringe of clouds he made it golden.Through the clouds he let press forth the sunbeams,Then the tree-tops delicate, light, he painted,Late refreshed and quickened. Over the hillrangeHill behind hill folded, for a background.Nor were waters wanting. There below themHe the river limned, so true to Nature,That it seemed to sparkle in the sunbeams,That against its banks it seemed to murmur.

And there stood beside the river flowers,And their colours glowed upon the meadow,Gold and an enamel green and purple;As if all were emerald and carbuncle.Pure and clear above he limned the heaven,And the azure mountains far and further,So that I, new-born and all enraptured,Gazed on now the painter, now the picture.

“I have given thee proof, perhaps,” so spake he,“That this handicraft I’ve comprehendedBut the hardest part is yet to follow.”

Then and with his finger-tip he outlined,Using utmost care beside the thicket,At the point where from earth’s gleaming surfaceWas the sun cast back in all its radiance—Outlined there the loveliest of maidens,Fair of form, now clad in richest raiment,Brown her hair and ’neath it cheeks the freshestAnd the cheeks were of the self-same colourAs the pretty finger that had drawn them.

“O my boy,” I cried, “declare what masterDid receive thee in his school as pupil,That so swiftly and so true to NatureThou with skill beginn’st and well completest?”

But while yet I spake a breeze uprises.And behold, it sets astir the summits,Curleth every wave upon the river,Puffs the veil out of the charming maiden.And, what me the astonished, more astonished,Now the maiden’s foot is put in motion,She advances, and to the place draws nearer,Where I sit beside the cunning Master.

Now when all things, all things are in motion,Trees and river, flowers and veil outblowing,And the slender foot of her the fairest,Think you I upon my rock stayed seated,Speechless as a rock and as immobile?

God’s grace be thine, young womanAnd his, the boy who sucksThat breast of thine.Here let me on the craggy scar,In shade of the great elm,My knapsack fling from meAnd rest me by thy side.

What business urges theeNow in the heat of dayAlong this dusty path?Bringest thou some city merchandiseInto the country round?Thou smilest, stranger,At this my question.

No city merchandise I bring,Cool now the evening grows,Show me the rillsWhence thou dost drink,My good young woman.

Here, up the rocky path,Go onward. Through the shrubsThe path runs by the cotWherein I dwell,On to the rillsFrom whence I drink.

Traces of ordering human handsBetwixt the underwood.These stonesthouhast not so disposed,Nature—thou rich dispensatress.

Yet further up.

With moss o’erlaid, an architrave!I recognize thee, plastic spirit,Thou hast impressed thy seal upon the stone.

Further yet, stranger.

Lo, an inscription whereupon I tread,But all illegible,Worn out by wayfarers are ye,Which should show forth your Master’s piety,Unto a thousand children’s children.

In wonder, stranger, dost thou gazeUpon these stones?Up yonder round my cotAre many such.

Up yonder?

Leftwards directlyOn through the underwood,Here!

Ye Muses! and ye Graces!

That is my cottage.

The fragments of a temple!

Here onwards on one sideThe rivulet flowsFrom whence I drink.

Glowing, then hoverestAbove thy sepulchre,Genius! Over theeIs tumbled in a heapThy masterpiece,O thou undying one!

Wait till I bring the vesselThat thou mayst drink.

Ivy hath clad aroundThy slender form divine.How do ye upward striveFrom out the wreck,Twin columns!And thou, the solitary sister there,How do ye,With sombre moss upon your sacred heads,Gaze in majestic mourning downUpon these scattered fragmentsThere at your feet,Your kith and kin!Where lie the shadows of the bramble bush,Concealed by wrack and earth,And the long grass wavers above.Nature dost then so hold in priceThy masterpiece’s masterpiece?Dost thou, regardless, shatter thusThy sanctuary?Dost sow the thistles therein?

How the boy sleeps!Wouldst thou within the cottage rest,Stranger? Wouldst hereRather than ’neath the open heavens bide?Now it is cool. Here, take the boy.Let me go draw the water.Sleep, darling, sleep!

Sweet is thy rest.How, bathed in heavenly healthiness,Restful he breathes!Thou, born above the relicsOf a most sacred past,Upon thee may its spirit rest.He whom it environethWill in the consciousness of power divineEach day enjoy.Seedling so rich expand,The shining spring’sResplendent ornament,In presence of thy fellows shine,And when the flower-sheathe fades and fallsMay from thy bosom riseThe abounding fruit,And ripening, front the sun.

God bless him—and ever still he sleeps.Nought have I with this water clearExcept a piece of bread to offer thee.

I givethee thanks.How gloriously all blooms aroundAnd groweth green!

My husband soonHome from the fieldsReturns. Stay, stay, O man,And eat with us thy evening bread.

Here do ye dwell?

There, between yonder walls,The cot. My father builded itOf brick, and of the wreckage stones.Here do we dwell.He gave me to a husbandman,And in our arms he died—Sweetheart—and hast thou slept?How bright he is—and wants to play.My rogue!

O Nature! everlastingly conceiving.Each one thou bearest for the joy of life,All of thy babes thou hast endowedLovingly with a heritage—a Name.High on the cornice doth the swallow build,Of what an ornament she hidesAll unaware.The caterpillar round the golden boughSpins her a winter quarters for her young.Thus dost thou patch in ’twixt the augustFragments of bygone timeFor needs of thine—for thy own needsA hut. O men—Rejoicing over graves.Farewell, thou happy wife.

Back to Index Next