Love, we have heard togetherThe North Sea sing his tune,And felt the wind’s wild featherBrush past our cheeks at noon,And seen the cloudy weatherMade wondrous with the moon.
Where loveliness is rarest,’Tis also prized the most:The moonlight shone her fairestAlong that level coastWhere sands and dunes the barest,Of beauty seldom boast,
Far from that bleak and rude landAn exile I remainFixed in a fair and good land,A valley and a plainRich in fat fields and woodland,And watered well with rain.
Last night the full moon’s splendourShone down on Taunton Dene,And pasture fresh and tender,And coppice dusky green,The heavenly light did renderIn one enchanted scene,
One fair unearthly vision.Yet soon mine eyes were cloyed,And found those fields ElysianToo rich to be enjoyed.Or was it our divisionMade all my pleasure void?
Across the window glassesThe curtain then I drew,And, as a sea-bird passes,In sleep my spirit flewTo grey and windswept grassesAnd moonlit sands—and you.
The city once again doth wearHer wonted dress of winter’s bride,Her mantle woven of misty air,With saffron sunlight faintly dyed.She sits above the seething tide,Of all her summer robes forlorn—And dead is all her summer pride—The leaves are off Queen Mary’s Thorn.
All round, the landscape stretches bare,The bleak fields lying far and wide,Monotonous, with here and thereA lone tree on a lone hillside.No more the land is glorifiedWith golden gleams of ripening corn,Scarce is a cheerful hue descried—The leaves are off Queen Mary’s Thorn.
For me, I do not greatly careThough leaves be dead, and mists abide.To me the place is thrice as fairIn winter as in summer-tide:With kindlier memories alliedOf pleasure past and pain o’erworn.What care I, though the earth may hideThe leaves from off Queen Mary’s Thorn?
Thus I unto my friend replied,When, on a chill late autumn morn,He pointed to the tree, and cried,‘The leaves are off Queen Mary’s Thorn!’
There was a time when it was counted highTo be a patriot—whether by the zealOf peaceful labour for the country’s weal,Or by the courage in her cause to die:
For King and Countrywas a rallying cryThat turned men’s hearts to fire, their nerves to steel;Not to unheeding ears did it appeal,A pulpit formula, a platform lie.
Only a fool will wantonly desireThat war should come, outpouring blood and fire,And bringing grief and hunger in her train.And yet, if there be found no other way,God send us war, and with it send the dayWhen love of country shall be real again!
Sleep flies me like a loverToo eagerly pursued,Or like a bird to coverWithin some distant wood,Where thickest boughs roof overHer secret solitude.
The nets I spread to snare her,Although with cunning wrought,Have only served to scare her,And now she’ll not be caught.To those who best could spare her,She ever comes unsought.
She lights upon their pillows;She gives them pleasant dreams,Grey-green with leaves of willows,And cool with sound of streams,Or big with tranquil billows,On which the starlight gleams.
No vision fair entrancesMy weary open eye,No marvellous romancesMake night go swiftly by;But only feverish fanciesBeset me where I lie.
The black midnight is steepingThe hillside and the lawn,But still I lie unsleeping,With curtains backward drawn,To catch the earliest peepingOf the desirèd dawn.
Perhaps, when day is breaking;When birds their song begin,And, worn with all night waking,I call their music din,Sweet sleep, some pity taking,At last may enter in.
Whene’er I try to read a book,Across the page your face will look,And then I neither know nor careWhat sense the printed words may bear.
At night when I would go to sleep,Thinking of you, awake I keep,And still repeat the words you said,Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.
And when, with weariness oppressed,I sink in spite of you to rest,Your image, like a lovely sprite,Haunts me in dreams through half the night.
I wake upon the autumn mornTo find the sunrise hardly born,And in the sky a soft pale blue,And in my heart your image true.
When out I walk to take the air,Your image is for ever there,Among the woods that lose their leaves,Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.
By what enchantment shall be laidThis ghost, which does not make afraid,But vexes with dim lovelinessAnd many a shadowy caress?
There is no other way I knowBut unto you forthwith to go,That I may look upon the maidWhereof that other is the shade.
As the strong sun puts out the moon,Whose borrowed rays are all his own,So, in your living presence, diesThe phantom kindled at your eyes.
By this most blessed spell, each dayThe vexing ghost awhile I lay.Yet am I glad to know that whenI leave you it will rise again.
Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went awayYou said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay,The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the seaCome back to St. Andrews—St. Andrews and me.
Oh, it’s dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down,And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red gown,As I often saw you do, when I watched you going byOn the stormy days to College, from my window up on high.
I wander on the Lade Braes, where I used to walk with you,And purple are the woods of Mount Melville, budding new,But I cannot bear to look, for the tears keep coming so,And the Spring has lost the freshness which it had a year ago.
Yet often I could fancy, where the pathway takes a turn,I shall see you in a moment, coming round beside the burn,Coming round beside the burn, with your swinging step and free,And your face lit up with pleasure at the sudden sight of me.
Beyond the Rock and Spindle, where we watched the water clearIn the happy April sunshine, with a happy sound to hear,There I sat this afternoon, but no hand was holding mine,And the water sounded eerie, though the April sun did shine.
Oh, why should I complain of what I know was bound to be?For you had your way to make, and you must not think of me.But a woman’s heart is weak, and a woman’s joys are few—There are times when I could die for a moment’s sight of you.
It may be you will come again, before my hair is greyAs the sea is in the twilight of a weary winter’s day.When success is grown a burden, and your heart would fain be free,Come back to St. Andrews—St. Andrews and me.
I have been lonely all my days on earth,Living a life within my secret soul,With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,Beyond the world’s control.
Though sometimes with vain longing I have soughtTo walk the paths where other mortals tread,To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought,And eat the selfsame bread—
Yet have I ever found, when thus I stroveTo mould my life upon the common plan,That I was furthest from all truth and love,And least a living man.
Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy,Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense;No man could love me, for all men could seeThe hollow vain pretence.
Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air,Upon their easy road I tripped and fell,And still I sickened of the wholesome fareOn which they nourished well.
I was a stranger in that company,A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed,And when they lifted up their songs of glee,My voice sad discord made.
Peace for mine own self I could never find,And still my presence marred the general peace,And when I parted, leaving them behind,They felt, and I, release.
So will I follow now my spirit’s bent,Not scorning those who walk the beaten track,Yet not despising mine own banishment,Nor often looking back.
Their way is best for them, but mine for me.And there is comfort for my lonely heart,To think perhaps our journeys’ ends may beNot very far apart.
Familiar with thy melody,We go debating of its power,As churls, who hear it hour by hour,Contemn the skylark’s minstrelsy—
As shepherds on a Highland leaThink lightly of the heather flowerWhich makes the moorland’s purple dower,As far away as eye can see.
Let churl or shepherd change his sky,And labour in the city dark,Where there is neither air nor room—How often will the exile sighTo hear again the unwearied lark,And see the heather’s lavish bloom!
Gone is the glory from the hills,The autumn sunshine from the mere,Which mourns for the declining yearIn all her tributary rills.
A sense of change obscurely chillsThe misty twilight atmosphere,In which familiar things appearLike alien ghosts, foreboding ills.
The twilight hour a month agoWas full of pleasant warmth and ease,The pearl of all the twenty-four.Erelong the winter gales shall blow,Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze—And oh, that it were June once more!
Not the proudest damsel hereLooks so well as doth my dear.All the borrowed light of dressOutshining not her loveliness,
A loveliness not born of art,But growing outwards from her heart,Illuminating all her face,And filling all her form with grace.
Said I, of dress the borrowed lightCould rival not her beauty bright?Yet, looking round, ’tis truth to tell,No damsel here is dressed so well.
Only in them the dress one sees,Because more greatly it doth pleaseThan any other charm that’s theirs,Than all their manners, all their airs.
But dress in her, although indeedIt perfect be, we do not heed,Because the face, the form, the airAre all so gentle and so rare.
Another day let slip! Its hours have run,Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,All run to waste. A day of life the less;Of many wasted days, alas, but one!
Through my west window streams the setting sun.I kneel within my chamber, and confessMy sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,In place of honest joy for work well done.
At noon I passed some labourers in a field.The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,Yet he was happier, though he did not know.
Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am IThy strong solicitations to withstand.Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.
How can I work, when that seductive skySmiles through the window, beautiful and bland,And seems to half entreat and half commandMy presence out of doors beneath its eye?
Will not the air be fresh, the water blue,The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore,Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers?Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you!And think it strange if I return beforeThe sea grows purple in the evening hours.
I hear a twittering of birds,And now they burst in song.How sweet, although it wants the words!It shall not want them long,For I will set some to the noteWhich bubbles from the thrush’s throat.
O jewelled night, that reign’st on high,Where is thy crescent moon?Thy stars have faded from the sky,The sun is coming soon.The summer night is passed away,Sing welcome to the summer day.
As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,With love o’erthrown, with love o’erthrown,And this is truth I tell,As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,Was sadly walking all alone,
I met my love one morningIn Cairnsmill Den.One morning, one morning,One blue and blowy morning,I met my love one morningIn Cairnsmill Den.
A dead bough broke within the woodWithin the wood, within the wood,And this is truth I tell.A dead bough broke within the wood,And I looked up, and there she stood.
I asked what was it brought her there,What brought her there, what brought her there,And this is truth I tell.I asked what was it brought her there.Says she, ‘To pull the primrose fair.’
Says I, ‘Come, let me pull with you,Along with you, along with you,’And this is truth I tell.Says I, ‘Come let me pull with you,For one is not so good as two.’
But when at noon we climbed the hill,We climbed the hill, we climbed the hill,And this is truth I tell.But when at noon we climbed the hill,Her hands and mine were empty still.
And when we reached the top so high,The top so high, the top so high,And this is truth I tell.And when we reached the top so highSays I, ‘I’ll kiss you, if I die!’
I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,In Cairnsmill Den, in Cairnsmill Den,And this is truth I tell.I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,And my love kissed me back again.
I met my love one morningIn Cairnsmill Den.One morning, one morning,One blue and blowy morning,I met my love one morningIn Cairnsmill Den.
One dark, dark night—it was long ago,The air was heavy and still and warm—It fell to me and a man I know,To see two girls to their father’s farm.
There was little seeing, that I recall:We seemed to grope in a cave profound.They might have come by a painful fall,Had we not helped them over the ground.
The girls were sisters. Both were fair,But mine was the fairer (so I say).The dark soon severed us, pair from pair,And not long after we lost our way.
We wandered over the country-side,And we frightened most of the sheep about,And I do not think that we greatly tried,Having lost our way, to find it out.
The night being fine, it was not worth while.We strayed through furrow and corn and grassWe met with many a fence and stile,And a quickset hedge, which we failed to pass.
At last we came on a road she knew;She said we were near her father’s place.I heard the steps of the other two,And my heart stood still for a moment’s space.
Then I pleaded, ‘Give me a good-night kiss.’I have learned, but I did not know in time,The fruits that hang on the tree of blissAre not for cravens who will not climb.
We met all four by the farmyard gate,We parted laughing, with half a sigh,And home we went, at a quicker rate,A shorter journey, my friend and I.
When we reached the house, it was late enough,And many impertinent things were said,Of time and distance, and such dull stuff,But we said little, and went to bed.
We went to bed, but one at leastWent not to sleep till the black turned grey,And the sun rose up, and the light increased,And the birds awoke to a summer day.
And sometimes now, when the nights are mild,And the moon is away, and no stars shine,I wander out, and I go half-wild,To think of the kiss which was not mine.
Let great minds laugh at a grief so small,Let small minds laugh at a fool so great.Kind maidens, pity me, one and all.Shy youths, take warning by this my fate.
Alas for the bird who was born to sing!They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing;They have shut him up in a dingy street,And they praise his singing and call it sweet.But his heart and his song are saddened and filledWith the woods, and the nest he never will build,And the wild young dawn coming into the tree,And the mate that never his mate will be.And day by day, when his notes are heardThey freshen the street—but alas for the bird
The air is dark and fragrantWith memories of a shower,And sanctified with stillnessBy this most holy hour.
The leaves forget to whisperOf soft and secret things,And every bird is silent,With folded eyes and wings.
O blessed hour of midnight,Of sleep and of release,Thou yieldest to the toilerThe wages of thy peace.
And I, who have not laboured,Nor borne the heat of noon,Receive thy tranquil quiet—An undeservèd boon.
Yes, truly God is gracious,Who makes His sun to shineUpon the good and evil,And idle lives like mine.
Upon the just and unjustHe sends His rain to fall,And gives this hour of blessingFreely alike to all.
Oh, where’s the use of having gifts that can’t be turned to money?And where’s the use of singing, when there’s no one wants to hear?It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey,But where’s the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?
The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light,Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.
Because you are a princess, a princess of the land,You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand,A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes;But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.
’Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring,Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command,Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.
Song is not dead, although to-dayMen tell us everything is said.There yet is something left to say,Song is not dead.
While still the evening sky is red,While still the morning gold and grey,While still the autumn leaves are shed,
While still the heart of youth is gay,And honour crowns the hoary head,While men and women love and praySong is not dead.
Till the tread of marching feetThrough the quiet grass-grown streetOf the little town shall come,Soldier, rest awhile at home.
While the banners idly hang,While the bugles do not clang,While is hushed the clamorous drum,Soldier, rest awhile at home.
In the breathing-time of Death,While the sword is in its sheath,While the cannon’s mouth is dumb,Soldier, rest awhile at home.
Not too long the rest shall be.Soon enough, to Death and thee,The assembly call shall come.Soldier, rest awhile at home.
Last night, when at partingAwhile we did stand,Suddenly starting,There fell on my hand
Something that burned it,Something that shoneIn the moon as I turned it,And then it was gone.
One bright stray jewel—What made it stray?Was I cold or cruel,At the close of day?
Oh, do not cry, lass!What is crying worth?There is no lass like my lassIn the whole wide earth.
When people tell me they have lovedBut once in youth,I wonder, are they always movedTo speak the truth?
Not that they wilfully deceive:They fondly cherishA constancy which they would grieveTo think might perish.
They cherish it until they think’Twas always theirs.So, if the truth they sometimes blink,’Tis unawares.
Yet unawares, I must profess,They do deceiveThemselves, and those who questionlessTheir tale believe.
For I have loved, I freely own,A score of times,And woven, out of love alone,A hundred rhymes.
Boys will be fickle. Yet, when allIs said and done,I was not one whom you could callA flirt—not one
Of those who into three or fourTheir hearts divide.My queens came singly to the door,Not side by side.
Each, while she reigned, possessed aloneMy spirit loyal,Then left an undisputed throneTo one more royal,
To one more fair in form and faceSweeter and stronger,Who filled the throne with truer grace,And filled it longer.
So, love by love, they came and passed,These loves of mine,And each one brighter than the lastTheir lights did shine.
Until—but am I not too free,Most courteous stranger,With secrets which belong to me?There is a danger.
Until, I say, the perfect love,The last, the best,Like flame descending from above,Kindled my breast,
Kindled my breast like ardent flame,With quenchless glow.I knew not love until it came,But now I know.
You smile. The twenty loves beforeWere each in turn,You say, the final flame that o’erMy soul should burn.
Smile on, my friend. I will not sayYou have no reason;But if the love I feel to-dayDepart, ’tis treason!
If this depart, not once againWill I on paperDeclare the loves that waste and wane,Like some poor taper.
No, no! This flame, I cannot doubt,Despite your laughter,Will burn till Death shall put it out,And may be after.
These verses have I pilfered like a beeOut of a letter from my C. C. C.In London, showing what befell him there,With other things, of interest to me.
One page described a night in open airHe spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,With men and women who by want are drivenThither for lodging, when the nights are fair.
No roof there is between their heads and heaven,No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,No comfort but the company of thoseWho with despair, like them, have vainly striven.
On benches there uneasily they doze,Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,And if through weariness they might sleep sound,Their eyes must open almost ere they close.
With even tramp upon the paven ground,Twice every hour the night patrol comes roundTo clear these wretches off, who may not keepThe miserable couches they have found.
Yet the stern shepherds of the poor black sheepWill soften when they see a woman weep.There was a mother there who strove in vain,With sobs, to hush a starving child to sleep.
And through the night which took so long to wane,He saw sad sufferers relieving pain,And daughters of iniquity and scornPerforming deeds which God will not disdain.
There was a girl, forlorn of the forlorn,Whose dress was white, but draggled, soiled, and torn,Who wandered like a ghost without a home.She spoke to him before the day was born.
She, who all night, when spoken to, was dumb,Earning dislike from most, abuse from some,Now asked the hour, and when he told her ‘Two,’Wailed, ‘O my God, will daylight never come?’
Yes, it will come, and change the sky anewFrom star-besprinkled black to sunlit blue,And bring sweet thoughts and innocent desiresTo countless girls. What will it bring to you?
Never was sun so bright before,No matin of the lark so sweet,No grass so green beneath my feet,Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o’er.
I stand with thee outside the door,The air not yet is close with heat,And far across the yellowing wheatThe waves are breaking on the shore.
A lovely day! Yet many such,Each like to each, this month have passed,And none did so supremely shine.One thing they lacked: the perfect touchOf thee—and thou art come at last,And half this loveliness is thine.
The fire burns brightAnd the hearth is clean swept,As she likes it kept,And the lamp is alight.She is coming to-night.
The wind’s east of late.When she comes, she’ll be cold,So the big chair is rolledClose up to the grate,And I listen and wait.
The shutters are fast,And the red curtains hideEvery hint of outside.But hark, how the blastWhistled then as it passed!
Or was it the train?How long shall I stand,With my watch in my hand,And listen in vainFor the wheels in the lane?
Hark! A rumble I hear(Will the wind not be still?),And it comes down the hill,And it grows on the ear,And now it is near.
Quick, a fresh log to burn!Run and open the door,Hold a lamp out beforeTo light up the turn,And bring in the urn.
You are come, then, at last!O my dear, is it you?I can scarce think it trueI am holding you fast,And sorrow is past.
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belatingIs to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creatingThe woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie,And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.
The Links are full of larks’ nests, and the larks possess the sky,Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating,All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie—yes, and I,Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.
Fickle Summer’s fled away,Shall we see her face again?Hearken to the weeping rain,Never sunbeam greets the day.
More inconstant than the May,She cares nothing for our pain,Nor will hear the birds complainIn their bowers that once were gay.
Summer, Summer, come once more,Drive the shadows from the field,All thy radiance round thee fling,Be our lady as of yore;Then the earth her fruits shall yield,Then the morning stars shall sing.
I made a truce last night with Sorrow,The queen of tears, the foe of sleep,To keep her tents until the morrow,Nor send such dreams to make me weep.
Before the lusty day was springing,Before the tired moon was set,I dreamed I heard my dead love singing,And when I woke my eyes were wet.
Years grow and gather—each a gemLustrous with laughter and with tears,And cunning Time a crown of yearsContrives for her who weareth them.
No chance can snatch this diadem,It trembles not with hopes or fears,It shines before the rose appears,And when the leaves forsake her stem.
Time sets his jewels one by one.Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lieIn attic chambers of the past?They withered ere the day was done.This coronal will never die,Nor shall you lose it at the last.
When the weary night is fled,And the morning sky is red,Then my heart doth rise and say,‘Surely she will come to-day.’
In the golden blaze of noon,‘Surely she is coming soon.’In the twilight, ‘Will she come?’Then my heart with fear is dumb.
When the night wind in the treesPlays its mournful melodies,Then I know my trust is vain,And she will not come again.
The life of earth, how full of pain,Which greets us on our day of birth,Nor leaves us while we yet retainThe life of earth.
There is a shadow on our mirth,Our sun is blotted out with rain,And all our joys are little worth.
Yet oh, when life begins to wane,And we must sail the doubtful firth,How wild the longing to regainThe life of earth!
Golden dream of summer morn,By a well-remembered streamIn the land where I was born,Golden dream!
Ripples, by the glancing beamLightly kissed in playful scorn,Meadows moist with sunlit steam.
When I lift my eyelids wornLike a fair mirage you seem,In the winter dawn forlorn,Golden dream!
Mourn that which will not come again,The joy, the strength of early years.Bow down thy head, and let thy tearsWater the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,To murmur in a mourner’s ears,To soften all the field of fears,To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awakeWhat lies beneath of young or fairAnd sleeps so sound it draws no breath,Yet, watered thus, the sod may breakIn flowers which sweeten all the air,And fill with life the place of death.
When we have laid aside our last endeavour,And said farewell to one or two that weep,And issued from the house of life for ever,To find a lodging in the house of sleep—
With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying,With folded arms unmoved upon the breast,Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying,Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?
Or shall there come at last desire of waking,To walk again on hillsides that we know,When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking,Or in the stillness of the after-glow?
Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices,The sight of faces, and the touch of hands,The will that works, the spirit that rejoices,The heart that feels, the mind that understands?
Shall dreams and memories crowding from the distance,Shall ghosts of old ambition or of mirth,Create for us a shadow of existence,A dim reflection of the life of earth?
And being dead, and powerless to recoverThe substance of the show whereon we gaze,Shall we be likened to the hapless lover,Who broods upon the unreturning days?
Not so: for we have known how swift to perishIs man’s delight when youth and health take wing,Until the winter leaves him nought to cherishBut recollections of a vanished spring.
Dream as we may, desire of life shall neverDisturb our slumbers in the house of sleep.Yet oh, to think we may not greet for everThe one or two that, when we leave them, weep!
The sun is banished,The daylight vanished,No rosy tracesAre left behind.Here in the meadowI watch the shadowOf forms and facesUpon your blind.
Through swift transitions,In new positions,My eyes still followOne shape most fair.My heart delayingAwhile, is playingWith pleasures hollow,Which mock despair.
I feel so lonely,I long once onlyTo pass an hourWith you, O sweet!To touch your fingers,Where fragrance lingersFrom some rare flower,And kiss your feet.
But not this evenTo me is given.Of all sad mortalsMost sad am I,Never to meet you,Never to greet you,Nor pass your portalsBefore I die.
All men scorn me,Not one will mourn me,When from their cityI pass away.Will you to-morrowRecall with sorrowHim whom with pityYou saw to-day?
Outcast and lonely,One thing onlyBeyond misgivingI hold for true,That, had you known me,You would have shown meA life worth living—A life for you.
Yes: five years youngerMy manhood’s hungerHad you come fillingWith plenty sweet,My life so nourished,Had grown and flourished,Had God been willingThat we should meet.
How vain to fashionFrom dreams and passionThe rich existenceWhich might have been!Can God’s own powerRecall the hour,Or bridge the distanceThat lies between?
Before the morning,From pain and scorningI sail death’s riverTo sleep or hell.To you is givenThe life of heaven.Farewell for ever,Farewell, farewell!
Beside the drowsy streams that creepWithin this island of repose,Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,Oh, let us fold our hands to sleep!
Is it ignoble, then, to keepAwhile from where the rough wind blows,And all is strife, and no man knowsWhat end awaits him on the deep?
The voyager may rest awhile,When rest invites, and yet may beNeither a sluggard nor a craven.With strength renewed he quits the isle,And putting out again to sea,Makes sail for his desirèd haven.
Of our own will we are not free,When freedom lies within our power.We wait for some decisive hour,To rise and take our liberty.
Still we delay, content to beImprisoned in our own high tower.What is it but a strong-built bower?Ours are the warders, ours the key.
But we through indolence grow weak.Our warders, fed with power so long,Become at last our lords indeed.We vainly threaten, vainly seekTo move their ruth. The bars are strong.We dash against them till we bleed.
You found my life, a poor lame birdThat had no heart to sing,You would not speak the magic wordTo give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,I think, if you had knownHow much my life was in your power,It might have sung and flown.
Last Sunday night I read the saddening storyOf the unanswered love of fair Elaine,The ‘faith unfaithful’ and the joyless gloryOf Lancelot, ‘groaning in remorseful pain.’
I thought of all those nights in wintry weather,Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago,When we two read our Poet’s words together,Till summer warmth within our hearts did glow.
Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure,Sit down together at our Merlin’s feet,Drink from one cup the overflowing measure,And find, in sharing it, the draught more sweet?
That time perchance is far, beyond divining.Till then we drain the ‘magic cup’ apart;Yet not apart, for hope and memory twiningSmile upon each, uniting heart to heart.
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,Why wilt thou parley with the foe?He seeks to work thine overthrow,And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.
Hast thou forgotten many a day,When thou exulting forth didst go,And ere the noon wert lying low,A broken and defenceless prey?
If thou wouldst live, avoid his face;Dwell in the wilderness apart,And gather force for vanquishing,Ere thou returnest to his place.Then arm, and with undaunted heartGive battle, till he own thee king.
When one who has wandered out of the wayWhich leads to the hills of joy,Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,Though it be but the heart of a boy—When such a one turns back his feetFrom the valley of shadow and pain,Is not the sunshine passing sweet,When a man grows young again?
How gladly he mounts up the steep hillside,With strength that is born anew,And in his veins, like a full springtide,The blood streams through and through.And far above is the summit clear,And his heart to be there is fain,And all too slowly it comes more nearWhen a man grows young again.
He breathes the pure sweet mountain breath,And it widens all his heart,And life seems no more kin to death,Nor death the better part.And in tones that are strong and rich and deepHe sings a grand refrain,For the soul has awakened from mortal sleep,When a man grows young again.
Be ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away.Ye shall pass and be forgot,And your place shall know you not.
Other generations rise,With the same hope in their eyesThat in yours is kindled now,And the same light on their brow.
They shall see the selfsame sunThat your eyes now gaze upon,They shall breathe the same sweet air,And shall reck not who ye were.
Yet they too shall fade at lastIn the twilight of the past,They and you alike shall beLost from the world’s memory.
Then, while yet ye breathe and live,Drink the cup that life can give.Be ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away,
Ere the golden bowl be broken,Ere ye pass and leave no token,Ere the silver cord be loosed,Ere ye turn again to dust.
‘And shall this be all,’ ye cry,‘But to eat and drink and die?If no more than this there be,Vanity of vanity!’
Yea, all things are vanity,And what else but vain are ye?Ye who boast yourselves the kingsOver all created things.
Kings! whence came your right to reign?Ye shall be dethroned again.Yet for this, your one brief hour,Wield your mockery of power.
Dupes of Fate, that treads you downWear awhile your tinsel crownBe ye happy, if ye may,In the years that pass away.
O Love, thine empire is not dead,Nor will we let thy worship go,Although thine early flush be fled,Thine ardent eyes more faintly glow,And thy light wings be fallen slowSince when as novices we cameInto the temple of thy name.
Not now with garlands in our hair,And singing lips, we come to thee.There is a coldness in the air,A dulness on the encircling sea,Which doth not well with songs agree.And we forget the words we sangWhen first to thee our voices rang.
When we recall that magic prime,We needs must weep its early death.How pleasant from thy towers the chimeOf bells, and sweet the incense breathThat rose while we, who kept thy faith,Chanting our creed, and chanting boreOur offerings to thine altar store!
Now are our voices out of tune,Our gifts unworthy of thy name.December frowns, in place of June.Who smiled when to thy house we came,We who came leaping, now are lame.Dull ears and failing eyes are ours,And who shall lead us to thy towers?
O hark! A sound across the air,Which tells not of December’s cold,A sound most musical and rare.Thy bells are ringing as of old,With silver throats and tongues of gold.Alas! it is too sweet for truth,An empty echo of our youth.
Nay, never echo spake so loud!It is indeed thy bells that ring.And lo, against the leaden cloud,Thy towers! Once more we leap and spring,Once more melodiously we sing,We sing, and in our song forgetThat winter lies around us yet.
Oh, what is winter, now we know,Full surely, thou canst never fail?Forgive our weak untrustful woe,Which deemed thy glowing face grown pale.We know thee, mighty to prevail.Doubt and decrepitude depart,And youth comes back into the heart.
O Love, who turnest frost to flameWith ardent and immortal eyes,Whose spirit sorrow cannot tame,Nor time subdue in any wise—While sun and moon for us shall rise,Oh, may we in thy service keepTill in thy faith we fall asleep!
Where she sleeps, no moonlight shinesNo pale beam unbidden creeps.Darkest shade the place enshrinesWhere she sleeps.
Like a diamond in the deepsOf the rich unopened minesThere her lovely rest she keeps.
Though the jealous dark confinesAll her beauty, Love’s heart leaps.His unerring thought divinesWhere she sleeps.
For thee the birds shall never sing again,Nor fresh green leaves come out upon the tree,The brook shall no more murmur the refrainFor thee.
Thou liest underneath the windswept lea,Thou dreamest not of pleasure or of pain,Thou dreadest no to-morrow that shall be.
Deep rest is thine, unbroken by the rain,Ay, or the thunder. Brother, canst thou seeThe tears that night and morning fall in vainFor thee?
Thou art queen to every eye,When the fairest maids convene.Envy’s self can not denyThou art queen.
In thy step thy right is seen,In thy beauty pure and high,In thy grace of air and mien.
Thine unworthy vassal I,Lay my hands thy hands between;Kneeling at thy feet I cryThou art queen!
‘In the shadow of Thy wings, O Lord of Hosts, whom I extol,I will put my trust for ever,’ so the kingly David sings.‘Thou shalt help me, Thou shalt save me, onlyThou shalt keep me whole,In the shadow of Thy wings.’
In our ears this voice triumphant, like a blowing trumpet, rings,But our hearts have heard another, as of funeral bells that toll,‘God of David where to find Thee?’ No reply the question brings.
Shadows are there overhead, but they are of the clouds that roll,Blotting out the sun from sight, and overwhelming earthly things.Oh, that we might feel Thy presence! Surely we could rest our soulIn the shadow of Thy wings.
I know the garden-close of sin,The cloying fruits, the noxious flowers,I long have roamed the walks and bowers,Desiring what no man shall win:
A secret place to shelter in,When soon or late the angry powersCome down to seek the wretch who cowers,Expecting judgment to begin.
The pleasure long has passed awayFrom flowers and fruit, each hour I dreadMy doom will find me where I lie.I dare not go, I dare not stay.Without the walks, my hope is dead,Within them, I myself must die.
There is a village in a southern land,By rounded hills closed in on every hand.The streets slope steeply to the market-square,Long lines of white-washed houses, clean and fair,With roofs irregular, and steps of stoneAscending to the front of every one.The people swarthy, idle, full of mirth,Live mostly by the tillage of the earth.
Upon the northern hill-top, looking down,Like some sequestered saint upon the town,Stands the great convent.
On a summer night,Ten years ago, the moon with rising lightMade all the convent towers as clear as day,While still in deepest shade the village lay.Both light and shadow with repose were filled,The village sounds, the convent bells were stilled.No foot in all the streets was now astir,And in the convent none kept watch but herWhom they called Ursula. The moonlight fellBrightly around her in the lonely cell.Her eyes were dark, and full of unshed woe,Like mountain tarns which cannot overflow,Surcharged with rain, and round about the eyesDeep rings recorded sleepless nights, and criesStifled before their birth. Her brow was pale,And like a marble temple in a valeOf cypress trees, shone shadowed by her hair.So still she was, that had you seen her there,You might have thought you were beholding death.Her lips were parted, but if any breathCame from between them, it were hard to knowBy any movement of her breast of snow.
But when the summer night was now far spent,She kneeled upon the floor. Her head she leantDown on the cold stone of the window-seat.God knows if there were any vital heatIn those pale brows, or if they chilled the stone.And as she knelt, she made a bitter moan,With words that issued from a bitter soul,—‘O Mary, Mother, and is this thy goal,Thy peace which waiteth for the world-worn heart?Is it for this I live and die apartFrom all that once I knew? O Holy God,Is this the blessed chastening of Thy rod,Which only wounds to heal? Is this the crossThat I must carry, counting all for lossWhich once was precious in the world to me?If Thou be God, blot out my memory,And let me come, forsaking all, to Thee.But here, though that old world beholds me not,Here, though I seek Thee through my lonely lot,Here, though I fast, do penance day by day,Kneel at Thy feet, and ever watch and pray,Beloved forms from that forsaken worldRevisit me. The pale blue smoke is curledUp from the dwellings of the sons of men.I see it, and all my heart turns back againFrom seeking Thee, to find the forms I love.
‘Thou, with Thy saints abiding far above,What canst Thou know of this, my earthly pain?They said to me, Thou shalt be born again,And learn that worldly things are nothing worth,In that new state. O God, is this new birth,Birth of the spirit dying to the flesh?Are these the living waters which refreshThe thirsty spirit, that it thirst no more?Still all my life is thirsting to the core.Thou canst not satisfy, if this be Thou.And yet I dream, or I remember how,Before I came here, while I tarried yetAmong the friends they tell me to forget,I never seemed to seek Thee, but I foundThou wert in all the loveliness around,And most of all in hearts that loved me well.
‘And then I came to seek Thee in this cell,To crucify my worldliness and pride,To lay my heart’s affections all aside,As carnal hindrances which held my soulFrom hasting unencumbered to her goal.And all this have I done, or else have strivenTo do, obeying the behest of Heaven,And my reward is bitterness. I seemTo wander always in a feverish dreamOn plains where there is only sun and sand,No rock or tree in all the weary land,My thirst unquenchable, my heart burnt dry.And still in my parched throat I faintly cry,Deliver me, O Lord: bow down Thine ear!
‘He will not answer me. He does not hear.I am alone within the universe.Oh for a strength of will to rise and curseGod, and defy Him here to strike me dead!But my heart fails me, and I bow my head,And cry to Him for mercy, still in vain.Oh for some sudden agony of pain,To make such insurrection in my soulThat I might burst all bondage of control,Be for one moment as the beasts that die,And pour my life in one blaspheming cry!’
The morning came, and all the convent towersWere gilt with glory by the golden hours.But where was Ursula? The sisters cameWith quiet footsteps, calling her by name,But there was none that answered. In her cell,The glad, illuminating sunshine fellOn form and face, and showed that she was dead.‘May Christ receive her soul!’ the sisters said,And spoke in whispers of her holy life,And how God’s mercy spared her pain and strife,And gave this quiet death. The face was still,Like a tired child’s, that lies and sleeps its fill.
Sorrow and sin have worked their willFor years upon your sovereign face,And yet it keeps a faded traceOf its unequalled beauty still,As ruined sanctuaries holdA crumbled trace of perfect mouldIn shrines which saints no longer fill.
I knew you in your splendid morn,Oh, how imperiously sweet!I bowed and worshipped at your feet,And you received my love with scorn.Now I scorn you. It is a change,When I consider it, how strangeThat you, not I, should be forlorn.
Do you suppose I have no painTo see you play this sorry part,With faded face and broken heart,And life lived utterly in vain?Oh would to God that you once moreMight scorn me as you did of yore,And I might worship you again!
Children of earth are we,Lovers of land and sea,Of hill, of brook, of tree,Of all things fair;Of all things dark or bright,Born of the day and night,Red rose and lily whiteAnd dusky hair.
Yet not alone from earthDo we derive our birth.What were our singing worthWere this the whole?Somewhere from heaven afarHath dropped a fiery star,Which makes us what we are,Which is our soul.
It seems a little word to say—Farewell—but may it not, when said,Be like the kiss we give the dead,Before they pass the doors for aye?
Who knows if, on some after day,Your lips shall utter in its steadA welcome, and the broken threadBe joined again, the selfsame way?
The word is said, I turn to go,But on the threshold seem to hearA sound as of a passing bell,Tolling monotonous and slow,Which strikes despair upon my ear,And says it is a last farewell.
No gift I bring but worship, and the loveWhich all must bear to lovely souls and pure,Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;
To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us moveLess doubtful, though our journey be obscure,Less fearful of its ending, being sureThat they watch over us, where’er we rove.
And though my gift itself have little worth,Yet worth it gains from her to whom ’tis given,As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,All things they look on take the look of heaven—For of those blessed angels thou art one.
I had a plant which would not thrive,Although I watered it with care,I could not save the blossoms fair,Nor even keep the leaves alive.
I strove till it was vain to strive.I gave it light, I gave it air,I sought from skill and counsel rareThe means to make it yet survive.
A lady sent it me, to proveShe held my friendship in esteem;I would not have it as she said,I wanted it to be for love;And now not even friends we seem,And now the cyclamen is dead.
There was a time when in your faceThere dwelt such power, and in your smileI know not what of magic grace;They held me captive for a while.
Ah, then I listened for your voice!Like music every word did fall,Making the hearts of men rejoice,And mine rejoiced the most of all.
At sight of you, my soul took flame.But now, alas! the spell is fled.Is it that you are not the same,Or only that my love is dead?
I know not—but last night I dreamedThat you were walking by my side,And sweet, as once you were, you seemed,And all my heart was glorified.
Your head against my shoulder lay,And round your waist my arm was pressed,And as we walked a well-known way,Love was between us both confessed.
But when with dawn I woke from sleep,And slow came back the unlovely truth,I wept, as an old man might weepFor the lost paradise of youth.
Oh, will the footsteps never be done?The insolent feetThronging the street,Forsaken now of the only one.
The only one out of all the throng,Whose footfall I knew,And could tell it so true,That I leapt to see as she passed along,
As she passed along with her beautiful face,Which knew full wellThough it did not tell,That I was there in the window-space.
Now my sense is never so clear.It cheats my heart,Making me startA thousand times, when she is not near.
When she is not near, but so far away,I could not comeTo the place of her home,Though I travelled and sought for a month and a day.
Do you wonder then if I wish the streetWere grown with grass,And no foot might passTill she treads it again with her sacred feet?
Crimson and cream and white—My room is a garden of roses!Centre and left and right,Three several splendid posies.
As the sender is, they are sweet,These lovely gifts of your sending,With the stifling summer heatTheir delicate fragrance blending.
What more can my heart desire?Has it lost the power to be grateful?Is it only a burnt-out fire,Whose ashes are dull and hateful?
Yet still to itself it doth say,‘I should have loved far betterTo have found, coming in to-day,The merest scrap of a letter.’