Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,Till England’s boughs are bare of leaves!Soon comes the flower more rare, more dearThan any laurel this year weaves—The Aloe of the hundredth yearSince from the smoke of TrafalgarHe passed to where the heroes are,Nelson, who passed and yet is here,Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,Whose memory mans our fleet.Laurels, bring laurels, since they holdHis England’s tears in each green fold,His England’s joy, his England’s pride,His England’s glories manifold.Yet what was Victory since he died?And what was Death since he lives yet,Above a Nation’s worship set,Above her heroes glorified?—Nelson, who made our flag a starTo lead where Victories are!
Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,Till England’s boughs are bare of leaves!Soon comes the flower more rare, more dearThan any laurel this year weaves—The Aloe of the hundredth yearSince from the smoke of TrafalgarHe passed to where the heroes are,Nelson, who passed and yet is here,Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,Whose memory mans our fleet.Laurels, bring laurels, since they holdHis England’s tears in each green fold,His England’s joy, his England’s pride,His England’s glories manifold.Yet what was Victory since he died?And what was Death since he lives yet,Above a Nation’s worship set,Above her heroes glorified?—Nelson, who made our flag a starTo lead where Victories are!
Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,Till England’s boughs are bare of leaves!Soon comes the flower more rare, more dearThan any laurel this year weaves—The Aloe of the hundredth yearSince from the smoke of TrafalgarHe passed to where the heroes are,Nelson, who passed and yet is here,Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,Whose memory mans our fleet.
Laurels, bring laurels, since they holdHis England’s tears in each green fold,His England’s joy, his England’s pride,His England’s glories manifold.Yet what was Victory since he died?And what was Death since he lives yet,Above a Nation’s worship set,Above her heroes glorified?—Nelson, who made our flag a starTo lead where Victories are!
Like an angry sun, like a splendid star,War gleams down the long years’ track;They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,And who shall hold them back?“Let loose the pack: we are English bred,We will meet them full and fairWith the flag of England over our head,And his hand to keep it there!”So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,Blew brave to the north and south;An iron answer we gave the world,For we spoke by the cannon’s mouth.But he who taught us the word to sayGrew dumb as his Victory sang,And England mourned on her triumph day,And wept while her joy-bells rang.Long hour by hour, and long day by day,The swift years crept apace,The patient, the coral-insect way,To cover the dear dead face.O foolish rabble of envious years,Who wist not the dead must rise,His name is music still in our ears,His face a light to our eyes!Bring hither your laurels, the fading signOf a deathless love and pride;These cling more close than the laurels twine,They are strong as the world is wide:At the feet of Virtue in Valour cladShall glory and love be laid,While Glory sings to an English lad,Or Love to an English maid.Wherever the gleams of an English fireOn an English roof-tree shine,Wherever the fire of a youth’s desireIs laid upon Honour’s shrine,Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,In the tale of the deeds of yoreLike jewels of price in a chain of goldAre the name and the fame he bore.Wherever the track of our English shipsLies white on the ocean foam,His name is sweet to our English lipsAs the names of the flowers at home;Wherever the heart of an English boyGrows big with a deed of worth,Such names as his name have begot the same,Such hearts will bring it to birth.They say that his England, grown tired and old,Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;They say her hands have the grasp of the goldBut not the grip of the sword,That her robe of glory is rent and shred,And that winds of shame blow through:Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,In the deeds you would have her do!Small skill have we to fight with the penWho fought with the sword of old,For the sword that is wielded of EnglishmenIs as much as one hand can hold.Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,And the coward and the wise choose these;But fools and brave were our English crewsWhen Nelson swept the seas.’Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,To ponder and pause and plan,But the way of Nelson was better yet,For that was the way of a man;They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,They have bidden us palter and pray,But the way of Nelson was good enough,For that was the fighting way.If Nelson’s England must stoop to bearWhat never honour should brook,In vain does the tomb of her hero wearThe laurel his brow forsook;In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,If now must her lips refrain;In vain has she made us, her living sons,Her dead have made her in vain.So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,And wreathe his column with laurel roundTo point his fame to the skies;But the greenest laurel that ever grewIs the laurel that’s yet to win;Crowned with his laurels he waits for YouTo bring Your laurels in!
Like an angry sun, like a splendid star,War gleams down the long years’ track;They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,And who shall hold them back?“Let loose the pack: we are English bred,We will meet them full and fairWith the flag of England over our head,And his hand to keep it there!”So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,Blew brave to the north and south;An iron answer we gave the world,For we spoke by the cannon’s mouth.But he who taught us the word to sayGrew dumb as his Victory sang,And England mourned on her triumph day,And wept while her joy-bells rang.Long hour by hour, and long day by day,The swift years crept apace,The patient, the coral-insect way,To cover the dear dead face.O foolish rabble of envious years,Who wist not the dead must rise,His name is music still in our ears,His face a light to our eyes!Bring hither your laurels, the fading signOf a deathless love and pride;These cling more close than the laurels twine,They are strong as the world is wide:At the feet of Virtue in Valour cladShall glory and love be laid,While Glory sings to an English lad,Or Love to an English maid.Wherever the gleams of an English fireOn an English roof-tree shine,Wherever the fire of a youth’s desireIs laid upon Honour’s shrine,Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,In the tale of the deeds of yoreLike jewels of price in a chain of goldAre the name and the fame he bore.Wherever the track of our English shipsLies white on the ocean foam,His name is sweet to our English lipsAs the names of the flowers at home;Wherever the heart of an English boyGrows big with a deed of worth,Such names as his name have begot the same,Such hearts will bring it to birth.They say that his England, grown tired and old,Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;They say her hands have the grasp of the goldBut not the grip of the sword,That her robe of glory is rent and shred,And that winds of shame blow through:Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,In the deeds you would have her do!Small skill have we to fight with the penWho fought with the sword of old,For the sword that is wielded of EnglishmenIs as much as one hand can hold.Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,And the coward and the wise choose these;But fools and brave were our English crewsWhen Nelson swept the seas.’Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,To ponder and pause and plan,But the way of Nelson was better yet,For that was the way of a man;They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,They have bidden us palter and pray,But the way of Nelson was good enough,For that was the fighting way.If Nelson’s England must stoop to bearWhat never honour should brook,In vain does the tomb of her hero wearThe laurel his brow forsook;In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,If now must her lips refrain;In vain has she made us, her living sons,Her dead have made her in vain.So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,And wreathe his column with laurel roundTo point his fame to the skies;But the greenest laurel that ever grewIs the laurel that’s yet to win;Crowned with his laurels he waits for YouTo bring Your laurels in!
Like an angry sun, like a splendid star,War gleams down the long years’ track;They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,And who shall hold them back?“Let loose the pack: we are English bred,We will meet them full and fairWith the flag of England over our head,And his hand to keep it there!”
So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,Blew brave to the north and south;An iron answer we gave the world,For we spoke by the cannon’s mouth.But he who taught us the word to sayGrew dumb as his Victory sang,And England mourned on her triumph day,And wept while her joy-bells rang.
Long hour by hour, and long day by day,The swift years crept apace,The patient, the coral-insect way,To cover the dear dead face.O foolish rabble of envious years,Who wist not the dead must rise,His name is music still in our ears,His face a light to our eyes!
Bring hither your laurels, the fading signOf a deathless love and pride;These cling more close than the laurels twine,They are strong as the world is wide:At the feet of Virtue in Valour cladShall glory and love be laid,While Glory sings to an English lad,Or Love to an English maid.
Wherever the gleams of an English fireOn an English roof-tree shine,Wherever the fire of a youth’s desireIs laid upon Honour’s shrine,Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,In the tale of the deeds of yoreLike jewels of price in a chain of goldAre the name and the fame he bore.
Wherever the track of our English shipsLies white on the ocean foam,His name is sweet to our English lipsAs the names of the flowers at home;Wherever the heart of an English boyGrows big with a deed of worth,Such names as his name have begot the same,Such hearts will bring it to birth.
They say that his England, grown tired and old,Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;They say her hands have the grasp of the goldBut not the grip of the sword,That her robe of glory is rent and shred,And that winds of shame blow through:Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,In the deeds you would have her do!
Small skill have we to fight with the penWho fought with the sword of old,For the sword that is wielded of EnglishmenIs as much as one hand can hold.Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,And the coward and the wise choose these;But fools and brave were our English crewsWhen Nelson swept the seas.
’Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,To ponder and pause and plan,But the way of Nelson was better yet,For that was the way of a man;They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,They have bidden us palter and pray,But the way of Nelson was good enough,For that was the fighting way.
If Nelson’s England must stoop to bearWhat never honour should brook,In vain does the tomb of her hero wearThe laurel his brow forsook;In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,If now must her lips refrain;In vain has she made us, her living sons,Her dead have made her in vain.
So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,And wreathe his column with laurel roundTo point his fame to the skies;But the greenest laurel that ever grewIs the laurel that’s yet to win;Crowned with his laurels he waits for YouTo bring Your laurels in!
This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!For valour and faith and honour—these grow where the red flower grows,And the leaves for the Nation’s healing must spring from the blood of her foes.
This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!For valour and faith and honour—these grow where the red flower grows,And the leaves for the Nation’s healing must spring from the blood of her foes.
This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,
When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.
England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.
Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!For valour and faith and honour—these grow where the red flower grows,And the leaves for the Nation’s healing must spring from the blood of her foes.
Lady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,Upon whose head the glories of our landIn one immortal diadem are met,Embodied England, in whose woman-handThe sceptre of Imperial sway is set,Receive this song of mine!For you are England, and her bays grow greenTo deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,And in our hearts your face is as Her face;The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.* * * * * *We, men of England, children of her might,With all our Mother’s record-roll of glory,Great with her greatness, noble by her name,Drank with our mothers’ milk our Mother’s story,And in our veins the splendour of her fameMade strong our blood and bright;And to her absent sons her name has beenFamiliar music heard in distant lands,Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!Out of the thunderous echoes of the pastThrough the gold-dust of centuries we hearHer voice, “O children of a royal line,Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,Mine was the Past—make ye the future mineAll glorious to the last!”And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,And men to heroes, and the voice of fearIs as a whisper in a deaf man’s ear,And the dead past is quick in us again.Her robe is woven of glory and renown,Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,And lordship of the wild and watery ways,Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blazeFor jewels in her crown.Her Empire like a girdle doth enfoldThe world; her feet upon her foes are set;She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amuletWon by her children in the days of old.Yet in a treasury of such gems as theseWhich power and sovereignty and kingship fillTo the vast limit of the circling sun,England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,As her most precious jewel, save only one,The priceless pearl of peace—Peace plucked from out the very heart of warThrough the long agony of strenuous years,Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,A pearl to lie where England’s treasures are.O peaceful English lanes all white with may,O English meadows where the grass grows tall,O red-roofed village, field and farm and foldWhere the long shadows of the elm-trees fallOn the wide pastures which the sun calls goldAnd twilit dew calls gray;—These are the home, the happy cradle-placeOf every man who has our English tongue,Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?Is it not more to us than all things are?Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,But England’s honour is more precious farThan all the heavens and earth.Were honour outcast from her supreme placeOur pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,The whole world came against us in array,If all our glory into darkness passed,Our Empire ceased to be,Yet should we still have chosen the better partThough in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,Though lost were every jewel in our crownWe still should wear our jewel in our heart.So, for our Mother’s honour, if it mustLet Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;Not trampled down, but given, for her sakeWho forged of many an iron yesterdayThe golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wakeWhen we are dust, in dust:For brotherhood and strife and praise and blameAnd all the world, even to our very land,Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sandAgainst the honour of our English name!
Lady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,Upon whose head the glories of our landIn one immortal diadem are met,Embodied England, in whose woman-handThe sceptre of Imperial sway is set,Receive this song of mine!For you are England, and her bays grow greenTo deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,And in our hearts your face is as Her face;The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.* * * * * *We, men of England, children of her might,With all our Mother’s record-roll of glory,Great with her greatness, noble by her name,Drank with our mothers’ milk our Mother’s story,And in our veins the splendour of her fameMade strong our blood and bright;And to her absent sons her name has beenFamiliar music heard in distant lands,Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!Out of the thunderous echoes of the pastThrough the gold-dust of centuries we hearHer voice, “O children of a royal line,Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,Mine was the Past—make ye the future mineAll glorious to the last!”And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,And men to heroes, and the voice of fearIs as a whisper in a deaf man’s ear,And the dead past is quick in us again.Her robe is woven of glory and renown,Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,And lordship of the wild and watery ways,Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blazeFor jewels in her crown.Her Empire like a girdle doth enfoldThe world; her feet upon her foes are set;She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amuletWon by her children in the days of old.Yet in a treasury of such gems as theseWhich power and sovereignty and kingship fillTo the vast limit of the circling sun,England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,As her most precious jewel, save only one,The priceless pearl of peace—Peace plucked from out the very heart of warThrough the long agony of strenuous years,Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,A pearl to lie where England’s treasures are.O peaceful English lanes all white with may,O English meadows where the grass grows tall,O red-roofed village, field and farm and foldWhere the long shadows of the elm-trees fallOn the wide pastures which the sun calls goldAnd twilit dew calls gray;—These are the home, the happy cradle-placeOf every man who has our English tongue,Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?Is it not more to us than all things are?Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,But England’s honour is more precious farThan all the heavens and earth.Were honour outcast from her supreme placeOur pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,The whole world came against us in array,If all our glory into darkness passed,Our Empire ceased to be,Yet should we still have chosen the better partThough in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,Though lost were every jewel in our crownWe still should wear our jewel in our heart.So, for our Mother’s honour, if it mustLet Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;Not trampled down, but given, for her sakeWho forged of many an iron yesterdayThe golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wakeWhen we are dust, in dust:For brotherhood and strife and praise and blameAnd all the world, even to our very land,Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sandAgainst the honour of our English name!
Lady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,Upon whose head the glories of our landIn one immortal diadem are met,Embodied England, in whose woman-handThe sceptre of Imperial sway is set,Receive this song of mine!For you are England, and her bays grow greenTo deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,And in our hearts your face is as Her face;The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.* * * * * *We, men of England, children of her might,With all our Mother’s record-roll of glory,Great with her greatness, noble by her name,Drank with our mothers’ milk our Mother’s story,And in our veins the splendour of her fameMade strong our blood and bright;And to her absent sons her name has beenFamiliar music heard in distant lands,Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!
Out of the thunderous echoes of the pastThrough the gold-dust of centuries we hearHer voice, “O children of a royal line,Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,Mine was the Past—make ye the future mineAll glorious to the last!”And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,And men to heroes, and the voice of fearIs as a whisper in a deaf man’s ear,And the dead past is quick in us again.
Her robe is woven of glory and renown,Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,And lordship of the wild and watery ways,Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blazeFor jewels in her crown.Her Empire like a girdle doth enfoldThe world; her feet upon her foes are set;She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amuletWon by her children in the days of old.
Yet in a treasury of such gems as theseWhich power and sovereignty and kingship fillTo the vast limit of the circling sun,England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,As her most precious jewel, save only one,The priceless pearl of peace—Peace plucked from out the very heart of warThrough the long agony of strenuous years,Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,A pearl to lie where England’s treasures are.
O peaceful English lanes all white with may,O English meadows where the grass grows tall,O red-roofed village, field and farm and foldWhere the long shadows of the elm-trees fallOn the wide pastures which the sun calls goldAnd twilit dew calls gray;—These are the home, the happy cradle-placeOf every man who has our English tongue,Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!
Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?Is it not more to us than all things are?Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,But England’s honour is more precious farThan all the heavens and earth.Were honour outcast from her supreme placeOur pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.
Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,The whole world came against us in array,If all our glory into darkness passed,Our Empire ceased to be,Yet should we still have chosen the better partThough in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,Though lost were every jewel in our crownWe still should wear our jewel in our heart.
So, for our Mother’s honour, if it mustLet Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;Not trampled down, but given, for her sakeWho forged of many an iron yesterdayThe golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wakeWhen we are dust, in dust:For brotherhood and strife and praise and blameAnd all the world, even to our very land,Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sandAgainst the honour of our English name!
Sir Geoffrey met the white ladyUpon his marriage morn,Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,Her hair was gold like corn.Sir Geoffrey gave the white ladyA posy of roses seven,“You are the fairest May,” said he,“That ever strayed from Heaven.”Sir Geoffrey by the white ladyWas lured away to shame,For seven long years of prayers and tearsNo tidings of him came.Then she who should have been his brideA mighty oath she swore,“For seven long years I have wept and prayed,Now I will pray no more.“Since God and all the saints of HeavenBring not my lord to me,I will go down myself to hellAnd bring him back,” said she.** * * *She crept to the white lady’s bower,The taper’s flame was dim,And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,And the white witch sat by him.Her arm was laid across his neck,Her gold hair on his face,And there was silence in the roomAs in a burial-place.And there were gems and carven cups,And ’broidered bridal gear—“Whose bridal is this?” the lady said,“And what knight have ye here?”“The good knight here ye know full well,He was your lord, I trow,But I have taken him from your side,And I am his lady now.“This seven year with right good cheerWe twain our bridal keep,So take for your mate another knightAnd let my dear lord sleep.”Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey’s bride,“What bridal cheer is this?I would think scorn to have the lipsWho could not have the kiss!“I would think scorn to take the halfWho could not have the whole;I would think scorn to steal the bodyWho could not take the soul!“For, though ye hold his body fastThis seven weary year,His soul walks ever at my sideAnd whispers in my ear.“I would think scorn to hold in sleepWhat, if it waked, would flee,So let his body join his soulAnd both fare forth with me;“For I have learned a spell more strongThan yours that laid him low,And I will speak it for his sakeBecause I love him so!”The white lady threw back her hair,Her eyes began to shine—“His soul is thine these seven years?—To-night it shall be mine!“I have been brave to hold him hereWhile seven long years befell,Rather than let a bridal beWhose seed should flower in hell.“I have not looked into his eyesNor joined my lips to his,For fear his soul should spring to flameAnd shrivel at my kiss.“I have been brave to watch his sleepWhile the long hours come and go,To hold the body without the soul,Because I love him so.“But since his soul this seven yearHas sat by thee,” she said,“His body and soul to-night shall lieUpon my golden bed.“Thou hast no need to speak the spellThat thou hast learned,” said she,“For I will wake him from his sleepAnd take his soul from thee.”She stooped above him where he lay,She laid her lips on his;He stirred, he spake: “These seven long yearsI have waited for thy kiss.“My soul has hung upon thy lipsAnd trembled at thy breath,Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,As God will give me death.“Why didst thou fear to kill my soulWhich only lives for thee?Thou hast put seven wasted years,O love, ’twixt thee and me.”
Sir Geoffrey met the white ladyUpon his marriage morn,Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,Her hair was gold like corn.Sir Geoffrey gave the white ladyA posy of roses seven,“You are the fairest May,” said he,“That ever strayed from Heaven.”Sir Geoffrey by the white ladyWas lured away to shame,For seven long years of prayers and tearsNo tidings of him came.Then she who should have been his brideA mighty oath she swore,“For seven long years I have wept and prayed,Now I will pray no more.“Since God and all the saints of HeavenBring not my lord to me,I will go down myself to hellAnd bring him back,” said she.** * * *She crept to the white lady’s bower,The taper’s flame was dim,And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,And the white witch sat by him.Her arm was laid across his neck,Her gold hair on his face,And there was silence in the roomAs in a burial-place.And there were gems and carven cups,And ’broidered bridal gear—“Whose bridal is this?” the lady said,“And what knight have ye here?”“The good knight here ye know full well,He was your lord, I trow,But I have taken him from your side,And I am his lady now.“This seven year with right good cheerWe twain our bridal keep,So take for your mate another knightAnd let my dear lord sleep.”Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey’s bride,“What bridal cheer is this?I would think scorn to have the lipsWho could not have the kiss!“I would think scorn to take the halfWho could not have the whole;I would think scorn to steal the bodyWho could not take the soul!“For, though ye hold his body fastThis seven weary year,His soul walks ever at my sideAnd whispers in my ear.“I would think scorn to hold in sleepWhat, if it waked, would flee,So let his body join his soulAnd both fare forth with me;“For I have learned a spell more strongThan yours that laid him low,And I will speak it for his sakeBecause I love him so!”The white lady threw back her hair,Her eyes began to shine—“His soul is thine these seven years?—To-night it shall be mine!“I have been brave to hold him hereWhile seven long years befell,Rather than let a bridal beWhose seed should flower in hell.“I have not looked into his eyesNor joined my lips to his,For fear his soul should spring to flameAnd shrivel at my kiss.“I have been brave to watch his sleepWhile the long hours come and go,To hold the body without the soul,Because I love him so.“But since his soul this seven yearHas sat by thee,” she said,“His body and soul to-night shall lieUpon my golden bed.“Thou hast no need to speak the spellThat thou hast learned,” said she,“For I will wake him from his sleepAnd take his soul from thee.”She stooped above him where he lay,She laid her lips on his;He stirred, he spake: “These seven long yearsI have waited for thy kiss.“My soul has hung upon thy lipsAnd trembled at thy breath,Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,As God will give me death.“Why didst thou fear to kill my soulWhich only lives for thee?Thou hast put seven wasted years,O love, ’twixt thee and me.”
Sir Geoffrey met the white ladyUpon his marriage morn,Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,Her hair was gold like corn.
Sir Geoffrey gave the white ladyA posy of roses seven,“You are the fairest May,” said he,“That ever strayed from Heaven.”
Sir Geoffrey by the white ladyWas lured away to shame,For seven long years of prayers and tearsNo tidings of him came.
Then she who should have been his brideA mighty oath she swore,“For seven long years I have wept and prayed,Now I will pray no more.
“Since God and all the saints of HeavenBring not my lord to me,I will go down myself to hellAnd bring him back,” said she.
** * * *She crept to the white lady’s bower,The taper’s flame was dim,And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,And the white witch sat by him.
Her arm was laid across his neck,Her gold hair on his face,And there was silence in the roomAs in a burial-place.
And there were gems and carven cups,And ’broidered bridal gear—“Whose bridal is this?” the lady said,“And what knight have ye here?”
“The good knight here ye know full well,He was your lord, I trow,But I have taken him from your side,And I am his lady now.
“This seven year with right good cheerWe twain our bridal keep,So take for your mate another knightAnd let my dear lord sleep.”
Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey’s bride,“What bridal cheer is this?I would think scorn to have the lipsWho could not have the kiss!
“I would think scorn to take the halfWho could not have the whole;I would think scorn to steal the bodyWho could not take the soul!
“For, though ye hold his body fastThis seven weary year,His soul walks ever at my sideAnd whispers in my ear.
“I would think scorn to hold in sleepWhat, if it waked, would flee,So let his body join his soulAnd both fare forth with me;“For I have learned a spell more strongThan yours that laid him low,And I will speak it for his sakeBecause I love him so!”
The white lady threw back her hair,Her eyes began to shine—“His soul is thine these seven years?—To-night it shall be mine!
“I have been brave to hold him hereWhile seven long years befell,Rather than let a bridal beWhose seed should flower in hell.
“I have not looked into his eyesNor joined my lips to his,For fear his soul should spring to flameAnd shrivel at my kiss.
“I have been brave to watch his sleepWhile the long hours come and go,To hold the body without the soul,Because I love him so.
“But since his soul this seven yearHas sat by thee,” she said,“His body and soul to-night shall lieUpon my golden bed.
“Thou hast no need to speak the spellThat thou hast learned,” said she,“For I will wake him from his sleepAnd take his soul from thee.”
She stooped above him where he lay,She laid her lips on his;He stirred, he spake: “These seven long yearsI have waited for thy kiss.
“My soul has hung upon thy lipsAnd trembled at thy breath,Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,As God will give me death.
“Why didst thou fear to kill my soulWhich only lives for thee?Thou hast put seven wasted years,O love, ’twixt thee and me.”
The poor ghost came through the wind and rainAnd passed down the old dear road again.Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayedLike little children that shrank afraid.The wind was wild and the night was lateWhen the poor ghost came to the garden gate;Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet,The weeds stood up where the rose was set.The wind was angry, the rain beat soreWhen the poor ghost came to its own house-door.“And shall I find her a-weeping stillTo think how alone I lie and chill?“Or shall I find her happy and warmWith her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?“Or shall I find she has learned to pineFor another’s love, and not for mine?“Whatever chance, I have this to my store,She is mine, my own, for evermore!”So the poor ghost came through the wind and rainTill it reached the square bright window pane.“Oh! what is here in the room so bright?Roses and love, and a hid delight?“What lurks in the silence that fills the room?A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it beHer heart that is breaking—and not for me?”Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.“Oh, there is light, at the feet and headTwelve tall tapers about the bed.“Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare,But not the garland a bride may wear.“Jasmine white and a white white rose,But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.“Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier—But the room is empty—she is not here!“Her body lies here, deserted, cold;And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.“Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free,Would not have hastened and come to me?“Can the soul that loved mine long agoBe hence and away, and I not know?“Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore,For I have lost her for evermore!”And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rainTo its own appointed place again.** * * *But up in Heaven, where memories ceaseBecause the blessed have won to peace,One pale saint shivered, and closer woundThe shining raiment that wrapped her round.“Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I,Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.“The past is veiled, and I may not know,But I think there was sorrow, long ago;“The sun of Heaven is warm and bright,But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.“O Christ, because of Thine own sore painHelp all poor souls in the wind and rain.”
The poor ghost came through the wind and rainAnd passed down the old dear road again.Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayedLike little children that shrank afraid.The wind was wild and the night was lateWhen the poor ghost came to the garden gate;Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet,The weeds stood up where the rose was set.The wind was angry, the rain beat soreWhen the poor ghost came to its own house-door.“And shall I find her a-weeping stillTo think how alone I lie and chill?“Or shall I find her happy and warmWith her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?“Or shall I find she has learned to pineFor another’s love, and not for mine?“Whatever chance, I have this to my store,She is mine, my own, for evermore!”So the poor ghost came through the wind and rainTill it reached the square bright window pane.“Oh! what is here in the room so bright?Roses and love, and a hid delight?“What lurks in the silence that fills the room?A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it beHer heart that is breaking—and not for me?”Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.“Oh, there is light, at the feet and headTwelve tall tapers about the bed.“Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare,But not the garland a bride may wear.“Jasmine white and a white white rose,But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.“Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier—But the room is empty—she is not here!“Her body lies here, deserted, cold;And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.“Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free,Would not have hastened and come to me?“Can the soul that loved mine long agoBe hence and away, and I not know?“Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore,For I have lost her for evermore!”And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rainTo its own appointed place again.** * * *But up in Heaven, where memories ceaseBecause the blessed have won to peace,One pale saint shivered, and closer woundThe shining raiment that wrapped her round.“Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I,Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.“The past is veiled, and I may not know,But I think there was sorrow, long ago;“The sun of Heaven is warm and bright,But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.“O Christ, because of Thine own sore painHelp all poor souls in the wind and rain.”
The poor ghost came through the wind and rainAnd passed down the old dear road again.
Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayedLike little children that shrank afraid.
The wind was wild and the night was lateWhen the poor ghost came to the garden gate;
Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet,The weeds stood up where the rose was set.
The wind was angry, the rain beat soreWhen the poor ghost came to its own house-door.
“And shall I find her a-weeping stillTo think how alone I lie and chill?
“Or shall I find her happy and warmWith her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?
“Or shall I find she has learned to pineFor another’s love, and not for mine?
“Whatever chance, I have this to my store,She is mine, my own, for evermore!”
So the poor ghost came through the wind and rainTill it reached the square bright window pane.
“Oh! what is here in the room so bright?Roses and love, and a hid delight?
“What lurks in the silence that fills the room?A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?
“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it beHer heart that is breaking—and not for me?”
Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.
“Oh, there is light, at the feet and headTwelve tall tapers about the bed.
“Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare,But not the garland a bride may wear.
“Jasmine white and a white white rose,But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.
“Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier—But the room is empty—she is not here!
“Her body lies here, deserted, cold;And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.
“Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free,Would not have hastened and come to me?
“Can the soul that loved mine long agoBe hence and away, and I not know?
“Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore,For I have lost her for evermore!”
And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rainTo its own appointed place again.
** * * *But up in Heaven, where memories ceaseBecause the blessed have won to peace,
One pale saint shivered, and closer woundThe shining raiment that wrapped her round.
“Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I,Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.
“The past is veiled, and I may not know,But I think there was sorrow, long ago;
“The sun of Heaven is warm and bright,But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.
“O Christ, because of Thine own sore painHelp all poor souls in the wind and rain.”
The house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,The fields are alight with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?I have waited the whole night through,For I knew,O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,That the night of all nights is this,When elm shall crack and lead shall part,When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts startTo let you through to my kiss.”So spake she alone in the lonely house.She had wrapped her round with the spell,She called the call, she vowed the vow,And the heart she had pledged knew wellThat this was the night, the only night,When the moulds might be wrenched apart,When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,Might clasp once more, in the grave’s despite,For the price of a living heart.But out in the grave the corpse lay whiteAnd the grave clothes were wet with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,I have waited the whole night through,For I knewThat I dared not leave my grave for an hourSince the hour of all hours is near,When you shall come to the hollow bower,In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,To the heart that to-night beats here!”The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still;Ah, God! do the dead forget?The grave is white and the bed is chill,But a guest may be coming yet.But the hour has come and the hour has goneThat never will come again;Love’s only chance is over and done,And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,And the price has been paid in vain.
The house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,The fields are alight with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?I have waited the whole night through,For I knew,O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,That the night of all nights is this,When elm shall crack and lead shall part,When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts startTo let you through to my kiss.”So spake she alone in the lonely house.She had wrapped her round with the spell,She called the call, she vowed the vow,And the heart she had pledged knew wellThat this was the night, the only night,When the moulds might be wrenched apart,When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,Might clasp once more, in the grave’s despite,For the price of a living heart.But out in the grave the corpse lay whiteAnd the grave clothes were wet with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,I have waited the whole night through,For I knewThat I dared not leave my grave for an hourSince the hour of all hours is near,When you shall come to the hollow bower,In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,To the heart that to-night beats here!”The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still;Ah, God! do the dead forget?The grave is white and the bed is chill,But a guest may be coming yet.But the hour has come and the hour has goneThat never will come again;Love’s only chance is over and done,And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,And the price has been paid in vain.
The house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,The fields are alight with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?I have waited the whole night through,For I knew,O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,That the night of all nights is this,When elm shall crack and lead shall part,When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts startTo let you through to my kiss.”
So spake she alone in the lonely house.She had wrapped her round with the spell,She called the call, she vowed the vow,And the heart she had pledged knew wellThat this was the night, the only night,When the moulds might be wrenched apart,When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,Might clasp once more, in the grave’s despite,For the price of a living heart.
But out in the grave the corpse lay whiteAnd the grave clothes were wet with dew;“Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,I have waited the whole night through,For I knewThat I dared not leave my grave for an hourSince the hour of all hours is near,When you shall come to the hollow bower,In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,To the heart that to-night beats here!”
The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still;Ah, God! do the dead forget?The grave is white and the bed is chill,But a guest may be coming yet.But the hour has come and the hour has goneThat never will come again;Love’s only chance is over and done,And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,And the price has been paid in vain.
The land of gold was far away,The sea a challenge roared between;I left my throne, my crown, my queen,And sailed out of the quiet bay.I met the challenge of the wave,The curses of the winds I mocked:The conquered wave my galley rocked,The wind became my envious slave.I brought much treasure from afar,Spices, and shells, and rich attire;Red rubies, fed with living fire,To lie where all my longings are.Heavy with spoil my keel ploughed lowAs slow we sailed into the bay,And long ago seemed yesterdayAnd yesterday looked long ago.I came in triumph from the sea;Bent was my crown, my courts grown mean,And on my throne a faded queenRaised alien eyes, and looked at me.“My queen! These rubies let me layUpon thy heart, as once my head ...”She smiled pale scorn: “My heart!” she said,And turned her weary eyes away.
The land of gold was far away,The sea a challenge roared between;I left my throne, my crown, my queen,And sailed out of the quiet bay.I met the challenge of the wave,The curses of the winds I mocked:The conquered wave my galley rocked,The wind became my envious slave.I brought much treasure from afar,Spices, and shells, and rich attire;Red rubies, fed with living fire,To lie where all my longings are.Heavy with spoil my keel ploughed lowAs slow we sailed into the bay,And long ago seemed yesterdayAnd yesterday looked long ago.I came in triumph from the sea;Bent was my crown, my courts grown mean,And on my throne a faded queenRaised alien eyes, and looked at me.“My queen! These rubies let me layUpon thy heart, as once my head ...”She smiled pale scorn: “My heart!” she said,And turned her weary eyes away.
The land of gold was far away,The sea a challenge roared between;I left my throne, my crown, my queen,And sailed out of the quiet bay.
I met the challenge of the wave,The curses of the winds I mocked:The conquered wave my galley rocked,The wind became my envious slave.
I brought much treasure from afar,Spices, and shells, and rich attire;Red rubies, fed with living fire,To lie where all my longings are.
Heavy with spoil my keel ploughed lowAs slow we sailed into the bay,And long ago seemed yesterdayAnd yesterday looked long ago.
I came in triumph from the sea;Bent was my crown, my courts grown mean,And on my throne a faded queenRaised alien eyes, and looked at me.
“My queen! These rubies let me layUpon thy heart, as once my head ...”She smiled pale scorn: “My heart!” she said,And turned her weary eyes away.
The waves in thunderous menace breakUpon the rocks below my tower,And none will dare the Sea-king’s powerAnd venture shipwreck for my sake.Yet once,—my lamp a path of lightAcross the darkling sea had cast—I saw a sail; at last, at last,It came towards me through the night.My lamp had been the beacon setTo lead the ship through mist and foam,The ship that came to take me home,To that far land I half forget.But since my tower is built so high,And surf-robed rocks curl hid below,I quenched my lamp—and, weeping lowI saw my ship go safely by!
The waves in thunderous menace breakUpon the rocks below my tower,And none will dare the Sea-king’s powerAnd venture shipwreck for my sake.Yet once,—my lamp a path of lightAcross the darkling sea had cast—I saw a sail; at last, at last,It came towards me through the night.My lamp had been the beacon setTo lead the ship through mist and foam,The ship that came to take me home,To that far land I half forget.But since my tower is built so high,And surf-robed rocks curl hid below,I quenched my lamp—and, weeping lowI saw my ship go safely by!
The waves in thunderous menace breakUpon the rocks below my tower,And none will dare the Sea-king’s powerAnd venture shipwreck for my sake.
Yet once,—my lamp a path of lightAcross the darkling sea had cast—I saw a sail; at last, at last,It came towards me through the night.
My lamp had been the beacon setTo lead the ship through mist and foam,The ship that came to take me home,To that far land I half forget.
But since my tower is built so high,And surf-robed rocks curl hid below,I quenched my lamp—and, weeping lowI saw my ship go safely by!
Through the long night, the deathlong night,Along the dark and haunted way,I knew your hidden face was bright—More bright than any day.And when the faint, insistent moanRose from some weed-grown wayside grave,I said, “I do not walk alone;’Tis easy to be brave.”I never turned to speak with you,For all the way was dark and long,But all the shadows’ menace throughYour silence was my song.I never sought to take your hand,For all the way was long and rough;I taught my soul to understandThat love was strength enough.Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near,A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band;I called aloud for you to hear,My hand besought your hand.No voice, no touch—the thin ghosts glideWhere in my dream I dreamed you were—Night, night, you are not by my side,You never have been there!
Through the long night, the deathlong night,Along the dark and haunted way,I knew your hidden face was bright—More bright than any day.And when the faint, insistent moanRose from some weed-grown wayside grave,I said, “I do not walk alone;’Tis easy to be brave.”I never turned to speak with you,For all the way was dark and long,But all the shadows’ menace throughYour silence was my song.I never sought to take your hand,For all the way was long and rough;I taught my soul to understandThat love was strength enough.Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near,A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band;I called aloud for you to hear,My hand besought your hand.No voice, no touch—the thin ghosts glideWhere in my dream I dreamed you were—Night, night, you are not by my side,You never have been there!
Through the long night, the deathlong night,Along the dark and haunted way,I knew your hidden face was bright—More bright than any day.
And when the faint, insistent moanRose from some weed-grown wayside grave,I said, “I do not walk alone;’Tis easy to be brave.”
I never turned to speak with you,For all the way was dark and long,But all the shadows’ menace throughYour silence was my song.
I never sought to take your hand,For all the way was long and rough;I taught my soul to understandThat love was strength enough.
Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near,A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band;I called aloud for you to hear,My hand besought your hand.
No voice, no touch—the thin ghosts glideWhere in my dream I dreamed you were—Night, night, you are not by my side,You never have been there!
Mine is a palace fair to see,All hung with gold and silver things,It is more glorious than a king’s,And crownèd queens might envy me.Ah, no, I will not let you in!Stay rather at the gates and weepFor all the splendour that I keep,The treasures that you cannot win.While you desire and I refuse,For both the palace still is here—Its turrets gold, its silver gearAre yours to wish for—mine to use.But if I let you in, I knowThe spell would break, the palace fade,And we stand, trembling and afraid,Lost in the dark where chill winds blow.
Mine is a palace fair to see,All hung with gold and silver things,It is more glorious than a king’s,And crownèd queens might envy me.Ah, no, I will not let you in!Stay rather at the gates and weepFor all the splendour that I keep,The treasures that you cannot win.While you desire and I refuse,For both the palace still is here—Its turrets gold, its silver gearAre yours to wish for—mine to use.But if I let you in, I knowThe spell would break, the palace fade,And we stand, trembling and afraid,Lost in the dark where chill winds blow.
Mine is a palace fair to see,All hung with gold and silver things,It is more glorious than a king’s,And crownèd queens might envy me.
Ah, no, I will not let you in!Stay rather at the gates and weepFor all the splendour that I keep,The treasures that you cannot win.
While you desire and I refuse,For both the palace still is here—Its turrets gold, its silver gearAre yours to wish for—mine to use.
But if I let you in, I knowThe spell would break, the palace fade,And we stand, trembling and afraid,Lost in the dark where chill winds blow.
Out of the west when the sun was dyingClouds of white wings came flying, flying,Wheeling and whirling they swept awayInto the heart of the eastern gray;But one white dove came straight to my breastOut of the west.Into the west when the dawn was pearlyClouds of white wings went, dewy-early,Straight from the world of the waning stars;O beating pinions! O prison bars!My dove flies free no more with the restInto the west.
Out of the west when the sun was dyingClouds of white wings came flying, flying,Wheeling and whirling they swept awayInto the heart of the eastern gray;But one white dove came straight to my breastOut of the west.Into the west when the dawn was pearlyClouds of white wings went, dewy-early,Straight from the world of the waning stars;O beating pinions! O prison bars!My dove flies free no more with the restInto the west.
Out of the west when the sun was dyingClouds of white wings came flying, flying,Wheeling and whirling they swept awayInto the heart of the eastern gray;But one white dove came straight to my breastOut of the west.
Into the west when the dawn was pearlyClouds of white wings went, dewy-early,Straight from the world of the waning stars;O beating pinions! O prison bars!My dove flies free no more with the restInto the west.
Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair,And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear?Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough?Are you going for a soldier now?I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of redAnd I’m tired of woman’s chatter, and I’ll hear the drum instead;I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow,For I’m going for a soldier now.For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go,To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow?I’ll make you sweeter music, for I’ll swear another vow—Are you going for a soldier now?I am going for a soldier if you’d twenty vows to make;You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break,For I’m sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough,And I’m going for a soldier now!
Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair,And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear?Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough?Are you going for a soldier now?I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of redAnd I’m tired of woman’s chatter, and I’ll hear the drum instead;I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow,For I’m going for a soldier now.For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go,To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow?I’ll make you sweeter music, for I’ll swear another vow—Are you going for a soldier now?I am going for a soldier if you’d twenty vows to make;You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break,For I’m sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough,And I’m going for a soldier now!
Are you going for a soldier with your curly yellow hair,And a scarlet coat instead of the smock you used to wear?Are you going to drive the foe as you used to drive the plough?Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier, and my tunic is of redAnd I’m tired of woman’s chatter, and I’ll hear the drum instead;I will break the fighting line as you broke your plighted vow,For I’m going for a soldier now.
For a soldier, for a soldier are you sure that you will go,To hear the drums a-beating and to hear the bugles blow?I’ll make you sweeter music, for I’ll swear another vow—Are you going for a soldier now?
I am going for a soldier if you’d twenty vows to make;You must get another sweetheart, with another heart to break,For I’m sick of lies and women and the harrow and the plough,And I’m going for a soldier now!
I wandered lonely by the sea,As is my daily use,I saw her drive across the leaThe gander and the goose.The gander and the gray, gray goose,She drove them all together;Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose,All in the wild gray weather.“O dainty maid who drive the geeseAcross the common wide,Turn, turn your pretty back on theseAnd come and be my bride.I am a poet from the town,And, ’mid the ladies there,There is not one would wear a crownWith half your charming air!”She laughed, she shook her pretty head.“I want no poet’s hand;Go read your fairy-books,” she said,“For this is fairy-land.My Prince comes riding o’er the leas;He fitly comes to woo,For I’m a Princess, and my geeseWere poets, once, like you!”
I wandered lonely by the sea,As is my daily use,I saw her drive across the leaThe gander and the goose.The gander and the gray, gray goose,She drove them all together;Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose,All in the wild gray weather.“O dainty maid who drive the geeseAcross the common wide,Turn, turn your pretty back on theseAnd come and be my bride.I am a poet from the town,And, ’mid the ladies there,There is not one would wear a crownWith half your charming air!”She laughed, she shook her pretty head.“I want no poet’s hand;Go read your fairy-books,” she said,“For this is fairy-land.My Prince comes riding o’er the leas;He fitly comes to woo,For I’m a Princess, and my geeseWere poets, once, like you!”
I wandered lonely by the sea,As is my daily use,I saw her drive across the leaThe gander and the goose.The gander and the gray, gray goose,She drove them all together;Her cheeks were rose, her gold hair loose,All in the wild gray weather.
“O dainty maid who drive the geeseAcross the common wide,Turn, turn your pretty back on theseAnd come and be my bride.I am a poet from the town,And, ’mid the ladies there,There is not one would wear a crownWith half your charming air!”
She laughed, she shook her pretty head.“I want no poet’s hand;Go read your fairy-books,” she said,“For this is fairy-land.My Prince comes riding o’er the leas;He fitly comes to woo,For I’m a Princess, and my geeseWere poets, once, like you!”
Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!And see if you can find him;He has blue eyes—you’ll know him by,—He wears a pack behind him.He’s gone away—ah! many a mileBecause he could not please me,And, oh! ’twill be a weary whileEre next he comes to tease me.He carries wares of every kind,Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,Bargains to rhyme with every mind,And hues to suit all faces.He has gold rings and pretty thingsThat other maids will throng for,Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,And fly to him I long for.Tell him to turn and come again,For once I sent him packing;He offered me a bargain then,But wit and price were lacking.I have the price he asked of me,The wit that will not weigh it;Ah! bid him come again and seeHow gladly I will pay it.A heart of gold he offered meAs ’twere a penny fairing,And only asked a worthless fee,This heavy heart I’m wearing.I would not then—now long and drearThe white way winds behind him;Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,But you will never find him!
Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!And see if you can find him;He has blue eyes—you’ll know him by,—He wears a pack behind him.He’s gone away—ah! many a mileBecause he could not please me,And, oh! ’twill be a weary whileEre next he comes to tease me.He carries wares of every kind,Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,Bargains to rhyme with every mind,And hues to suit all faces.He has gold rings and pretty thingsThat other maids will throng for,Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,And fly to him I long for.Tell him to turn and come again,For once I sent him packing;He offered me a bargain then,But wit and price were lacking.I have the price he asked of me,The wit that will not weigh it;Ah! bid him come again and seeHow gladly I will pay it.A heart of gold he offered meAs ’twere a penny fairing,And only asked a worthless fee,This heavy heart I’m wearing.I would not then—now long and drearThe white way winds behind him;Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,But you will never find him!
Fly, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!And see if you can find him;He has blue eyes—you’ll know him by,—He wears a pack behind him.He’s gone away—ah! many a mileBecause he could not please me,And, oh! ’twill be a weary whileEre next he comes to tease me.
He carries wares of every kind,Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,Bargains to rhyme with every mind,And hues to suit all faces.He has gold rings and pretty thingsThat other maids will throng for,Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,And fly to him I long for.
Tell him to turn and come again,For once I sent him packing;He offered me a bargain then,But wit and price were lacking.I have the price he asked of me,The wit that will not weigh it;Ah! bid him come again and seeHow gladly I will pay it.
A heart of gold he offered meAs ’twere a penny fairing,And only asked a worthless fee,This heavy heart I’m wearing.I would not then—now long and drearThe white way winds behind him;Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,But you will never find him!
When my good-nights and prayers are saidAnd I am safe tucked up in bed,I know my guardian angel standsAnd holds my soul between his hands.I cannot see his wings of lightBecause I keep my eyes shut tight,For, if I open them, I knowMy pretty angel has to go.But through the darkness I can hearHis white wings rustling very near;I know it is his darling wings,NotMother folding up my things!
When my good-nights and prayers are saidAnd I am safe tucked up in bed,I know my guardian angel standsAnd holds my soul between his hands.I cannot see his wings of lightBecause I keep my eyes shut tight,For, if I open them, I knowMy pretty angel has to go.But through the darkness I can hearHis white wings rustling very near;I know it is his darling wings,NotMother folding up my things!
When my good-nights and prayers are saidAnd I am safe tucked up in bed,I know my guardian angel standsAnd holds my soul between his hands.
I cannot see his wings of lightBecause I keep my eyes shut tight,For, if I open them, I knowMy pretty angel has to go.
But through the darkness I can hearHis white wings rustling very near;I know it is his darling wings,NotMother folding up my things!
Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summer’s ripe;So wreathe your crooks with flowers;The world’s in tune to Love and June,The days are rich in hours,In rosy hours, in golden hours—Love’s crown and fortune fair,So gather gold for Love to hold,And flowers for Love to wear!Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ringOf pleasures speed your way;Too harsh and dry is fierce July,Too maiden-meek was May;But Love and June their old sweet tuneAre singing at your ear:So learn the song and troop alongTo meet your shepherds dear!Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,And gold to spend have I—When all are gay on this June dayYou would not bid me sigh?You would not scorn a swain forlorn—Each shepherd far and nearHastes to his sweet, with flying feet,As I towards my dear.No maids there be in ArcadyBut have their shepherds true;Must you alone despise the oneWho only pipes for you?You have no ear my pipe to hearThough all for you it be;And I no eyes for her who sighsAnd only sings for me!
Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summer’s ripe;So wreathe your crooks with flowers;The world’s in tune to Love and June,The days are rich in hours,In rosy hours, in golden hours—Love’s crown and fortune fair,So gather gold for Love to hold,And flowers for Love to wear!Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ringOf pleasures speed your way;Too harsh and dry is fierce July,Too maiden-meek was May;But Love and June their old sweet tuneAre singing at your ear:So learn the song and troop alongTo meet your shepherds dear!Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,And gold to spend have I—When all are gay on this June dayYou would not bid me sigh?You would not scorn a swain forlorn—Each shepherd far and nearHastes to his sweet, with flying feet,As I towards my dear.No maids there be in ArcadyBut have their shepherds true;Must you alone despise the oneWho only pipes for you?You have no ear my pipe to hearThough all for you it be;And I no eyes for her who sighsAnd only sings for me!
Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summer’s ripe;So wreathe your crooks with flowers;The world’s in tune to Love and June,The days are rich in hours,In rosy hours, in golden hours—Love’s crown and fortune fair,So gather gold for Love to hold,And flowers for Love to wear!
Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ringOf pleasures speed your way;Too harsh and dry is fierce July,Too maiden-meek was May;But Love and June their old sweet tuneAre singing at your ear:So learn the song and troop alongTo meet your shepherds dear!
Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,And gold to spend have I—When all are gay on this June dayYou would not bid me sigh?You would not scorn a swain forlorn—Each shepherd far and nearHastes to his sweet, with flying feet,As I towards my dear.
No maids there be in ArcadyBut have their shepherds true;Must you alone despise the oneWho only pipes for you?You have no ear my pipe to hearThough all for you it be;And I no eyes for her who sighsAnd only sings for me!
Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawnIs her dainty way;Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawnAre her eyes of gray;Like the clouds in their moving whiteIs her breast’s soft stir;And white as the moon and brightIs the soul of her.Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green,Like the voice of a birdThat sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen,So her voice is heard.And the secret her eyes withholdIn my soul abides,For white as the moon and coldIs the heart she hides.
Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawnIs her dainty way;Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawnAre her eyes of gray;Like the clouds in their moving whiteIs her breast’s soft stir;And white as the moon and brightIs the soul of her.Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green,Like the voice of a birdThat sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen,So her voice is heard.And the secret her eyes withholdIn my soul abides,For white as the moon and coldIs the heart she hides.
Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawnIs her dainty way;Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawnAre her eyes of gray;Like the clouds in their moving whiteIs her breast’s soft stir;And white as the moon and brightIs the soul of her.
Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green,Like the voice of a birdThat sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen,So her voice is heard.And the secret her eyes withholdIn my soul abides,For white as the moon and coldIs the heart she hides.