What will you give me for this heart of mine,No heart of gold—and yet my dearest treasure?It has its graces—it can ache and pine,And beat true time to your sweet voice’s measure;It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure:What will you give me for this heart I bring,That holds my life, my joy, my everything?How can I ask a price, when all my prayerIs that, without return, you will but take it—Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair,Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it,And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it?Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride:“She held me in her hands until I died.”
What will you give me for this heart of mine,No heart of gold—and yet my dearest treasure?It has its graces—it can ache and pine,And beat true time to your sweet voice’s measure;It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure:What will you give me for this heart I bring,That holds my life, my joy, my everything?How can I ask a price, when all my prayerIs that, without return, you will but take it—Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair,Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it,And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it?Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride:“She held me in her hands until I died.”
What will you give me for this heart of mine,No heart of gold—and yet my dearest treasure?It has its graces—it can ache and pine,And beat true time to your sweet voice’s measure;It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure:What will you give me for this heart I bring,That holds my life, my joy, my everything?
How can I ask a price, when all my prayerIs that, without return, you will but take it—Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair,Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it,And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it?Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride:“She held me in her hands until I died.”
O love, let us part now!Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow,Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes.The first, involuntary, sacred kissStill on our lips in benediction lies.O Love, be wise!Love at its best is worth no more than this—Let us part now!O Love, let us part now!Ere yet the roses wither on my brow,Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast,Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bearThe seeds of deathless anguish and unrest.To part is best.Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair—Let us part now!
O love, let us part now!Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow,Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes.The first, involuntary, sacred kissStill on our lips in benediction lies.O Love, be wise!Love at its best is worth no more than this—Let us part now!O Love, let us part now!Ere yet the roses wither on my brow,Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast,Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bearThe seeds of deathless anguish and unrest.To part is best.Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair—Let us part now!
O love, let us part now!Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow,Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes.The first, involuntary, sacred kissStill on our lips in benediction lies.O Love, be wise!Love at its best is worth no more than this—Let us part now!
O Love, let us part now!Ere yet the roses wither on my brow,Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast,Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bearThe seeds of deathless anguish and unrest.To part is best.Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair—Let us part now!
Lean down and see your little faceReflected in the forest pool,Tall foxgloves grow about the place,Forget-me-nots grow green and cool.Look deep and see the naiad riseTo meet the sunshine of your eyes.Lean down and see how you are fair,How gold your hair, your mouth how red;See the leaves dance about your hairThe wind has left unfilleted.What naiad of them can compareWith you for good and dear and fair?Ah! look no more—the water stirs,The naiad weeps your face to see,Your beauty is more rare than hers,And you are more beloved than she.Fly! fly, before she steals the charmsThe pool has trusted to her arms.
Lean down and see your little faceReflected in the forest pool,Tall foxgloves grow about the place,Forget-me-nots grow green and cool.Look deep and see the naiad riseTo meet the sunshine of your eyes.Lean down and see how you are fair,How gold your hair, your mouth how red;See the leaves dance about your hairThe wind has left unfilleted.What naiad of them can compareWith you for good and dear and fair?Ah! look no more—the water stirs,The naiad weeps your face to see,Your beauty is more rare than hers,And you are more beloved than she.Fly! fly, before she steals the charmsThe pool has trusted to her arms.
Lean down and see your little faceReflected in the forest pool,Tall foxgloves grow about the place,Forget-me-nots grow green and cool.Look deep and see the naiad riseTo meet the sunshine of your eyes.
Lean down and see how you are fair,How gold your hair, your mouth how red;See the leaves dance about your hairThe wind has left unfilleted.What naiad of them can compareWith you for good and dear and fair?
Ah! look no more—the water stirs,The naiad weeps your face to see,Your beauty is more rare than hers,And you are more beloved than she.Fly! fly, before she steals the charmsThe pool has trusted to her arms.
Ah, turn your pretty eyes away!You would not have me love again?Love’s pleasure does not live a day,Immortal is Love’s pain,And I am tired of pain.I have loved once—aye, once or twice;The pleasure died, the pain lives here;I will not look in your sweet eyes,I will not love you, Dear,Lest you should grow too dear.For I am weary and afraid.Have I not seen why life was fair,And known how good a world God made,How sweet the blossoms were,How dear the green fields were?And I have found how life was gray,A mist-hung road, a quest in vain,Until once more Love smiled my wayAnd fooled me once again,And taught me grief again.Now I will gather no more grief;I only ask to see the sky,The budding flower, the budding leaf,And put old dreamings by,The dreams Love tortures by.For, being wise, I love no more;You, if you will, snare with those eyesSome fool who never loved before,And teach him to be wise!For why should you be wise?
Ah, turn your pretty eyes away!You would not have me love again?Love’s pleasure does not live a day,Immortal is Love’s pain,And I am tired of pain.I have loved once—aye, once or twice;The pleasure died, the pain lives here;I will not look in your sweet eyes,I will not love you, Dear,Lest you should grow too dear.For I am weary and afraid.Have I not seen why life was fair,And known how good a world God made,How sweet the blossoms were,How dear the green fields were?And I have found how life was gray,A mist-hung road, a quest in vain,Until once more Love smiled my wayAnd fooled me once again,And taught me grief again.Now I will gather no more grief;I only ask to see the sky,The budding flower, the budding leaf,And put old dreamings by,The dreams Love tortures by.For, being wise, I love no more;You, if you will, snare with those eyesSome fool who never loved before,And teach him to be wise!For why should you be wise?
Ah, turn your pretty eyes away!You would not have me love again?Love’s pleasure does not live a day,Immortal is Love’s pain,And I am tired of pain.
I have loved once—aye, once or twice;The pleasure died, the pain lives here;I will not look in your sweet eyes,I will not love you, Dear,Lest you should grow too dear.
For I am weary and afraid.Have I not seen why life was fair,And known how good a world God made,How sweet the blossoms were,How dear the green fields were?
And I have found how life was gray,A mist-hung road, a quest in vain,Until once more Love smiled my wayAnd fooled me once again,And taught me grief again.
Now I will gather no more grief;I only ask to see the sky,The budding flower, the budding leaf,And put old dreamings by,The dreams Love tortures by.
For, being wise, I love no more;You, if you will, snare with those eyesSome fool who never loved before,And teach him to be wise!For why should you be wise?
Here’s the Spring-time, Sweet!Earth’s green gown is new,Lambs begin to bleat,Doves begin to coo,Birds begin to wooIn the wood and lane;Sweet, the tale is trueSpring is here again!I have been discreetAll the winter through;Now, before your feet,Blossoms let me strew.Flowers, as yet, are few;Will my lady deignTake this flower or two?Spring is here againMake the year complete,Give the Spring her due!All the flowers entreat,All the song-birds sue.’Twixt the green and blueLet Love wake and reign,Let me worship you—Spring is here again!
Here’s the Spring-time, Sweet!Earth’s green gown is new,Lambs begin to bleat,Doves begin to coo,Birds begin to wooIn the wood and lane;Sweet, the tale is trueSpring is here again!I have been discreetAll the winter through;Now, before your feet,Blossoms let me strew.Flowers, as yet, are few;Will my lady deignTake this flower or two?Spring is here againMake the year complete,Give the Spring her due!All the flowers entreat,All the song-birds sue.’Twixt the green and blueLet Love wake and reign,Let me worship you—Spring is here again!
Here’s the Spring-time, Sweet!Earth’s green gown is new,Lambs begin to bleat,Doves begin to coo,Birds begin to wooIn the wood and lane;Sweet, the tale is trueSpring is here again!
I have been discreetAll the winter through;Now, before your feet,Blossoms let me strew.Flowers, as yet, are few;Will my lady deignTake this flower or two?Spring is here again
Make the year complete,Give the Spring her due!All the flowers entreat,All the song-birds sue.’Twixt the green and blueLet Love wake and reign,Let me worship you—Spring is here again!
When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snareI clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers,Made him my little joy for little hours,And fed him when I had a song to spare.And then I saw how good life’s good things were,The kingdoms and the glories and the powers.Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers,And, when the great things wearied, Love was there.But when, within his cage, one winter dayI found him lying still with folded wings,No longer fluttering, eager to be fed—Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away,And of life’s countless, precious, priceless thingsNothing was left but Love—and Love was dead!
When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snareI clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers,Made him my little joy for little hours,And fed him when I had a song to spare.And then I saw how good life’s good things were,The kingdoms and the glories and the powers.Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers,And, when the great things wearied, Love was there.But when, within his cage, one winter dayI found him lying still with folded wings,No longer fluttering, eager to be fed—Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away,And of life’s countless, precious, priceless thingsNothing was left but Love—and Love was dead!
When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snareI clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers,Made him my little joy for little hours,And fed him when I had a song to spare.And then I saw how good life’s good things were,The kingdoms and the glories and the powers.Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers,And, when the great things wearied, Love was there.
But when, within his cage, one winter dayI found him lying still with folded wings,No longer fluttering, eager to be fed—Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away,And of life’s countless, precious, priceless thingsNothing was left but Love—and Love was dead!
Love is no bird that nests and flies,No rose that buds and blooms and dies,No star that shines and disappears,No fire whose ashes strew the years:Love is the god who lights the star,Makes music of the lark’s desire,Love tells the rose what perfumes are,And lights and feeds the deathless fire.Love is no joy that dies apaceWith the delight of dear embrace—Love is no feast of wine and bread,Red-vintaged and gold-harvested:Love is the god whose touch divineOn hands that clung and lips that kissed,Has turned life’s common bread and wineInto the Holy Eucharist.
Love is no bird that nests and flies,No rose that buds and blooms and dies,No star that shines and disappears,No fire whose ashes strew the years:Love is the god who lights the star,Makes music of the lark’s desire,Love tells the rose what perfumes are,And lights and feeds the deathless fire.Love is no joy that dies apaceWith the delight of dear embrace—Love is no feast of wine and bread,Red-vintaged and gold-harvested:Love is the god whose touch divineOn hands that clung and lips that kissed,Has turned life’s common bread and wineInto the Holy Eucharist.
Love is no bird that nests and flies,No rose that buds and blooms and dies,No star that shines and disappears,No fire whose ashes strew the years:Love is the god who lights the star,Makes music of the lark’s desire,Love tells the rose what perfumes are,And lights and feeds the deathless fire.
Love is no joy that dies apaceWith the delight of dear embrace—Love is no feast of wine and bread,Red-vintaged and gold-harvested:Love is the god whose touch divineOn hands that clung and lips that kissed,Has turned life’s common bread and wineInto the Holy Eucharist.
All summer-time you said:“Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”“He is a king,” you said.“That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,For all the summer-palaces receive him.”But now Love has not where to lay his head.“He is a god,” you said.“His altars are wherever roses blossom.”And summer made his altar of her bosom,But now the altar is ungarlanded.Take back the words you said:Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;Summer who bore him has with tears departed,And o’er her grave he weeps uncomforted.And you, for all you said,Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind’s riot,You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet,Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.
All summer-time you said:“Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”“He is a king,” you said.“That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,For all the summer-palaces receive him.”But now Love has not where to lay his head.“He is a god,” you said.“His altars are wherever roses blossom.”And summer made his altar of her bosom,But now the altar is ungarlanded.Take back the words you said:Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;Summer who bore him has with tears departed,And o’er her grave he weeps uncomforted.And you, for all you said,Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind’s riot,You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet,Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.
All summer-time you said:“Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”
“He is a king,” you said.“That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,For all the summer-palaces receive him.”But now Love has not where to lay his head.
“He is a god,” you said.“His altars are wherever roses blossom.”And summer made his altar of her bosom,But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said:Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted;Summer who bore him has with tears departed,And o’er her grave he weeps uncomforted.
And you, for all you said,Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind’s riot,You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet,Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.
“Will you not walk the woods with me?The shafts of sunlight burnOn many a golden-crested treeAnd many a russet fern.The Summer’s robe is dyed anew,And Autumn’s veil of mistIs gemmed with little pearls of dewWhere first we met and kissed.”“I will not walk the woodlands brownWhere ghosts and mists are blown,But I will walk the lonely downAnd I will walk alone.Where Night spreads out her mighty wingAnd dead days keep their tryst,There will I weep the woods of SpringWhere first we met and kissed.”
“Will you not walk the woods with me?The shafts of sunlight burnOn many a golden-crested treeAnd many a russet fern.The Summer’s robe is dyed anew,And Autumn’s veil of mistIs gemmed with little pearls of dewWhere first we met and kissed.”“I will not walk the woodlands brownWhere ghosts and mists are blown,But I will walk the lonely downAnd I will walk alone.Where Night spreads out her mighty wingAnd dead days keep their tryst,There will I weep the woods of SpringWhere first we met and kissed.”
“Will you not walk the woods with me?The shafts of sunlight burnOn many a golden-crested treeAnd many a russet fern.The Summer’s robe is dyed anew,And Autumn’s veil of mistIs gemmed with little pearls of dewWhere first we met and kissed.”
“I will not walk the woodlands brownWhere ghosts and mists are blown,But I will walk the lonely downAnd I will walk alone.Where Night spreads out her mighty wingAnd dead days keep their tryst,There will I weep the woods of SpringWhere first we met and kissed.”
Never a ring or a lock of hairOr a letter stained with tears,No crown for the princely hour to wear,To be mocked of the rebel years.Not a spoken vow, not a written pageAnd never a rose or a rhymeTo tell to the wintry ear of ageThe tale of the summer time.Never a tear or a farewell kissWhen the time is come to part;For the kiss would burn and the tear would hissOn the smouldering fire in my heart.But let me creep to the kindly clay,And nothing be left to tellHow I played in your play a year and a day,And died when the curtain fell!
Never a ring or a lock of hairOr a letter stained with tears,No crown for the princely hour to wear,To be mocked of the rebel years.Not a spoken vow, not a written pageAnd never a rose or a rhymeTo tell to the wintry ear of ageThe tale of the summer time.Never a tear or a farewell kissWhen the time is come to part;For the kiss would burn and the tear would hissOn the smouldering fire in my heart.But let me creep to the kindly clay,And nothing be left to tellHow I played in your play a year and a day,And died when the curtain fell!
Never a ring or a lock of hairOr a letter stained with tears,No crown for the princely hour to wear,To be mocked of the rebel years.Not a spoken vow, not a written pageAnd never a rose or a rhymeTo tell to the wintry ear of ageThe tale of the summer time.
Never a tear or a farewell kissWhen the time is come to part;For the kiss would burn and the tear would hissOn the smouldering fire in my heart.But let me creep to the kindly clay,And nothing be left to tellHow I played in your play a year and a day,And died when the curtain fell!
When the corn is green and the poppies redAnd the fields are crimson with love-lies-bleeding,When the elms are black deep overheadAnd the shade lies cool where the calves are feeding,When the blackbird whistles the song of June,When kine knee-deep in the pond are drowsing,Leave pastoral peace—come up through the noonTo the high chalk downs where the sheep are browsing.Oh! sweet to dream in the noontide heat,On the scented bed of thyme and clover,With the air from the sea, blown keen and sweet,And the wings of the wide sky folded over,While, far in the blue, the skylark sings,Renounce desire and renounce endeavour,Forget life’s little unworthy thingsAnd dream that the dream will last for ever.The love of your life, in your heart’s hid shrine,With its gifts and its torments, leave it sighing,And I will bury the pain of mineIn the selfsame grave where its joy is lying.Let me hold your hand for a quiet hourIn the wild thyme’s scent and the clear blue weather,Then come what may, we have plucked one flower,This hour on the downs alone together.
When the corn is green and the poppies redAnd the fields are crimson with love-lies-bleeding,When the elms are black deep overheadAnd the shade lies cool where the calves are feeding,When the blackbird whistles the song of June,When kine knee-deep in the pond are drowsing,Leave pastoral peace—come up through the noonTo the high chalk downs where the sheep are browsing.Oh! sweet to dream in the noontide heat,On the scented bed of thyme and clover,With the air from the sea, blown keen and sweet,And the wings of the wide sky folded over,While, far in the blue, the skylark sings,Renounce desire and renounce endeavour,Forget life’s little unworthy thingsAnd dream that the dream will last for ever.The love of your life, in your heart’s hid shrine,With its gifts and its torments, leave it sighing,And I will bury the pain of mineIn the selfsame grave where its joy is lying.Let me hold your hand for a quiet hourIn the wild thyme’s scent and the clear blue weather,Then come what may, we have plucked one flower,This hour on the downs alone together.
When the corn is green and the poppies redAnd the fields are crimson with love-lies-bleeding,When the elms are black deep overheadAnd the shade lies cool where the calves are feeding,When the blackbird whistles the song of June,When kine knee-deep in the pond are drowsing,Leave pastoral peace—come up through the noonTo the high chalk downs where the sheep are browsing.
Oh! sweet to dream in the noontide heat,On the scented bed of thyme and clover,With the air from the sea, blown keen and sweet,And the wings of the wide sky folded over,While, far in the blue, the skylark sings,Renounce desire and renounce endeavour,Forget life’s little unworthy thingsAnd dream that the dream will last for ever.
The love of your life, in your heart’s hid shrine,With its gifts and its torments, leave it sighing,And I will bury the pain of mineIn the selfsame grave where its joy is lying.Let me hold your hand for a quiet hourIn the wild thyme’s scent and the clear blue weather,Then come what may, we have plucked one flower,This hour on the downs alone together.
Long ago, long ago,When the hawthorn buds were pearlyAnd the birds sang, late and early,All the songs that lovers know,How we lingered in the lane,Kissed and parted, kissed again,Parted, laggard foot and slow!What a pretty world we knewDressed in moonlight, dreams and dew,Long ago, my first sweet sweetheart,Long ago!Long ago, long ago,When the wind was on the riverWhere the lights and shadows shiver,And the streets were all aglow.In the gaudy gas-lit streetWe two parted, sweet, my sweet,And the crowd went to and fro,And your veil was wet with tearsFor the inevitable years—Long ago, my last sweet sweetheart,Long ago!
Long ago, long ago,When the hawthorn buds were pearlyAnd the birds sang, late and early,All the songs that lovers know,How we lingered in the lane,Kissed and parted, kissed again,Parted, laggard foot and slow!What a pretty world we knewDressed in moonlight, dreams and dew,Long ago, my first sweet sweetheart,Long ago!Long ago, long ago,When the wind was on the riverWhere the lights and shadows shiver,And the streets were all aglow.In the gaudy gas-lit streetWe two parted, sweet, my sweet,And the crowd went to and fro,And your veil was wet with tearsFor the inevitable years—Long ago, my last sweet sweetheart,Long ago!
Long ago, long ago,When the hawthorn buds were pearlyAnd the birds sang, late and early,All the songs that lovers know,How we lingered in the lane,Kissed and parted, kissed again,Parted, laggard foot and slow!What a pretty world we knewDressed in moonlight, dreams and dew,Long ago, my first sweet sweetheart,Long ago!
Long ago, long ago,When the wind was on the riverWhere the lights and shadows shiver,And the streets were all aglow.In the gaudy gas-lit streetWe two parted, sweet, my sweet,And the crowd went to and fro,And your veil was wet with tearsFor the inevitable years—Long ago, my last sweet sweetheart,Long ago!
Pale veil of mist bound round the treesPale fringe of rain upon the hills,Cold earth, cold sky and biting breezeThat mock the withered daffodils.And yet so short a while ago,The sunlight on the quickened landLaughed at the memory of the snow,And we went hand in hand.Pale veil of doubt wound round my heart,Pale fringe of tears upon your eyes;Why did we choose the evil part?Why did we leave our Paradise?There were such green and pleasant waysWhere you and I with happy heartLaughed at the old unhappy days,And now—we are apart.Will the sun shine again some day?Will you forgive me and forget?Chill is the east, the west is gray,And all our world with tears is wet.Ah! love, the world is wide and cold,The weary skies are wild with rain;Give me at least your hand to holdTill the sun shines again.
Pale veil of mist bound round the treesPale fringe of rain upon the hills,Cold earth, cold sky and biting breezeThat mock the withered daffodils.And yet so short a while ago,The sunlight on the quickened landLaughed at the memory of the snow,And we went hand in hand.Pale veil of doubt wound round my heart,Pale fringe of tears upon your eyes;Why did we choose the evil part?Why did we leave our Paradise?There were such green and pleasant waysWhere you and I with happy heartLaughed at the old unhappy days,And now—we are apart.Will the sun shine again some day?Will you forgive me and forget?Chill is the east, the west is gray,And all our world with tears is wet.Ah! love, the world is wide and cold,The weary skies are wild with rain;Give me at least your hand to holdTill the sun shines again.
Pale veil of mist bound round the treesPale fringe of rain upon the hills,Cold earth, cold sky and biting breezeThat mock the withered daffodils.And yet so short a while ago,The sunlight on the quickened landLaughed at the memory of the snow,And we went hand in hand.
Pale veil of doubt wound round my heart,Pale fringe of tears upon your eyes;Why did we choose the evil part?Why did we leave our Paradise?There were such green and pleasant waysWhere you and I with happy heartLaughed at the old unhappy days,And now—we are apart.
Will the sun shine again some day?Will you forgive me and forget?Chill is the east, the west is gray,And all our world with tears is wet.Ah! love, the world is wide and cold,The weary skies are wild with rain;Give me at least your hand to holdTill the sun shines again.
The world’s a path all fresh and sweet,A sky all fresh and fair,With daisies underneath your feetAnd roses for your hair;Red roses for your pretty hair,Green trees to shade your way,And lavish blossoms everywhere,Because the time is May.How gold the sun shines through the green!How soft the turf is spread!How richly falls the shimmering sheenAbout your darling head!How in the dawn of ParadiseShould you foresee the night?How, with the sunlight in your eyes,See aught beyond the light?** * * *The world’s a path all rough and wild,A sky all black with fears,Among the ghosts, unhappy child,You stumble, blind with tears;The track is faint, and far the fold,And very far the day:Unless you have a hand to hold,How will you find the way?
The world’s a path all fresh and sweet,A sky all fresh and fair,With daisies underneath your feetAnd roses for your hair;Red roses for your pretty hair,Green trees to shade your way,And lavish blossoms everywhere,Because the time is May.How gold the sun shines through the green!How soft the turf is spread!How richly falls the shimmering sheenAbout your darling head!How in the dawn of ParadiseShould you foresee the night?How, with the sunlight in your eyes,See aught beyond the light?** * * *The world’s a path all rough and wild,A sky all black with fears,Among the ghosts, unhappy child,You stumble, blind with tears;The track is faint, and far the fold,And very far the day:Unless you have a hand to hold,How will you find the way?
The world’s a path all fresh and sweet,A sky all fresh and fair,With daisies underneath your feetAnd roses for your hair;Red roses for your pretty hair,Green trees to shade your way,And lavish blossoms everywhere,Because the time is May.
How gold the sun shines through the green!How soft the turf is spread!How richly falls the shimmering sheenAbout your darling head!How in the dawn of ParadiseShould you foresee the night?How, with the sunlight in your eyes,See aught beyond the light?
** * * *The world’s a path all rough and wild,A sky all black with fears,Among the ghosts, unhappy child,You stumble, blind with tears;The track is faint, and far the fold,And very far the day:Unless you have a hand to hold,How will you find the way?
Heart of my heart, my life and light,If you were lost what should I do?I dare not let you from my sight,Lest Death should fall in love with you.Such countless terrors lie in wait.The gods know well how dear you are:What if they left me desolateAnd plucked and set you for their star?So hold my hand—the gods are strong,And perfect joy so rare a flowerNo man may hope to keep it long,And I might lose it any hour.So, kiss me close, my star, my flower,Thus shall the future spare me this:The thought that there was ever an hourWe might have kissed and did not kiss.
Heart of my heart, my life and light,If you were lost what should I do?I dare not let you from my sight,Lest Death should fall in love with you.Such countless terrors lie in wait.The gods know well how dear you are:What if they left me desolateAnd plucked and set you for their star?So hold my hand—the gods are strong,And perfect joy so rare a flowerNo man may hope to keep it long,And I might lose it any hour.So, kiss me close, my star, my flower,Thus shall the future spare me this:The thought that there was ever an hourWe might have kissed and did not kiss.
Heart of my heart, my life and light,If you were lost what should I do?I dare not let you from my sight,Lest Death should fall in love with you.
Such countless terrors lie in wait.The gods know well how dear you are:What if they left me desolateAnd plucked and set you for their star?
So hold my hand—the gods are strong,And perfect joy so rare a flowerNo man may hope to keep it long,And I might lose it any hour.
So, kiss me close, my star, my flower,Thus shall the future spare me this:The thought that there was ever an hourWe might have kissed and did not kiss.
I went back to our home to-dayThat still its robe of roses wore;My feet took the old easy way,And led me to our door.And you are gone and never moreThose little feet of yours will comeTo meet me at the open door,The threshold of our home.The door unlatched did not protest:I entered, and the silence drewMy steps towards the little nestThat once I shared with you.There lay your fan, your open book,Your seam half-sewn, and I could seeThe window whence you used to look—Yes, once you looked—for me.Print of your little head caressedOur pillow still, and on the floorStill lay, dropped there when last you dressed,The scarf and rose you wore.All should have spoken of you plain,Yet, when I bade the silence tellOf you, my bidding was in vain,I could not break its spell.The silence would not speak, my dear,Till the last level light grew dim;Then, in the twilight I could hear;The silence spoke—of him.
I went back to our home to-dayThat still its robe of roses wore;My feet took the old easy way,And led me to our door.And you are gone and never moreThose little feet of yours will comeTo meet me at the open door,The threshold of our home.The door unlatched did not protest:I entered, and the silence drewMy steps towards the little nestThat once I shared with you.There lay your fan, your open book,Your seam half-sewn, and I could seeThe window whence you used to look—Yes, once you looked—for me.Print of your little head caressedOur pillow still, and on the floorStill lay, dropped there when last you dressed,The scarf and rose you wore.All should have spoken of you plain,Yet, when I bade the silence tellOf you, my bidding was in vain,I could not break its spell.The silence would not speak, my dear,Till the last level light grew dim;Then, in the twilight I could hear;The silence spoke—of him.
I went back to our home to-dayThat still its robe of roses wore;My feet took the old easy way,And led me to our door.
And you are gone and never moreThose little feet of yours will comeTo meet me at the open door,The threshold of our home.
The door unlatched did not protest:I entered, and the silence drewMy steps towards the little nestThat once I shared with you.
There lay your fan, your open book,Your seam half-sewn, and I could seeThe window whence you used to look—Yes, once you looked—for me.
Print of your little head caressedOur pillow still, and on the floorStill lay, dropped there when last you dressed,The scarf and rose you wore.
All should have spoken of you plain,Yet, when I bade the silence tellOf you, my bidding was in vain,I could not break its spell.
The silence would not speak, my dear,Till the last level light grew dim;Then, in the twilight I could hear;The silence spoke—of him.
It is not, Dear, because I am alone,I am lonelier when the rest are near,But that my place against your heart has grownToo dear to dream of when you are not here.I weep because my thoughts no more may roamTo meet, half-way, your longing thoughts of me,To turn with these and spread glad wings for home,For the dear haven where I fain would be.When first we loved, I loved to steal awayTo show to solitude what love could do,To fill the waste space of the night and dayWith thousand-wingèd dreams that flew to you;But now through many tears I am grown wiseTo know how mighty and how dear love is;I dare not turn to him my longing eyes,Nor even in dreams lean out my face to his,Because, if once I let my caged heart goThrough dreams to seek you, I should follow tooThrough wrong and right, through wisdom and through woe,Through heaven and hell, until I won to you!
It is not, Dear, because I am alone,I am lonelier when the rest are near,But that my place against your heart has grownToo dear to dream of when you are not here.I weep because my thoughts no more may roamTo meet, half-way, your longing thoughts of me,To turn with these and spread glad wings for home,For the dear haven where I fain would be.When first we loved, I loved to steal awayTo show to solitude what love could do,To fill the waste space of the night and dayWith thousand-wingèd dreams that flew to you;But now through many tears I am grown wiseTo know how mighty and how dear love is;I dare not turn to him my longing eyes,Nor even in dreams lean out my face to his,Because, if once I let my caged heart goThrough dreams to seek you, I should follow tooThrough wrong and right, through wisdom and through woe,Through heaven and hell, until I won to you!
It is not, Dear, because I am alone,I am lonelier when the rest are near,But that my place against your heart has grownToo dear to dream of when you are not here.
I weep because my thoughts no more may roamTo meet, half-way, your longing thoughts of me,To turn with these and spread glad wings for home,For the dear haven where I fain would be.
When first we loved, I loved to steal awayTo show to solitude what love could do,To fill the waste space of the night and dayWith thousand-wingèd dreams that flew to you;But now through many tears I am grown wiseTo know how mighty and how dear love is;I dare not turn to him my longing eyes,Nor even in dreams lean out my face to his,
Because, if once I let my caged heart goThrough dreams to seek you, I should follow tooThrough wrong and right, through wisdom and through woe,Through heaven and hell, until I won to you!
Dear, do you sigh that your love may not stay with you,Laugh with and play with you,Weep with and pray with you,All his life through?Think, O my heart, if you never had found me,Crept through the cere-clothes the world has wound round me,What would you do?Wide is the world, and so many would sigh for you,Long for and cry for you,Weep for and die for you,You being you.I only I, am the man you could sigh for,Live for and suffer for, sorrow and die for,Twenty lives through.Think! Had I missed you! The world was so wide for us,Traps on each side for us,Nothing as guide for us,Yet I and youFound Life’s great treasure, the last and the first, love;Life’s little things, Time and Space, do their worst, love!What, after all, can they do?
Dear, do you sigh that your love may not stay with you,Laugh with and play with you,Weep with and pray with you,All his life through?Think, O my heart, if you never had found me,Crept through the cere-clothes the world has wound round me,What would you do?Wide is the world, and so many would sigh for you,Long for and cry for you,Weep for and die for you,You being you.I only I, am the man you could sigh for,Live for and suffer for, sorrow and die for,Twenty lives through.Think! Had I missed you! The world was so wide for us,Traps on each side for us,Nothing as guide for us,Yet I and youFound Life’s great treasure, the last and the first, love;Life’s little things, Time and Space, do their worst, love!What, after all, can they do?
Dear, do you sigh that your love may not stay with you,Laugh with and play with you,Weep with and pray with you,All his life through?Think, O my heart, if you never had found me,Crept through the cere-clothes the world has wound round me,What would you do?
Wide is the world, and so many would sigh for you,Long for and cry for you,Weep for and die for you,You being you.I only I, am the man you could sigh for,Live for and suffer for, sorrow and die for,Twenty lives through.
Think! Had I missed you! The world was so wide for us,Traps on each side for us,Nothing as guide for us,Yet I and youFound Life’s great treasure, the last and the first, love;Life’s little things, Time and Space, do their worst, love!What, after all, can they do?
You will not come againAlong the deep-banked laneTo where the field and fold so long have missed you;You know no more the wayTo where, so many a dayBefore the world grew gray,Your lover kissed you.The wonders and delightsOf London days and nightsHold fast a soul not made for pastoral pleasures;The scent of mignonetteBrings to you no regret,No withered flowers lie yetAmong your treasures.And I, who long for youSad and glad seasons through,Find my grief’s heart in knowing grief will find you;Some day you too will sigh,And lay a dead flower by,And weep to see joy lieAt last behind you.What though the flower you hideWith London wire be tied?What though the heart that broke your heart be rotten?You too at last must missThe smile, the word, the kiss,And know how hard it isTo be forgotten.
You will not come againAlong the deep-banked laneTo where the field and fold so long have missed you;You know no more the wayTo where, so many a dayBefore the world grew gray,Your lover kissed you.The wonders and delightsOf London days and nightsHold fast a soul not made for pastoral pleasures;The scent of mignonetteBrings to you no regret,No withered flowers lie yetAmong your treasures.And I, who long for youSad and glad seasons through,Find my grief’s heart in knowing grief will find you;Some day you too will sigh,And lay a dead flower by,And weep to see joy lieAt last behind you.What though the flower you hideWith London wire be tied?What though the heart that broke your heart be rotten?You too at last must missThe smile, the word, the kiss,And know how hard it isTo be forgotten.
You will not come againAlong the deep-banked laneTo where the field and fold so long have missed you;You know no more the wayTo where, so many a dayBefore the world grew gray,Your lover kissed you.
The wonders and delightsOf London days and nightsHold fast a soul not made for pastoral pleasures;The scent of mignonetteBrings to you no regret,No withered flowers lie yetAmong your treasures.
And I, who long for youSad and glad seasons through,Find my grief’s heart in knowing grief will find you;Some day you too will sigh,And lay a dead flower by,And weep to see joy lieAt last behind you.
What though the flower you hideWith London wire be tied?What though the heart that broke your heart be rotten?You too at last must missThe smile, the word, the kiss,And know how hard it isTo be forgotten.
Now veiled in the inviolable pastLove lies asleep, who never more will wake;Nor would you wake him, even for my sakeWho for your sake pray he sleep sound at last.What good thing had we of him—we who boreSo long his yoke? what pleasant thing had weThat we should weep his deathlong sleep to see,Or call on Life to waken him once more?A little joy he gave, and much of pain,A little pleasure, and enduring grief,One flower of joy, and pain piled sheaf on sheaf,Harvests of loss, for every bud of gain.Yet where he lies in this deserted placeDivided by his narrow grave we sit,Welded together by the depths of it,Watching the years pass, with averted face.We do not mourn for him, for here is peace;The old unrest frets not these empty years;With him went smiles a few, and many tears,And peace is sweeter far than those or these.Only—we owe him nothing. If he gave,We too gave gifts—his gifts were less than ours:We gave the world, that held so many flowersFor this—the world that only holds his grave.
Now veiled in the inviolable pastLove lies asleep, who never more will wake;Nor would you wake him, even for my sakeWho for your sake pray he sleep sound at last.What good thing had we of him—we who boreSo long his yoke? what pleasant thing had weThat we should weep his deathlong sleep to see,Or call on Life to waken him once more?A little joy he gave, and much of pain,A little pleasure, and enduring grief,One flower of joy, and pain piled sheaf on sheaf,Harvests of loss, for every bud of gain.Yet where he lies in this deserted placeDivided by his narrow grave we sit,Welded together by the depths of it,Watching the years pass, with averted face.We do not mourn for him, for here is peace;The old unrest frets not these empty years;With him went smiles a few, and many tears,And peace is sweeter far than those or these.Only—we owe him nothing. If he gave,We too gave gifts—his gifts were less than ours:We gave the world, that held so many flowersFor this—the world that only holds his grave.
Now veiled in the inviolable pastLove lies asleep, who never more will wake;Nor would you wake him, even for my sakeWho for your sake pray he sleep sound at last.
What good thing had we of him—we who boreSo long his yoke? what pleasant thing had weThat we should weep his deathlong sleep to see,Or call on Life to waken him once more?
A little joy he gave, and much of pain,A little pleasure, and enduring grief,One flower of joy, and pain piled sheaf on sheaf,Harvests of loss, for every bud of gain.
Yet where he lies in this deserted placeDivided by his narrow grave we sit,Welded together by the depths of it,Watching the years pass, with averted face.
We do not mourn for him, for here is peace;The old unrest frets not these empty years;With him went smiles a few, and many tears,And peace is sweeter far than those or these.
Only—we owe him nothing. If he gave,We too gave gifts—his gifts were less than ours:We gave the world, that held so many flowersFor this—the world that only holds his grave.
Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over,Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain,Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover,Wet, wind-blown trees—and, over all, the rain.Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closesSo far away the may and roses seem;Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses?Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream?So long it is since Spring, the skylark wakingHeard her own praises in his perfect strain;Low hang the clouds, the sad year’s heart is breaking,And mine, my heart—and, over all, the rain.
Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over,Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain,Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover,Wet, wind-blown trees—and, over all, the rain.Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closesSo far away the may and roses seem;Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses?Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream?So long it is since Spring, the skylark wakingHeard her own praises in his perfect strain;Low hang the clouds, the sad year’s heart is breaking,And mine, my heart—and, over all, the rain.
Wide downs all gray, with gray of clouds roofed over,Chill fields stripped naked of their gown of grain,Small fields of rain-wet grass and close-grown clover,Wet, wind-blown trees—and, over all, the rain.
Does memory lie? For Hope her missal closesSo far away the may and roses seem;Ah! was there ever a garden red with roses?Ah! were you ever mine save in a dream?
So long it is since Spring, the skylark wakingHeard her own praises in his perfect strain;Low hang the clouds, the sad year’s heart is breaking,And mine, my heart—and, over all, the rain.
If through the rain and wind along the street,Where the wet stone reflects the flickering gas,Some weeping autumn night your wandering feet,Lost in a lonely world, should chance to pass;If, passing many doors that welcomed youWhen robes of good renown your dear name wore,Your feet again, as once they used to do,Paused at my door,—Should I shut fast my heart for the old ill,The old wrong done, the sorrow and the sin?Or—only knowing that I love you still—Should I throw wide the door and let you in?Come—with your sins—my tears shall wash them all,The heart you broke still waits to be your home.Yet if you came.... Oh! lost beyond recallYou never more will come.
If through the rain and wind along the street,Where the wet stone reflects the flickering gas,Some weeping autumn night your wandering feet,Lost in a lonely world, should chance to pass;If, passing many doors that welcomed youWhen robes of good renown your dear name wore,Your feet again, as once they used to do,Paused at my door,—Should I shut fast my heart for the old ill,The old wrong done, the sorrow and the sin?Or—only knowing that I love you still—Should I throw wide the door and let you in?Come—with your sins—my tears shall wash them all,The heart you broke still waits to be your home.Yet if you came.... Oh! lost beyond recallYou never more will come.
If through the rain and wind along the street,Where the wet stone reflects the flickering gas,Some weeping autumn night your wandering feet,Lost in a lonely world, should chance to pass;If, passing many doors that welcomed youWhen robes of good renown your dear name wore,Your feet again, as once they used to do,Paused at my door,—
Should I shut fast my heart for the old ill,The old wrong done, the sorrow and the sin?Or—only knowing that I love you still—Should I throw wide the door and let you in?Come—with your sins—my tears shall wash them all,The heart you broke still waits to be your home.Yet if you came.... Oh! lost beyond recallYou never more will come.
The house is haunted; when the little feetGo pattering about it in their play,I tremble lest the little one should meetThe ghosts that haunt the happy night and day.And yet I think they only come to me;They come through night of ease and pleasant dayTo whisper of the torment that must beIf I some day should be, alas! as they.And when the child is lying warm asleep,The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed,And past them through the dreadful dark I creep,Clasp close the child, and so am comforted.Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight,Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild,Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night—“Father, have pity—once I had a child!”
The house is haunted; when the little feetGo pattering about it in their play,I tremble lest the little one should meetThe ghosts that haunt the happy night and day.And yet I think they only come to me;They come through night of ease and pleasant dayTo whisper of the torment that must beIf I some day should be, alas! as they.And when the child is lying warm asleep,The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed,And past them through the dreadful dark I creep,Clasp close the child, and so am comforted.Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight,Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild,Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night—“Father, have pity—once I had a child!”
The house is haunted; when the little feetGo pattering about it in their play,I tremble lest the little one should meetThe ghosts that haunt the happy night and day.
And yet I think they only come to me;They come through night of ease and pleasant dayTo whisper of the torment that must beIf I some day should be, alas! as they.
And when the child is lying warm asleep,The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed,And past them through the dreadful dark I creep,Clasp close the child, and so am comforted.
Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight,Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild,Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night—“Father, have pity—once I had a child!”
Let Summer goTo other gardens; here we have no need of her.She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow.Set the snow freeTo choke the insolent triumph of the year,With birds that sing as though he still were here,And flowers that blow as if he still could see.Let the rose die—What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;Let it be over soon, let it go by!Let winter come,With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughsTo drown the stillness of the empty houseTo which no more the little feet come home.
Let Summer goTo other gardens; here we have no need of her.She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow.Set the snow freeTo choke the insolent triumph of the year,With birds that sing as though he still were here,And flowers that blow as if he still could see.Let the rose die—What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;Let it be over soon, let it go by!Let winter come,With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughsTo drown the stillness of the empty houseTo which no more the little feet come home.
Let Summer goTo other gardens; here we have no need of her.She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow.
Set the snow freeTo choke the insolent triumph of the year,With birds that sing as though he still were here,And flowers that blow as if he still could see.
Let the rose die—What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;Let it be over soon, let it go by!
Let winter come,With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughsTo drown the stillness of the empty houseTo which no more the little feet come home.
When all the weary flowers,Worn out with sunlit hours,Droop o’er the garden bedsTheir little sleepy heads,The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing;And, as the night descends,The shadows troop like friendsTo bring them healing.So, weary of the lightOf life too full and bright,We long for night to fallTo wrap us from it all;Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us,And like a kind friend comeTo children far from home,With love enfolds us.But when the night is done,Fresh to the morning sun,Their little faces yetWith night’s sweet dewdrops wet,The flowers awake to the new day’s new graces;And we, ah! shall we tooTurn to the daydawn newOur tear-wet faces?
When all the weary flowers,Worn out with sunlit hours,Droop o’er the garden bedsTheir little sleepy heads,The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing;And, as the night descends,The shadows troop like friendsTo bring them healing.So, weary of the lightOf life too full and bright,We long for night to fallTo wrap us from it all;Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us,And like a kind friend comeTo children far from home,With love enfolds us.But when the night is done,Fresh to the morning sun,Their little faces yetWith night’s sweet dewdrops wet,The flowers awake to the new day’s new graces;And we, ah! shall we tooTurn to the daydawn newOur tear-wet faces?
When all the weary flowers,Worn out with sunlit hours,Droop o’er the garden bedsTheir little sleepy heads,The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing;And, as the night descends,The shadows troop like friendsTo bring them healing.
So, weary of the lightOf life too full and bright,We long for night to fallTo wrap us from it all;Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us,And like a kind friend comeTo children far from home,With love enfolds us.
But when the night is done,Fresh to the morning sun,Their little faces yetWith night’s sweet dewdrops wet,The flowers awake to the new day’s new graces;And we, ah! shall we tooTurn to the daydawn newOur tear-wet faces?
The long white windows blankly stareAcross the sodden, tangled grass,Weed-covered are the pathways whereNo footsteps ever pass;No whispers wake, no kisses die,No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,Only the night hears sigh on sighFrom ghosts of long-dead hours.None come here now to laugh or weep;The spider spins on stair and hall,And round the windows shadows creep,And loathly creatures crawl.Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;No guest the silent threshold seesSave ghosts out of the happy past,—And one who is as these.
The long white windows blankly stareAcross the sodden, tangled grass,Weed-covered are the pathways whereNo footsteps ever pass;No whispers wake, no kisses die,No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,Only the night hears sigh on sighFrom ghosts of long-dead hours.None come here now to laugh or weep;The spider spins on stair and hall,And round the windows shadows creep,And loathly creatures crawl.Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;No guest the silent threshold seesSave ghosts out of the happy past,—And one who is as these.
The long white windows blankly stareAcross the sodden, tangled grass,Weed-covered are the pathways whereNo footsteps ever pass;No whispers wake, no kisses die,No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,Only the night hears sigh on sighFrom ghosts of long-dead hours.
None come here now to laugh or weep;The spider spins on stair and hall,And round the windows shadows creep,And loathly creatures crawl.Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;No guest the silent threshold seesSave ghosts out of the happy past,—And one who is as these.
Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,Long leaning wings across the sea and land.The waves creep back bequeathing to our sightThe treasure-house of their deserted sand,And where the nearer waves curl white and low,Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;White rippled pools, where late deep waters wereAnd ever the white waves marshalled in retreatAnd the grey wind in sole supremacyO’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.
Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,Long leaning wings across the sea and land.The waves creep back bequeathing to our sightThe treasure-house of their deserted sand,And where the nearer waves curl white and low,Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;White rippled pools, where late deep waters wereAnd ever the white waves marshalled in retreatAnd the grey wind in sole supremacyO’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.
Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,Long leaning wings across the sea and land.The waves creep back bequeathing to our sightThe treasure-house of their deserted sand,And where the nearer waves curl white and low,Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.
Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;White rippled pools, where late deep waters wereAnd ever the white waves marshalled in retreatAnd the grey wind in sole supremacyO’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.
The little moon is dead,Drowned in the flood of rainThat drips from roof of byre and shed,And splashes in the lane:The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year’s leaves are spread.The sheep cower in the fold,Where the rain beats them blind,Where scarce the rotten hurdles holdAgainst the weary windThat moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.Dim lights across the downShow where the lone farms lie,The twisted trees have lost their brown,Are black against the sky,And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.Ah, was the moon once bright?And did the thyme smell sweetWhere, between dewy dusk and light,The warm turf felt our feet,And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?Did sheep-bells tinkle clearAcross the golden haze?Were the woods ever leafy-dear,In those forgotten days?The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.
The little moon is dead,Drowned in the flood of rainThat drips from roof of byre and shed,And splashes in the lane:The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year’s leaves are spread.The sheep cower in the fold,Where the rain beats them blind,Where scarce the rotten hurdles holdAgainst the weary windThat moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.Dim lights across the downShow where the lone farms lie,The twisted trees have lost their brown,Are black against the sky,And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.Ah, was the moon once bright?And did the thyme smell sweetWhere, between dewy dusk and light,The warm turf felt our feet,And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?Did sheep-bells tinkle clearAcross the golden haze?Were the woods ever leafy-dear,In those forgotten days?The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.
The little moon is dead,Drowned in the flood of rainThat drips from roof of byre and shed,And splashes in the lane:The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year’s leaves are spread.
The sheep cower in the fold,Where the rain beats them blind,Where scarce the rotten hurdles holdAgainst the weary windThat moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.
Dim lights across the downShow where the lone farms lie,The twisted trees have lost their brown,Are black against the sky,And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.
Ah, was the moon once bright?And did the thyme smell sweetWhere, between dewy dusk and light,The warm turf felt our feet,And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?
Did sheep-bells tinkle clearAcross the golden haze?Were the woods ever leafy-dear,In those forgotten days?The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.
On this old lawn, where lost hours passAcross the shadows dark with dew,Where autumn on the thick sweet grassHas laid a weary leaf or two,When the young morning, keenly sweet,Breathes secrets to the silent air,Happy is he whose lingering feetMay wander lonely there.The enchantment of the dreaming limes,The magic of the quiet hours,Breathe unheard tales of other timesAnd other destinies than ours;The feet that long ago walked hereStill, noiseless, walk beside our feet,Poor ghosts, who found this garden dear,And found the morning sweet!Age weeps that it no more may holdThe heart-ache that youth clasps so close,Pain finely shaped in pleasure’s mould,A thorn deep hidden in a rose.Here is the immortal thorny roseThat may in no new garden grow—Its root is in the hearts of thoseWho walked here long ago.
On this old lawn, where lost hours passAcross the shadows dark with dew,Where autumn on the thick sweet grassHas laid a weary leaf or two,When the young morning, keenly sweet,Breathes secrets to the silent air,Happy is he whose lingering feetMay wander lonely there.The enchantment of the dreaming limes,The magic of the quiet hours,Breathe unheard tales of other timesAnd other destinies than ours;The feet that long ago walked hereStill, noiseless, walk beside our feet,Poor ghosts, who found this garden dear,And found the morning sweet!Age weeps that it no more may holdThe heart-ache that youth clasps so close,Pain finely shaped in pleasure’s mould,A thorn deep hidden in a rose.Here is the immortal thorny roseThat may in no new garden grow—Its root is in the hearts of thoseWho walked here long ago.
On this old lawn, where lost hours passAcross the shadows dark with dew,Where autumn on the thick sweet grassHas laid a weary leaf or two,When the young morning, keenly sweet,Breathes secrets to the silent air,Happy is he whose lingering feetMay wander lonely there.
The enchantment of the dreaming limes,The magic of the quiet hours,Breathe unheard tales of other timesAnd other destinies than ours;The feet that long ago walked hereStill, noiseless, walk beside our feet,Poor ghosts, who found this garden dear,And found the morning sweet!
Age weeps that it no more may holdThe heart-ache that youth clasps so close,Pain finely shaped in pleasure’s mould,A thorn deep hidden in a rose.Here is the immortal thorny roseThat may in no new garden grow—Its root is in the hearts of thoseWho walked here long ago.
Sleep first,And let the storm and winter do their worst;Let all the garden lieBare to the angry sky,The shed leaves shiver and dieAbove your bed;Let the white coverletOf sunlit snow be setOver your sleeping head,While in the earth you sleepWhere dreams are dear and deep,And heed nor wind nor snow,Nor how the dark moons go.In this sad upper world where Winter’s handHas bound with chains of ice the weary land.Then wakeTo see the whole world lovely for Spring’s sake;The garden fresh and fairWith green things everywhere,And winter’s want and careBanished and fled;Primrose and violetIn every border set,With rain and sunshine fed.Then bless the fairy songThat cradled you so long,And bless the fairy kissThat wakened you to this—A world where Winter’s dead and Spring doth reignAnd lovers whisper in the budding lane.
Sleep first,And let the storm and winter do their worst;Let all the garden lieBare to the angry sky,The shed leaves shiver and dieAbove your bed;Let the white coverletOf sunlit snow be setOver your sleeping head,While in the earth you sleepWhere dreams are dear and deep,And heed nor wind nor snow,Nor how the dark moons go.In this sad upper world where Winter’s handHas bound with chains of ice the weary land.Then wakeTo see the whole world lovely for Spring’s sake;The garden fresh and fairWith green things everywhere,And winter’s want and careBanished and fled;Primrose and violetIn every border set,With rain and sunshine fed.Then bless the fairy songThat cradled you so long,And bless the fairy kissThat wakened you to this—A world where Winter’s dead and Spring doth reignAnd lovers whisper in the budding lane.
Sleep first,And let the storm and winter do their worst;Let all the garden lieBare to the angry sky,The shed leaves shiver and dieAbove your bed;Let the white coverletOf sunlit snow be setOver your sleeping head,While in the earth you sleepWhere dreams are dear and deep,And heed nor wind nor snow,Nor how the dark moons go.In this sad upper world where Winter’s handHas bound with chains of ice the weary land.Then wakeTo see the whole world lovely for Spring’s sake;The garden fresh and fairWith green things everywhere,And winter’s want and careBanished and fled;Primrose and violetIn every border set,With rain and sunshine fed.Then bless the fairy songThat cradled you so long,And bless the fairy kissThat wakened you to this—A world where Winter’s dead and Spring doth reignAnd lovers whisper in the budding lane.
The trees stand brown against the gray,The shivering gray of field and sky;The mists wrapt round the dying dayThe shroud poor days wear as they die:Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,Who could not bring my Love again!Down in the garden breezes coldDead rustling stalks blow chill between;Only, above the sodden mould,The wallflower wears his heartless greenAs though still reigned the rose-crowned yearAnd summer and my Love were here.The mists creep close about the house,The empty house, all still and chill;The desolate and trembling boughsScratch at the dripping window sill:Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,And ghosts knock at the window pane.
The trees stand brown against the gray,The shivering gray of field and sky;The mists wrapt round the dying dayThe shroud poor days wear as they die:Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,Who could not bring my Love again!Down in the garden breezes coldDead rustling stalks blow chill between;Only, above the sodden mould,The wallflower wears his heartless greenAs though still reigned the rose-crowned yearAnd summer and my Love were here.The mists creep close about the house,The empty house, all still and chill;The desolate and trembling boughsScratch at the dripping window sill:Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,And ghosts knock at the window pane.
The trees stand brown against the gray,The shivering gray of field and sky;The mists wrapt round the dying dayThe shroud poor days wear as they die:Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,Who could not bring my Love again!
Down in the garden breezes coldDead rustling stalks blow chill between;Only, above the sodden mould,The wallflower wears his heartless greenAs though still reigned the rose-crowned yearAnd summer and my Love were here.
The mists creep close about the house,The empty house, all still and chill;The desolate and trembling boughsScratch at the dripping window sill:Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,And ghosts knock at the window pane.