My dead love came to me, and said,'God gives me one hour's rest,To spend with thee on earth again:How shall we spend it best?''Why, as of old,' I said; and soWe quarrell'd, as of old:But, when I turn'd to make my peace,That one short hour was told.
My dead love came to me, and said,'God gives me one hour's rest,To spend with thee on earth again:How shall we spend it best?'
'Why, as of old,' I said; and soWe quarrell'd, as of old:But, when I turn'd to make my peace,That one short hour was told.
Stephen Phillips.
Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of loveThe shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day,Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove?Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay?Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful.How should I sing her? for my heart would tire,Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,In striving still to pitch my music higher:Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire!No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove.Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile!O cease at length this fever'd breast to move!I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love.Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen treesSpread thick and softly real above my head;And the far birds add music to the peace,In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease.Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here;Vain is the burning bosom of desire!Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear,As a sad Muse in the melodious choirHushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her.Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yetIn night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;Forget the shining of the stars, forgetThe vernal visitation of the rose;And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose.Strive how I may, I cannot slumber so:Still burns that sleepless beauty on the mind;Still insupportable those visions glow;And hark! my spirit's aspirations findAn answer in the leaves, a warning on the wind.'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep:Soon birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure;And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep,And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays;Then follow, till around thee all be sere.Lose not a vision of her passing face;Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that hereSweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.'
Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of loveThe shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day,Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove?Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay?
Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful.How should I sing her? for my heart would tire,Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,In striving still to pitch my music higher:Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire!
No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove.Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile!O cease at length this fever'd breast to move!I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love.
Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen treesSpread thick and softly real above my head;And the far birds add music to the peace,In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease.
Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here;Vain is the burning bosom of desire!Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear,As a sad Muse in the melodious choirHushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her.
Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yetIn night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows;Forget the shining of the stars, forgetThe vernal visitation of the rose;And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose.
Strive how I may, I cannot slumber so:Still burns that sleepless beauty on the mind;Still insupportable those visions glow;And hark! my spirit's aspirations findAn answer in the leaves, a warning on the wind.
'O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep:Soon birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure;And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep,And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.
'Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays;Then follow, till around thee all be sere.Lose not a vision of her passing face;Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that hereSweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.'
Manmohan Ghose.
Me in far lands did Justice call, cold queenAmong the dead, who after heat and hasteAt length have leisure for her steadfast voice,That gathers peace from the great deeps of hell.She call'd me, saying: 'I heard a cry by night!Go thou, and question not; within thy hallsMy will awaits fulfilment. Lo, the deadCries out before me in the under-world.Seek not to justify thyself: in meBe strong, and I will show thee wise in time;For, though my face be dark, yet unto thoseWho truly follow me through storm or shine,For these the veil shall fall, and they shall seeThey walked with Wisdom, though they knew her not.'So sped I home; and from the under-worldForever came a wind that fill'd my sails,Cold, like a spirit! and ever her still voiceSpoke over shoreless seas and fathomless deeps,And in great calms, as from a colder world;Nor slack'd I sail by day, nor yet when nightFell on my running keel, and now would burn,With all her eyes, my errand into me.So sped I on, fill'd with a voice divine:And hardly wist I whom I was to slay,My mother! but a vague, heroic dreamPossess'd me; fired to do the will of gods,I lost the man in minister of Heaven;Nor took I note of sandbank, nor of storm,Nor of the ocean's thunders, when the shoresAll round had faded, leaving me alone:I knew I could not die, till I had slain!But, when I came once more upon the landThat rear'd me, all the sweetness of old daysCame back on me: I stood, as from a dreamWaked to a sudden, sad reality.And when, far off, I saw those ancient towers,The palaces and places of my youth,I long'd to fall into my mother's arms,And tell a thousand tales of near escapes.And lo! the nurse, that fondled me of yore,Fell with glad tears upon my neck, and toldHow she, and how my mother, all this whileHad dream'd of all I was to do, and saidHow dear I should be to my mother's eyes.Her words shook me, but shook not my resolve.For even then there came that sterner voice,Echoing to what was highest in the soul.Then, like to those who have a work on earth,And put far from them lips of wife or child,And gird them to the accomplishment; so IStrode in, nor saw at all mine ancient halls;And struck my father's murderess, not my mother.And, when I had smitten, lo, the strength of godsPass'd from me, and the old, familiar hallsReel'd back on me; dim statues, that of oldHolding my mother's hand I marvell'd at,And questioned her of each. And she lies there,My mother! ay, my mother now; O hairThat once I play'd with in these halls! O eyesThat for a moment knew me as I came,And lighten'd up, and trembled into love;The next were darkened by my hand! Ah me!Ye will not look upon me in that world.Yet thou, perchance, art happier, if thou go'stInto some land of wind and drifting leaves,To sleep without a star; but as for me,Hell hungers, and the restless Furies wait.Then the dark Curse, that sits upon the towers,Bow'd down her awful head, thus satisfied,And I fled forth, a murderer, through the world.
Me in far lands did Justice call, cold queenAmong the dead, who after heat and hasteAt length have leisure for her steadfast voice,That gathers peace from the great deeps of hell.She call'd me, saying: 'I heard a cry by night!Go thou, and question not; within thy hallsMy will awaits fulfilment. Lo, the deadCries out before me in the under-world.Seek not to justify thyself: in meBe strong, and I will show thee wise in time;For, though my face be dark, yet unto thoseWho truly follow me through storm or shine,For these the veil shall fall, and they shall seeThey walked with Wisdom, though they knew her not.'So sped I home; and from the under-worldForever came a wind that fill'd my sails,Cold, like a spirit! and ever her still voiceSpoke over shoreless seas and fathomless deeps,And in great calms, as from a colder world;Nor slack'd I sail by day, nor yet when nightFell on my running keel, and now would burn,With all her eyes, my errand into me.So sped I on, fill'd with a voice divine:And hardly wist I whom I was to slay,My mother! but a vague, heroic dreamPossess'd me; fired to do the will of gods,I lost the man in minister of Heaven;Nor took I note of sandbank, nor of storm,Nor of the ocean's thunders, when the shoresAll round had faded, leaving me alone:I knew I could not die, till I had slain!But, when I came once more upon the landThat rear'd me, all the sweetness of old daysCame back on me: I stood, as from a dreamWaked to a sudden, sad reality.And when, far off, I saw those ancient towers,The palaces and places of my youth,I long'd to fall into my mother's arms,And tell a thousand tales of near escapes.And lo! the nurse, that fondled me of yore,Fell with glad tears upon my neck, and toldHow she, and how my mother, all this whileHad dream'd of all I was to do, and saidHow dear I should be to my mother's eyes.Her words shook me, but shook not my resolve.For even then there came that sterner voice,Echoing to what was highest in the soul.Then, like to those who have a work on earth,And put far from them lips of wife or child,And gird them to the accomplishment; so IStrode in, nor saw at all mine ancient halls;And struck my father's murderess, not my mother.And, when I had smitten, lo, the strength of godsPass'd from me, and the old, familiar hallsReel'd back on me; dim statues, that of oldHolding my mother's hand I marvell'd at,And questioned her of each. And she lies there,My mother! ay, my mother now; O hairThat once I play'd with in these halls! O eyesThat for a moment knew me as I came,And lighten'd up, and trembled into love;The next were darkened by my hand! Ah me!Ye will not look upon me in that world.Yet thou, perchance, art happier, if thou go'stInto some land of wind and drifting leaves,To sleep without a star; but as for me,Hell hungers, and the restless Furies wait.Then the dark Curse, that sits upon the towers,Bow'd down her awful head, thus satisfied,And I fled forth, a murderer, through the world.
Stephen Phillips.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! the stars above us shine;God of His goodness made them mine and thine;His silver have we gotten, and His gold,Whilst there's a sun to call us in the mornTo ply the hook among amid the yellow corn,That such a mine of pretty gems doth hold:For there's the poppy half in sorrow,Greeting sleepy-eyed the morrow,And the corn-flower, dainty tire for a sweetheart sunny-poll'd.Dry thine eyes, Doll! the woods are all our own,The woods that soon shall take a braver tone,What time the frosts first silver Nature's hair;The birds shall sing their best for thee and me;And every sunrise listeners will we be,And so of singing get the goodliest share;When the thrushes sing so sweetly,We would fain be footing featly,But our hearts dance time instead in the throbbing matin air.Dry thine eyes, Doll! there's Love to feed our fire,Not for the buying, but for the desire;Winter ne'er quenched a blaze so bravely fed.And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best:In winter earlier sink the suns to rest,And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped;When in the embers glowingThere'll be love-charms worth the knowing,Or, at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! the stars above us shine;God of His goodness made them mine and thine;His silver have we gotten, and His gold,Whilst there's a sun to call us in the mornTo ply the hook among amid the yellow corn,That such a mine of pretty gems doth hold:For there's the poppy half in sorrow,Greeting sleepy-eyed the morrow,And the corn-flower, dainty tire for a sweetheart sunny-poll'd.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! the woods are all our own,The woods that soon shall take a braver tone,What time the frosts first silver Nature's hair;The birds shall sing their best for thee and me;And every sunrise listeners will we be,And so of singing get the goodliest share;When the thrushes sing so sweetly,We would fain be footing featly,But our hearts dance time instead in the throbbing matin air.
Dry thine eyes, Doll! there's Love to feed our fire,Not for the buying, but for the desire;Winter ne'er quenched a blaze so bravely fed.And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best:In winter earlier sink the suns to rest,And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped;When in the embers glowingThere'll be love-charms worth the knowing,Or, at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead.
Arthur S. Cripps.
OSummer sun, O moving trees!O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street!What hour shall Fate in all the future find,Or what delights, ever to equal these:Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind,Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?
OSummer sun, O moving trees!O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street!What hour shall Fate in all the future find,Or what delights, ever to equal these:Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind,Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?
Laurence Binyon.
Now lonely is the wood:No flower now lingers, none!The virgin sisterhoodOf roses, all are gone;Now Autumn sheds her latest leaf;And in my heart is grief.Ah me, for all earth rears,The appointed bound is placed!After a thousand yearsThe great oak falls at last:And thou, more lovely, canst not stay,Sweet rose, beyond thy day.Our life is not the lifeOf roses and of leaves;Else wherefore this deep strife,This pain, our soul conceives?The fall of ev'n such short-lived thingsTo us some sorrow brings.And yet, plant, bird, and flyFeel no such hidden fire.Happy they live; and dieHappy, with no desire.They in their brief life have fulfill'dAll Nature in them will'd.And were we also madeOf like terrestrial mouldWe should not be afraid,Nor feel the grave so cold;But, all oblivious of our fate,Live sweetly out our date.For the great mother lovesHer children far too well;These longings that she movesTheir own fulfilment tell:She would not burden us with aughtWe really needed not.O, not in vain she gaveTo the wild birds their wings!They spread them forth, and haveHeaven for their wanderings.But we, to whom no wings are givenWhy seek we for a Heaven?And, when far o'er us flyThose voyagers of the air,Why must we gaze, and sigh,O would that I were there?Why are we restless, ill content,Tied to one element?'Tis not that in our tearsSome happier life we crave;Our happiest, sweetest yearsMysterious moments have:The sense of our brief human lotClings to us, haunts our thought.O then this pleasant earthSeems but an alien thing:Faint grows her busy mirth;Far hence our thoughts take wing:For some enduring home we cry!She cannot satisfy,Or bind us: only tiesImmortal found can bless;Only in loving eyesWe see our happiness;Only upon a loving breastOur souls find any rest.Why thirsts the spirit soFor life? what moves it thus?'Tishervoice; yes, I know,'Tis Nature cries in us:'Tis no unholy strife of oursAgainst forbidding powers.What though we gaze with fear,So blank death seems to be;What though no land appearBeyond that lonely sea;Still in our hearts her cry doth stay;She will find out a way.So in the chrysalisSlumber those lovely wings;So from the shell it isThe dazzling pearl she brings:Her glorious works she works alone,Unfathom'd and unknown!
Now lonely is the wood:No flower now lingers, none!The virgin sisterhoodOf roses, all are gone;Now Autumn sheds her latest leaf;And in my heart is grief.
Ah me, for all earth rears,The appointed bound is placed!After a thousand yearsThe great oak falls at last:And thou, more lovely, canst not stay,Sweet rose, beyond thy day.
Our life is not the lifeOf roses and of leaves;Else wherefore this deep strife,This pain, our soul conceives?The fall of ev'n such short-lived thingsTo us some sorrow brings.
And yet, plant, bird, and flyFeel no such hidden fire.Happy they live; and dieHappy, with no desire.They in their brief life have fulfill'dAll Nature in them will'd.
And were we also madeOf like terrestrial mouldWe should not be afraid,Nor feel the grave so cold;But, all oblivious of our fate,Live sweetly out our date.
For the great mother lovesHer children far too well;These longings that she movesTheir own fulfilment tell:She would not burden us with aughtWe really needed not.
O, not in vain she gaveTo the wild birds their wings!They spread them forth, and haveHeaven for their wanderings.But we, to whom no wings are givenWhy seek we for a Heaven?
And, when far o'er us flyThose voyagers of the air,Why must we gaze, and sigh,O would that I were there?Why are we restless, ill content,Tied to one element?
'Tis not that in our tearsSome happier life we crave;Our happiest, sweetest yearsMysterious moments have:The sense of our brief human lotClings to us, haunts our thought.
O then this pleasant earthSeems but an alien thing:Faint grows her busy mirth;Far hence our thoughts take wing:For some enduring home we cry!She cannot satisfy,
Or bind us: only tiesImmortal found can bless;Only in loving eyesWe see our happiness;Only upon a loving breastOur souls find any rest.
Why thirsts the spirit soFor life? what moves it thus?'Tishervoice; yes, I know,'Tis Nature cries in us:'Tis no unholy strife of oursAgainst forbidding powers.
What though we gaze with fear,So blank death seems to be;What though no land appearBeyond that lonely sea;Still in our hearts her cry doth stay;She will find out a way.
So in the chrysalisSlumber those lovely wings;So from the shell it isThe dazzling pearl she brings:Her glorious works she works alone,Unfathom'd and unknown!
Manmohan Ghose.