A BURYING.

THE moon upon her watch-towerWith her golden eyeGuarded the quartersEast and West the sky.Just as midnightWas stepping pastOne drew his first breath,One drew his last.The moon upon her watch-towerRang a soundless bell—It might have been for welcome,It might have been farewell.

ISEE the twelve fair months go byBearing a coffin shoulder-high.What, laughing? Pretty pall-bearers,Pitiless of the buried years,Have ye never a tear to shedNor sigh to drop for the newly-dead,Nor marble grief to mark his grave?—No, none of these; but see, we haveGreen seed to mingle with his earth.—What, is not this a burying?—— Nay, a birth.

THROUGH the grey and heavy air,Through the January rain,When old England nipped and bareShudders with the load of painWept upon her by the eyesOf sunless, sun-remembering skies:When the soul of man is fainSuddenly abroad to fare,Questing, questing everywhereThe soul of beauty to regain,Dreaming like a boy to snareThe great free bird no lure can chain,Following in a dull despairThat cannot pierce their brief disguiseRandom flights of pallid liesNever fledged in Paradise:—Comes the sound of gathering criesCalling down the centuriesUrgently with might and main,“Colin Clout, O Colin Clout!Colin, Colin, Colin Clout!England needs you, Colin Clout!Colin Clout, come home again!”Colin, can you never hear?Colin, will you never riseFrom the narrow plot of restThat sang for joy of such a guestTo fill its dust with melodies,And to make it year by yearSuch a place of golden cheer,Of flowering deed and jolly jest,Of pastoral prettiness and the clearSummons to be sailing WestOver oceans fabulousLeading on to stranger shoresAnd distant ports adventurous—That with its music in your ear,Drawn from your own imagined stores,You care to give no heed to usWhose laughter has been soured by doubt,Whose hearts are hedged with many a fear,Who learn to hold our lives so dearThat all their wealth has trickled out,Who joy and beauty hand in handHave driven homeless from the landAnd put the old ideals to rout:—Yet even because, returning here,You needs must find your England thus,Let not her children call in vain,“Colin Clout, O Colin Clout!Colin Clout, come home again!”Hark! I hear a shepherd’s pipeWith three notes of music wipeDiscord from this troubled star;I hear tumultuous gladness shakeThe marrows of the land awake,Wherein old slumbering visions are;I hear the stirrings of a dayWhen all the earth will smell of may,When eager men will fling asideTheir garments of enlightened prideWhere time the moth has had his way,And don again the homespun dressOf England’s ancient simpleness—O piping shepherd-reed at play,Blown with a poet’s golden breath,How suddenly a heart as gay,As innocent, as full of faithAs children’s hearts are, ’gins to beatIn the world’s bosom at my feet!How all my sisters’ eyes grow strong,And all my brothers’ eyes grow sweet,And we who boast so loud to-dayAbove our self-created strifeThat we have lost our fear of deathLose suddenly our fear of life,And go with gladness down the wayTo meet whatever is to meet.Then, Colin! then about your kneesWe’ll lie and list such fantasiesAs keep the spirit bright and youngAnd guard the edge of youth as keenAs a new-tempered virgin sword;We will re-learn the magic tongue,And where the meadow-rings are greenRe-seek Titania and her lord,For you will bring a flitting homeOf vanished Folk to English loam;About our business we will goWith holiday-hearts whose dancing beatIs measured to your piping sweet,And on your music great will growIn the redress of antique wrongs;And from the richest of your songs,O dreamer-lover, shepherd-knight,Spell out a long-forgotten name,Re-kindling the expiring glowOf Chivalry’s high beacon-light,Till by its heaven-pointing flameOur generations understandTheir England is too fair a landTo suffer ugliness and blightAnd the dishonourable baneOf serfdom’s bowed and broken knee,Too fine a trading mart to beWhere one may cause the many pain,And foul self-interest men empowersTo turn to weeds what should be flowers.For evil must be still to copeWhen Colin Clout comes home again,Because a world devoid of painWould be a world made bare of hope,And both must act together tillSlipt from its spiritual tranceThis globe is frozen to good and ill;But ere the life here bound by chanceFlows to its last significance,Colin! bring home the dream we lostBecause we grew too old for dreams,And bring again the golden barqueWith which in our high-hearted youthWe sailed wild seas and perilous streams;And find again a road we crossedIn olden time and failed to mark;And give us love of beauty back,And set us on the grassy trackOf many an ancient-simple truth;Re-teach our voices how to singMelodiously; and bring, O bringThe rustless lance of honour inFor men to strive again to win,As in the days when knightlihoodFor life’s most high expression stood,And man reached forth to touch that goalNot with his hands but with his soul.Ah, Colin! ’tis a twice-told taleHow that the woods were heard to wail,How birds with silence did complain,And fields with faded flowers did mourn,And flocks from feeding did refrain,And rivers wept for your return.Singer of England’s merriest hour,Return! return and make her flower,Charming your pipe unto your peersAs once you did in other years;For we who wait on you, know this,Whatever tune your reed shall playWill hearken with as gladdened earsAs Cuddy and as Thestylis,As Hobbinol and LucidaAnd all the simple shepherd-train,What time they gathered and ran, a gayRejoicing happy-hearted rout,Across the sweetening meadow-hayEach calling other:“Come about!The time of waiting is run out,And Colin Clout, O, Colin Clout,Colin Clout’s come home again!”

Colin, can you never hear?Colin, will you never riseFrom the narrow plot of restThat sang for joy of such a guestTo fill its dust with melodies,And to make it year by yearSuch a place of golden cheer,Of flowering deed and jolly jest,Of pastoral prettiness and the clearSummons to be sailing WestOver oceans fabulousLeading on to stranger shoresAnd distant ports adventurous—That with its music in your ear,Drawn from your own imagined stores,You care to give no heed to usWhose laughter has been soured by doubt,Whose hearts are hedged with many a fear,Who learn to hold our lives so dearThat all their wealth has trickled out,Who joy and beauty hand in handHave driven homeless from the landAnd put the old ideals to rout:—Yet even because, returning here,You needs must find your England thus,Let not her children call in vain,“Colin Clout, O Colin Clout!Colin Clout, come home again!”

Hark! I hear a shepherd’s pipeWith three notes of music wipeDiscord from this troubled star;I hear tumultuous gladness shakeThe marrows of the land awake,Wherein old slumbering visions are;I hear the stirrings of a dayWhen all the earth will smell of may,When eager men will fling asideTheir garments of enlightened prideWhere time the moth has had his way,And don again the homespun dressOf England’s ancient simpleness—O piping shepherd-reed at play,Blown with a poet’s golden breath,How suddenly a heart as gay,As innocent, as full of faithAs children’s hearts are, ’gins to beatIn the world’s bosom at my feet!How all my sisters’ eyes grow strong,And all my brothers’ eyes grow sweet,And we who boast so loud to-dayAbove our self-created strifeThat we have lost our fear of deathLose suddenly our fear of life,And go with gladness down the wayTo meet whatever is to meet.

Then, Colin! then about your kneesWe’ll lie and list such fantasiesAs keep the spirit bright and youngAnd guard the edge of youth as keenAs a new-tempered virgin sword;We will re-learn the magic tongue,And where the meadow-rings are greenRe-seek Titania and her lord,For you will bring a flitting homeOf vanished Folk to English loam;About our business we will goWith holiday-hearts whose dancing beatIs measured to your piping sweet,And on your music great will growIn the redress of antique wrongs;And from the richest of your songs,O dreamer-lover, shepherd-knight,Spell out a long-forgotten name,Re-kindling the expiring glowOf Chivalry’s high beacon-light,Till by its heaven-pointing flameOur generations understandTheir England is too fair a landTo suffer ugliness and blightAnd the dishonourable baneOf serfdom’s bowed and broken knee,Too fine a trading mart to beWhere one may cause the many pain,And foul self-interest men empowersTo turn to weeds what should be flowers.

For evil must be still to copeWhen Colin Clout comes home again,Because a world devoid of painWould be a world made bare of hope,And both must act together tillSlipt from its spiritual tranceThis globe is frozen to good and ill;But ere the life here bound by chanceFlows to its last significance,Colin! bring home the dream we lostBecause we grew too old for dreams,And bring again the golden barqueWith which in our high-hearted youthWe sailed wild seas and perilous streams;And find again a road we crossedIn olden time and failed to mark;And give us love of beauty back,And set us on the grassy trackOf many an ancient-simple truth;Re-teach our voices how to singMelodiously; and bring, O bringThe rustless lance of honour inFor men to strive again to win,As in the days when knightlihoodFor life’s most high expression stood,And man reached forth to touch that goalNot with his hands but with his soul.

Ah, Colin! ’tis a twice-told taleHow that the woods were heard to wail,How birds with silence did complain,And fields with faded flowers did mourn,And flocks from feeding did refrain,And rivers wept for your return.Singer of England’s merriest hour,Return! return and make her flower,Charming your pipe unto your peersAs once you did in other years;For we who wait on you, know this,Whatever tune your reed shall playWill hearken with as gladdened earsAs Cuddy and as Thestylis,As Hobbinol and LucidaAnd all the simple shepherd-train,What time they gathered and ran, a gayRejoicing happy-hearted rout,Across the sweetening meadow-hayEach calling other:“Come about!The time of waiting is run out,And Colin Clout, O, Colin Clout,Colin Clout’s come home again!”

BRONWEN gathered wild-flowersUp-and-down the lane;Her gathering touch upon themSweeter was than rain.Now a blossom overblown,Now a bud begun—Her eye that lightened on themWas quicker than the sun.One by one she named them,Oh, she did expressIn her pretty namingsAll their prettiness:Some were fit for virgins,Some for merry dames,And the love with which she named themWas lovelier than their names.

BRONWEN gathered wild-flowersUp-and-down the lane;Her gathering touch upon themSweeter was than rain.

Now a blossom overblown,Now a bud begun—Her eye that lightened on themWas quicker than the sun.

One by one she named them,Oh, she did expressIn her pretty namingsAll their prettiness:

Some were fit for virgins,Some for merry dames,And the love with which she named themWas lovelier than their names.

WHEN Joy and Molly on the lawnDanced bare of foot like spirits of dawnJessica watched in wondermentUntil delight would not be pent,And shoe and sock she cast in mirthAnd felt her naked toes touch earth.Swiftly the fresh green joy shot inThrough the fresh young rosy skin,And in a golden glee the childWent dancing innocently-wildUp and down and round and roundLike daisies covering the ground,Called sunward by the age-long spellNo ages can destroyOf youth that never sighed or sinned,—While elfin Molly and fairy JoyDanced on like lilies in a dellOr harebells in the wind.

SYLVIA said that day,“I’ll sing if you will play.”We could deny not anything,Not even deny to hear her singWho like a little spirit layUncertain whether to flutter its wing,To go or stay.So though it broke our hearts for pity,With hidden face one wentTo the tinkling instrument,And one with bended headStayed by the bed,While the small voice sang over and over its ditty:—“‘Manners make ladies, but not such as these,Manners make ladies, but not such as these.’Now again, please!‘Manners make ladies—But not such as these.’”She breathed it long and longAnd ah, so low,Her tiny meaningless song,For she was pleased to please us so—But what we saidSitting beside her bedI do not know,There were so many tears to keep unshed.

SYLVIA said that day,“I’ll sing if you will play.”We could deny not anything,Not even deny to hear her singWho like a little spirit layUncertain whether to flutter its wing,To go or stay.

So though it broke our hearts for pity,With hidden face one wentTo the tinkling instrument,And one with bended headStayed by the bed,While the small voice sang over and over its ditty:—

“‘Manners make ladies, but not such as these,Manners make ladies, but not such as these.’Now again, please!‘Manners make ladies—But not such as these.’”

She breathed it long and longAnd ah, so low,Her tiny meaningless song,For she was pleased to please us so—But what we saidSitting beside her bedI do not know,There were so many tears to keep unshed.

DYING leaf and dead leaf,Yellow leaf and red leafAnd white-backed beam,Lay along the woodland roadAs quiet as a dream.Summer was over,The year had lost her lover,Spent with her griefAll along the woodland roadLeaf fell on leaf.Then came a shuffling,Such a happy rufflingOf the dried sweetSurf of leaves upon the roadRound a baby’s feet.Year-old leaf ran afterThree-year-old laughter,Danced through the airAs she caught them from the roadAnd flung them anywhere.Old leaf and cold leaf,Brown leaf and gold leafAnd white-backed beam,Followed down the woodland roadMyfanwy in a dream.

DYING leaf and dead leaf,Yellow leaf and red leafAnd white-backed beam,Lay along the woodland roadAs quiet as a dream.

Summer was over,The year had lost her lover,Spent with her griefAll along the woodland roadLeaf fell on leaf.

Then came a shuffling,Such a happy rufflingOf the dried sweetSurf of leaves upon the roadRound a baby’s feet.

Year-old leaf ran afterThree-year-old laughter,Danced through the airAs she caught them from the roadAnd flung them anywhere.

Old leaf and cold leaf,Brown leaf and gold leafAnd white-backed beam,Followed down the woodland roadMyfanwy in a dream.

ISHALL love no other child,Joan, as I love you;The second life our children buildRemains for you to do.You would have been out-loved in oneThat never will be born,And the love that should my flower have grownGrows nothing but my thorn.You for that unborn other’s sakeMy deepest heart do clutch,But sometimes—sometimes all you takeHurts, for her sake, too much.

ISHALL love no other child,Joan, as I love you;The second life our children buildRemains for you to do.

You would have been out-loved in oneThat never will be born,And the love that should my flower have grownGrows nothing but my thorn.

You for that unborn other’s sakeMy deepest heart do clutch,But sometimes—sometimes all you takeHurts, for her sake, too much.

“COME to your poor old Mother,” she saidSmiling, and gathered to her breastWith her good hands her baby’s head;But the child’s eyes looked out oppressed.“Notold—notold—it isn’t true!Everyone may be old but you.”Old?—Old, you see, is much too nearThe half-imagined thing that takesOur Mothers where they do not hearEven when their baby wakesAnd cries for comfort in the gloom—Babies to cry, and Mothers not come!Within the safe arms round her curled,“Oh,” she half sobbed, “I wish you’d beThe youngest person in the world—How old are you? notold?” begged she,And caught a little panting breath,Then lay quite still and thought of death.

Old?—Old, you see, is much too nearThe half-imagined thing that takesOur Mothers where they do not hearEven when their baby wakesAnd cries for comfort in the gloom—Babies to cry, and Mothers not come!

Within the safe arms round her curled,“Oh,” she half sobbed, “I wish you’d beThe youngest person in the world—How old are you? notold?” begged she,And caught a little panting breath,Then lay quite still and thought of death.

THIS day we are met to set a nameOn thy mysterious dust and flame,That in the years to follow, whenThy feet shall walk the ways of men,Thou mayst according to his planBe known thereby to man.O being undiscoverable!Thy name thyself will never spell.Whate’er thou art, whate’er wilt be,Man’s tongue will never utter thee;Towering upon thy inmost throneThou shalt of none be known.We watch in wonder how thy browGrows strange and silent in sleep, and howEven more silent and more strangeThy waking is that brings no changeWhen thy dim dreams of slumber pressTo dimmer dreamlessness.But looking with a love that seemsTo pierce thy undiscovered dreams,Within thy small unfolded beingSome dream of our own making seeing,“All that she feels and dreams,” we say,“We too will know one day.”Ah, even when human speech has comeTo make thy mouth no longer dumb,When quickened thought and sympathyLike angels look from either eye,Thyself will still be hidden as deepAs now, awake, asleep.We must our knowledge of thee stillBy nothing save by love fulfil,And with the dreamings of the heartStill guess at the dream of what thou artWhich only of thee and God is known,Child whom this day names Joan.

THIS day we are met to set a nameOn thy mysterious dust and flame,That in the years to follow, whenThy feet shall walk the ways of men,Thou mayst according to his planBe known thereby to man.

O being undiscoverable!Thy name thyself will never spell.Whate’er thou art, whate’er wilt be,Man’s tongue will never utter thee;Towering upon thy inmost throneThou shalt of none be known.

We watch in wonder how thy browGrows strange and silent in sleep, and howEven more silent and more strangeThy waking is that brings no changeWhen thy dim dreams of slumber pressTo dimmer dreamlessness.

But looking with a love that seemsTo pierce thy undiscovered dreams,Within thy small unfolded beingSome dream of our own making seeing,“All that she feels and dreams,” we say,“We too will know one day.”

Ah, even when human speech has comeTo make thy mouth no longer dumb,When quickened thought and sympathyLike angels look from either eye,Thyself will still be hidden as deepAs now, awake, asleep.

We must our knowledge of thee stillBy nothing save by love fulfil,And with the dreamings of the heartStill guess at the dream of what thou artWhich only of thee and God is known,Child whom this day names Joan.

IHAD a holy hour last night.The room her presence made so pureWas shaded in uncertain light,But oh, the light it held was sure.There while about her golden headThe shadows and the low light played,She eagerly and softly readThe shining songs her soul had made.Flower and shell and sand and sea,And flight of gulls against the sun,And many a friend, and many a tree,And youth begun and age nigh-done,Death and life, and life and death,Divinely in her vision smiled;She spoke them with the silver breathHalf of angel, half of child.Upon her bed I lay at rest,But once when kneeling by her chairI leaned my head beside her breastAnd heard the wordless singing there.

IHAD a holy hour last night.The room her presence made so pureWas shaded in uncertain light,But oh, the light it held was sure.

There while about her golden headThe shadows and the low light played,She eagerly and softly readThe shining songs her soul had made.

Flower and shell and sand and sea,And flight of gulls against the sun,And many a friend, and many a tree,And youth begun and age nigh-done,

Death and life, and life and death,Divinely in her vision smiled;She spoke them with the silver breathHalf of angel, half of child.

Upon her bed I lay at rest,But once when kneeling by her chairI leaned my head beside her breastAnd heard the wordless singing there.

SHE ran with her ball in her light dress floating and free,Tossing it, tossing it up in the evening light,She ran with her ball at the edge of the outgoing seaOn sand which the dropping sun turned bright.Over the sea hung birds more white than the skinOf the last few swimmers who took the waves with their breasts;The birds dipped straight as her ball when a silver finGlanced in the shallow crests.She ran so swift, and suddenly stopped as swiftTo look at a shell, or splash up a pool in rain;Wind blew, and she in the wind began to driftFoam-like, and suddenly ran again.Children who played on the shore in the last of the dayPaused and watched in wonder her rise and fallLike elders watching a child: she was younger than theyAs she ran by the sea with her ball.Her hair was loose and she had no shoes on her feet,And her image ran under her feet on the wet gold shore,She threw up her ball and she caught it, and once laughed sweetAs though the world had never heard laughter before.

Over the sea hung birds more white than the skinOf the last few swimmers who took the waves with their breasts;The birds dipped straight as her ball when a silver finGlanced in the shallow crests.

She ran so swift, and suddenly stopped as swiftTo look at a shell, or splash up a pool in rain;Wind blew, and she in the wind began to driftFoam-like, and suddenly ran again.

Children who played on the shore in the last of the dayPaused and watched in wonder her rise and fallLike elders watching a child: she was younger than theyAs she ran by the sea with her ball.

Her hair was loose and she had no shoes on her feet,And her image ran under her feet on the wet gold shore,She threw up her ball and she caught it, and once laughed sweetAs though the world had never heard laughter before.

OVER the hearth on which we burnedBrown beech-nuts, lichen-twigs, and cones,I sat beside her while she turnedA forkèd wand within the pyre,Until two little spirts of fireSprang from the hazel’s withered bones.Then, with her eyes upon her branchPointed with ruddy nuts of flame,Like one who has no power to staunchThe heart’s-blood flowing from his side,She through her mouth undammed a tideOf legends that I could not name:—Strange villages where damsels fishedFor lovers in a rainbow seaBy night: a crazy man who wishedTo act like God, and very soonOut-freaked the fools that raked the moon:Gold underneath an apple-treeDiscovered by a thrice-dreamed dream:Half-tales, half-ballads—until the roomShook in its shadows with a streamOf pedlars, witches, cats in crowns,Denizens of enchanted towns,And kings confined in forests of gloom.Her voice went up and down like windThat wanders lost among the eaves;The flamelets on her hazel thinnedAnd dwindled into smouldering eyes;Her voice failed like the wind that dies,She threw a handful of black leavesOn the bright litter of the hearthAnd thrust her hazel’s double sparkWithin. The smell of smoking earthRose from the stones where ceased to burnThe fiery lines of cone and fernAnd berry: the room was dumb and dark.

Then, with her eyes upon her branchPointed with ruddy nuts of flame,Like one who has no power to staunchThe heart’s-blood flowing from his side,She through her mouth undammed a tideOf legends that I could not name:—

Strange villages where damsels fishedFor lovers in a rainbow seaBy night: a crazy man who wishedTo act like God, and very soonOut-freaked the fools that raked the moon:Gold underneath an apple-tree

Discovered by a thrice-dreamed dream:Half-tales, half-ballads—until the roomShook in its shadows with a streamOf pedlars, witches, cats in crowns,Denizens of enchanted towns,And kings confined in forests of gloom.

Her voice went up and down like windThat wanders lost among the eaves;The flamelets on her hazel thinnedAnd dwindled into smouldering eyes;Her voice failed like the wind that dies,She threw a handful of black leaves

On the bright litter of the hearthAnd thrust her hazel’s double sparkWithin. The smell of smoking earthRose from the stones where ceased to burnThe fiery lines of cone and fernAnd berry: the room was dumb and dark.

SHE had no life except to be what menRequired of her to be.They came for sympathy, and came againFor sympathy.She never knew the way her heart to spareWhen they were hurt or worn,Whatever one may for another bearBy her was borne.They said, you give us of yourself so much!She heard them with a smile,Knowing she only gave to such and suchThemselves awhile.Their interests, their frets, their loneliness,Their sorrows and despairs,She wore for them—they saw her in no dressThat was not theirs.She learned to understand the solitudesWhen she by none was sought;Men of themselves grow sick, and in those moodsNeeded her not,Getting relief of others who gave thingsBy their own purpose lit;If she too had some freshness in her springs,None wanted it.She grew accustomed to be quietly shutAway, was used to seeLove limping dutifully in a rutThat once ran free;She knew the signs when friends began to castWhat they had asked her for—Some asked for much, some little, all at lastAsked nothing more.And when she died they sorrowed, it is true,But not for long, becauseThey had seen some pale reflection that she threw,Not what she was.

SHE had no life except to be what menRequired of her to be.They came for sympathy, and came againFor sympathy.

She never knew the way her heart to spareWhen they were hurt or worn,Whatever one may for another bearBy her was borne.

They said, you give us of yourself so much!She heard them with a smile,Knowing she only gave to such and suchThemselves awhile.

Their interests, their frets, their loneliness,Their sorrows and despairs,She wore for them—they saw her in no dressThat was not theirs.

She learned to understand the solitudesWhen she by none was sought;Men of themselves grow sick, and in those moodsNeeded her not,

Getting relief of others who gave thingsBy their own purpose lit;If she too had some freshness in her springs,None wanted it.

She grew accustomed to be quietly shutAway, was used to seeLove limping dutifully in a rutThat once ran free;

She knew the signs when friends began to castWhat they had asked her for—Some asked for much, some little, all at lastAsked nothing more.

And when she died they sorrowed, it is true,But not for long, becauseThey had seen some pale reflection that she threw,Not what she was.

HE moved his fellow-men amongAnd changed with them some forms of speech.His heart was separate from his tongue,They would not hear his heart beseech.Their needs were very like his own,Quivering in bodies numb and dazed;They smiled and talked and felt alone.—Did not their hearts look on amazed?

HE moved his fellow-men amongAnd changed with them some forms of speech.His heart was separate from his tongue,They would not hear his heart beseech.

Their needs were very like his own,Quivering in bodies numb and dazed;They smiled and talked and felt alone.—Did not their hearts look on amazed?

HEAVEN, the Spring’s coming true again!Easterly over the sky’s spring-blue againPasses a pearly flight of cloud—Somewhere a dovecote is empty, surely!And all of its birds have flown in a broodOver the pure blue purely!Westerly owl-grey gatheringsLinger a little yet:Soon, owls! soon you will shrinkOut of the sun, I think,Who even now turns silver-wetThe last of your ghostly gatherings.Back to your windy barns again,To your forsaken granaries,Haunting, hating breed of the Winter!For the grass in the mould begins to teem,By every gate where the cuckoo fliesPrimrose and fragile wind-flower enter,And, lovelier truth than any dream,Blue light is mirrored in ancient tarns again!

Westerly owl-grey gatheringsLinger a little yet:Soon, owls! soon you will shrinkOut of the sun, I think,Who even now turns silver-wetThe last of your ghostly gatherings.

Back to your windy barns again,To your forsaken granaries,Haunting, hating breed of the Winter!For the grass in the mould begins to teem,By every gate where the cuckoo fliesPrimrose and fragile wind-flower enter,And, lovelier truth than any dream,Blue light is mirrored in ancient tarns again!

THE world’s amazing beauty would make us cryAloud; but something in it strikes us dumb.Beech-forests drenched in sunny floodsWhere shaking rays and shadows hum,The unrepeated aspects of the sky,Clouds in their lightest and their wildest moods,Bare shapes of hills, June grass in flower,The sea in every hour,Slopes that one January morning flowUnbrokenly with snow,Peaks piercing heaven with motions sharp and harsh,Slow-moving flats, grey reed and silver marsh,A flock of swans in flightOr solitary heron flapping home,Orchards of pear and cherry turning white,Low apple-trees with rosy-budded boughs,Streams where young willows drink and cows,Earth’s rich ploughed loamThinking darkly forward to her sheaves,Water in Autumn spotted with yellow leaves,Light running overland,Gulls standing still above their imagesOn strips of shining sandWhile evening in a haze of greenHalf-hidesThe calm receding tides—What in the beauty we have seen in theseKeeps us still silent? something we have not seen?

AMONG the stripped and sooty twigs of the wild cherry treeSometimes they flit and swing as though two blossoms of the SpringHad quickened on these bleak October branches suddenly.They are like fairy birds flown down from skies which no one knows,Their pointed yellow bills are bright as April daffodils,Their plumy whiteness heavenly as January snows.Loveliest guests that choose our garden-plot for loitering!Oh, what a sudden flower of joy is set upon the hourWhen in their cherry cages two white blackbirds sit and swing.

AMONG the stripped and sooty twigs of the wild cherry treeSometimes they flit and swing as though two blossoms of the SpringHad quickened on these bleak October branches suddenly.

They are like fairy birds flown down from skies which no one knows,Their pointed yellow bills are bright as April daffodils,Their plumy whiteness heavenly as January snows.

Loveliest guests that choose our garden-plot for loitering!Oh, what a sudden flower of joy is set upon the hourWhen in their cherry cages two white blackbirds sit and swing.

THE nightingales around our houseAmong the lovely orchard boughs:Where the young apple-dawn too soonTurns whiter than the daylit moon,And ’mid its shadowy silver bowersThe quince is flushed with heavenly flowersThat opening poise as though for flight:The nightingales sing day and night,With piercing, long, insistent calling,And chuckle of sweet waters falling,And unimaginable trillThat makes my heart beat and stand still.Oh, even so, by night and dayWhen first the earth broke into MayEre men shut thunder up in shells,They came and sang their miracles;And so, in myriad Mays to come,When all those damnèd storms are dumbAnd only heaven’s lightning crownsHer clouds of thunder on the Downs,They still will come, by night and dayTo sing the radiant Spring away,Till men lie crumbled with their townsAnd earth no more breaks into May.

Oh, even so, by night and dayWhen first the earth broke into MayEre men shut thunder up in shells,They came and sang their miracles;And so, in myriad Mays to come,When all those damnèd storms are dumbAnd only heaven’s lightning crownsHer clouds of thunder on the Downs,They still will come, by night and dayTo sing the radiant Spring away,Till men lie crumbled with their townsAnd earth no more breaks into May.

NOW independent, beautiful and proud,Out of the vanishing body of a cloudLike its arisen soul the full moon swimsOver the sea, into whose distant brimsHas flowed the last of the light. I am alone.Even the diving gannet now is flownFrom these unpeopled sands. A mist lies coldUpon the muffled boundaries of the world.The lovely earth whose silence is so deepIs folded up in night, but not in sleep.

THE day is gone of the sun and the swallowAnd the glory on the trees:Before the gale the length of the paveThe dry old corpse of a plane-leaf flees,And its step is harsh and hollowAs it chatters into its grave.The shivering dawn now hides and slouchesLong in the cover of dark,Till up the sky, like a murderer pale,He drags at last a dull red mark,And the hound of the grey wind crouchesAnd pants on his rusty trail.

The shivering dawn now hides and slouchesLong in the cover of dark,Till up the sky, like a murderer pale,He drags at last a dull red mark,And the hound of the grey wind crouchesAnd pants on his rusty trail.

IKNEW no woman, child, or manHad been before my steps to-day.By Dippel Woods the snow-lanes ranSoft and uncrushed above their clay;But little starry feet had tracedTheir passages as though in words,And all those lanes of snow were lacedWith runnings of departed birds.

TO-DAY I walked three miles to PennWith an uneasy mind.The sun shone like a frozen eye,A light that had gone blind,The glassy air between the skyAnd earth was frozen wind—All motion and all light againWere closed within a rind,As I by wood and field to PennTook trouble in my mind.The slopes of cloud in heaven that lay,Unpeopled hills grown old,Had no more movement than the landLocked in a flowing mould;The sheep like mounds of cloudy sandStood soundless in the cold;There was no stir on all the waySave what my heart did hold,So quiet earth and heaven lay,So quiet and so old.

The slopes of cloud in heaven that lay,Unpeopled hills grown old,Had no more movement than the landLocked in a flowing mould;The sheep like mounds of cloudy sandStood soundless in the cold;There was no stir on all the waySave what my heart did hold,So quiet earth and heaven lay,So quiet and so old.

WHEN you say, I still am young,You are young no more;When, I’m old, is on your tongue,Age is still in store.Youth and age will never gropeTo say what they may be:One only knows it has a hope,And one a certainty.

WHEN you say, I still am young,You are young no more;When, I’m old, is on your tongue,Age is still in store.

Youth and age will never gropeTo say what they may be:One only knows it has a hope,And one a certainty.

GRIEF struck me. I so shook in heart and witI thought I must speak of it or die of it.A certain friend I had with strength to lend,When mine was spent I went to find my friend,Who, rising up with eyes wild for relief,Hung on my neck and spoke to me of grief.I raked the ashes of my burned-out strengthAnd found one coal to warm her with at length.I sat with her till I was icy cold.At last I went away, my grief untold.

GRIEF struck me. I so shook in heart and witI thought I must speak of it or die of it.

A certain friend I had with strength to lend,When mine was spent I went to find my friend,

Who, rising up with eyes wild for relief,Hung on my neck and spoke to me of grief.

I raked the ashes of my burned-out strengthAnd found one coal to warm her with at length.

I sat with her till I was icy cold.At last I went away, my grief untold.

LIFE, what art thou? Springing water artthou:When the waters flash and spring,life, start thou!When the spirit burns within the chapelsThe stones are quick with faith.When the branch hangs out its reddened applesThe tree is strong with breath;When love’s womb conceives the stirring blossomThe heart is full of power;When youth leaps in the darkness of the bosomThe body is in flower.When the fiery spirit deserts the chapels,Bury religion’s corse;When the branch no more puts forth its apples,Fell the tree at the source;When love feeds itself and not its blossomThe heart’s core withereth;When youth makes no movement in the bosomThe body is signed to death.Life, what art thou? A golden fountain art thou:When the fountain springs not, life, depart thou!

LIFE, what art thou? Springing water artthou:When the waters flash and spring,life, start thou!

When the spirit burns within the chapelsThe stones are quick with faith.When the branch hangs out its reddened applesThe tree is strong with breath;When love’s womb conceives the stirring blossomThe heart is full of power;When youth leaps in the darkness of the bosomThe body is in flower.When the fiery spirit deserts the chapels,Bury religion’s corse;When the branch no more puts forth its apples,Fell the tree at the source;When love feeds itself and not its blossomThe heart’s core withereth;When youth makes no movement in the bosomThe body is signed to death.

Life, what art thou? A golden fountain art thou:When the fountain springs not, life, depart thou!

First Voices.

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