In the pleasant orchard closes,“God bless all our gains,” say we;But “May God bless all our losses,”Better suits with our degree.—Listen gentle—ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!Green the land is where my dailySteps in jocund childhood played—Dimpled close with hill and valley,Dappled very close with shade;Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.There is one hill I see nearer,In my vision of the rest;And a little wood seems clearer,As it climbeth from the west,Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.Small the wood is, green with hazels,And, completing the ascent,Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,Thrills in leafy tremblement:Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.Not a step the wood advancesO’er the open hill-top’s bound:There, in green arrest, the branchesSee their image on the ground:You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.For you hearken on your right hand,How the birds do leap and callIn the greenwood, out of sight andOut of reach and fear of all;And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.On your left, the sheep are croppingThe slant grass and daisies pale;And five apple-trees stand, droppingSeparate shadows toward the vale,Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”Yet in childhood little prized IThat fair walk and far survey:’Twas a straight walk, unadvised byThe least mischief worth a nay—Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!But the wood, all close and clenchingBough in bough and root in root,—No more sky (for over-branching)At your head than at your foot,—Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.Few and broken paths showed through it,Where the sheep had tried to run,—Forced with snowy wool to strew itRound the thickets, when anonThey with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun.But my childish heart beat strongerThan those thickets dared to grow:Icould pierce them!Icould longerTravel on, methought, than so!Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.On a day, such pastime keeping,With a fawn’s heart debonair,Under-crawling, overleapingThorns that prick and boughs that bear,I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!From the place I stood in, floatedBack the covert dim and close;And the open ground was suitedCarpet-smooth with grass and moss,And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.’Twas a bower for garden fitter,Than for any woodland wide!Though a fresh and dewy glitterStruck it through, from side to side,Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.Rose-trees, either side the door, wereGrowing lithe and growing tall;Each one set a summer warderFor the keeping of the hall,—With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.As I entered—mosses hushingStole all noises from my foot:And a round elastic cushion,Clasped within the linden’s root,Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.So, young muser, I sat listeningTo my Fancy’s wildest word—On a sudden, through the glisteningLeaves around, a little stirred,Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.Softly, finely, it inwound me—From the world it shut me in,—Like a fountain falling round me,Which with silver waters thinClips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within.Whence the music came, who knoweth?Iknow nothing. But indeedPan or Faunus never blowethSo much sweetness from a reedWhich has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head.Never lark the sun can wakenWith such sweetness! when the lark,The high planets overtakingIn the half-evanished Dark,Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.Never nightingale so singeth—Oh! she leans on thorny tree,And her poet-soul she flingethOver pain to victory!Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!Never blackbirds, never thrushes,Nor small finches sing as sweet,When the sun strikes through the bushesTo their crimson clinging feet,And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.In a child-abstraction lifted,Straightway from the bower I passed;Foot and soul being dimly driftedThrough the greenwood, till, at last,In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast.And I said within me, laughing,I have found a bower to-day,A green lusus[52]—fashioned half inChance, and half in Nature’s play—And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.Henceforth,Iwill be the fairyOf this bower, not built by one;I will go there, sad or merry,With each morning’s benison;And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.So I said. But the next morning,(—Child, look up into my face—’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning!This is truth in its pure grace;)The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.Day by day, with new desire,Toward my wood I ran in faith—Under leaf and over brier—Through the thickets, out of breath—Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.But his sword of mettle clashèd,And his arm smote strong, I ween;And her dreaming spirit flashèdThrough her body’s fair white screen,And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green.But for me, I saw no splendour—All my sword was my child-heart;And the wood refused surrenderOf that bower it held apart,Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart.I have lost—oh many a pleasure—Many a hope, and many a power—Studious health and merry leisure—The first dew on the first flower!But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.All my losses did I tell you,Ye, perchance, would look away;—Ye would answer me, “Farewell! youMake sad company to-day;And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”For God placed me like a dialIn the open ground, with power;And my heart had for its trial,All the sun and all the shower!And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.
In the pleasant orchard closes,“God bless all our gains,” say we;But “May God bless all our losses,”Better suits with our degree.—Listen gentle—ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!Green the land is where my dailySteps in jocund childhood played—Dimpled close with hill and valley,Dappled very close with shade;Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.There is one hill I see nearer,In my vision of the rest;And a little wood seems clearer,As it climbeth from the west,Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.Small the wood is, green with hazels,And, completing the ascent,Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,Thrills in leafy tremblement:Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.Not a step the wood advancesO’er the open hill-top’s bound:There, in green arrest, the branchesSee their image on the ground:You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.For you hearken on your right hand,How the birds do leap and callIn the greenwood, out of sight andOut of reach and fear of all;And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.On your left, the sheep are croppingThe slant grass and daisies pale;And five apple-trees stand, droppingSeparate shadows toward the vale,Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”Yet in childhood little prized IThat fair walk and far survey:’Twas a straight walk, unadvised byThe least mischief worth a nay—Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!But the wood, all close and clenchingBough in bough and root in root,—No more sky (for over-branching)At your head than at your foot,—Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.Few and broken paths showed through it,Where the sheep had tried to run,—Forced with snowy wool to strew itRound the thickets, when anonThey with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun.But my childish heart beat strongerThan those thickets dared to grow:Icould pierce them!Icould longerTravel on, methought, than so!Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.On a day, such pastime keeping,With a fawn’s heart debonair,Under-crawling, overleapingThorns that prick and boughs that bear,I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!From the place I stood in, floatedBack the covert dim and close;And the open ground was suitedCarpet-smooth with grass and moss,And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.’Twas a bower for garden fitter,Than for any woodland wide!Though a fresh and dewy glitterStruck it through, from side to side,Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.Rose-trees, either side the door, wereGrowing lithe and growing tall;Each one set a summer warderFor the keeping of the hall,—With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.As I entered—mosses hushingStole all noises from my foot:And a round elastic cushion,Clasped within the linden’s root,Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.So, young muser, I sat listeningTo my Fancy’s wildest word—On a sudden, through the glisteningLeaves around, a little stirred,Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.Softly, finely, it inwound me—From the world it shut me in,—Like a fountain falling round me,Which with silver waters thinClips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within.Whence the music came, who knoweth?Iknow nothing. But indeedPan or Faunus never blowethSo much sweetness from a reedWhich has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head.Never lark the sun can wakenWith such sweetness! when the lark,The high planets overtakingIn the half-evanished Dark,Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.Never nightingale so singeth—Oh! she leans on thorny tree,And her poet-soul she flingethOver pain to victory!Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!Never blackbirds, never thrushes,Nor small finches sing as sweet,When the sun strikes through the bushesTo their crimson clinging feet,And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.In a child-abstraction lifted,Straightway from the bower I passed;Foot and soul being dimly driftedThrough the greenwood, till, at last,In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast.And I said within me, laughing,I have found a bower to-day,A green lusus[52]—fashioned half inChance, and half in Nature’s play—And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.Henceforth,Iwill be the fairyOf this bower, not built by one;I will go there, sad or merry,With each morning’s benison;And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.So I said. But the next morning,(—Child, look up into my face—’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning!This is truth in its pure grace;)The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.Day by day, with new desire,Toward my wood I ran in faith—Under leaf and over brier—Through the thickets, out of breath—Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.But his sword of mettle clashèd,And his arm smote strong, I ween;And her dreaming spirit flashèdThrough her body’s fair white screen,And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green.But for me, I saw no splendour—All my sword was my child-heart;And the wood refused surrenderOf that bower it held apart,Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart.I have lost—oh many a pleasure—Many a hope, and many a power—Studious health and merry leisure—The first dew on the first flower!But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.All my losses did I tell you,Ye, perchance, would look away;—Ye would answer me, “Farewell! youMake sad company to-day;And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”For God placed me like a dialIn the open ground, with power;And my heart had for its trial,All the sun and all the shower!And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.
In the pleasant orchard closes,“God bless all our gains,” say we;But “May God bless all our losses,”Better suits with our degree.—Listen gentle—ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!
In the pleasant orchard closes,
“God bless all our gains,” say we;
But “May God bless all our losses,”
Better suits with our degree.—
Listen gentle—ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!
Green the land is where my dailySteps in jocund childhood played—Dimpled close with hill and valley,Dappled very close with shade;Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.
Green the land is where my daily
Steps in jocund childhood played—
Dimpled close with hill and valley,
Dappled very close with shade;
Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.
There is one hill I see nearer,In my vision of the rest;And a little wood seems clearer,As it climbeth from the west,Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.
There is one hill I see nearer,
In my vision of the rest;
And a little wood seems clearer,
As it climbeth from the west,
Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.
Small the wood is, green with hazels,And, completing the ascent,Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,Thrills in leafy tremblement:Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.
Small the wood is, green with hazels,
And, completing the ascent,
Where the wind blows and sun dazzles,
Thrills in leafy tremblement:
Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.
Not a step the wood advancesO’er the open hill-top’s bound:There, in green arrest, the branchesSee their image on the ground:You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.
Not a step the wood advances
O’er the open hill-top’s bound:
There, in green arrest, the branches
See their image on the ground:
You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.
For you hearken on your right hand,How the birds do leap and callIn the greenwood, out of sight andOut of reach and fear of all;And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.
For you hearken on your right hand,
How the birds do leap and call
In the greenwood, out of sight and
Out of reach and fear of all;
And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.
On your left, the sheep are croppingThe slant grass and daisies pale;And five apple-trees stand, droppingSeparate shadows toward the vale,Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”
On your left, the sheep are cropping
The slant grass and daisies pale;
And five apple-trees stand, dropping
Separate shadows toward the vale,
Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”
Yet in childhood little prized IThat fair walk and far survey:’Twas a straight walk, unadvised byThe least mischief worth a nay—Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!
Yet in childhood little prized I
That fair walk and far survey:
’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by
The least mischief worth a nay—
Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!
But the wood, all close and clenchingBough in bough and root in root,—No more sky (for over-branching)At your head than at your foot,—Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.
But the wood, all close and clenching
Bough in bough and root in root,—
No more sky (for over-branching)
At your head than at your foot,—
Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.
Few and broken paths showed through it,Where the sheep had tried to run,—Forced with snowy wool to strew itRound the thickets, when anonThey with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun.
Few and broken paths showed through it,
Where the sheep had tried to run,—
Forced with snowy wool to strew it
Round the thickets, when anon
They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun.
But my childish heart beat strongerThan those thickets dared to grow:Icould pierce them!Icould longerTravel on, methought, than so!Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.
But my childish heart beat stronger
Than those thickets dared to grow:
Icould pierce them!Icould longer
Travel on, methought, than so!
Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.
On a day, such pastime keeping,With a fawn’s heart debonair,Under-crawling, overleapingThorns that prick and boughs that bear,I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!
On a day, such pastime keeping,
With a fawn’s heart debonair,
Under-crawling, overleaping
Thorns that prick and boughs that bear,
I stood suddenly astonished—I was gladdened unaware!
From the place I stood in, floatedBack the covert dim and close;And the open ground was suitedCarpet-smooth with grass and moss,And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.
From the place I stood in, floated
Back the covert dim and close;
And the open ground was suited
Carpet-smooth with grass and moss,
And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.
’Twas a bower for garden fitter,Than for any woodland wide!Though a fresh and dewy glitterStruck it through, from side to side,Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.
’Twas a bower for garden fitter,
Than for any woodland wide!
Though a fresh and dewy glitter
Struck it through, from side to side,
Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.
Rose-trees, either side the door, wereGrowing lithe and growing tall;Each one set a summer warderFor the keeping of the hall,—With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.
Rose-trees, either side the door, were
Growing lithe and growing tall;
Each one set a summer warder
For the keeping of the hall,—
With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.
As I entered—mosses hushingStole all noises from my foot:And a round elastic cushion,Clasped within the linden’s root,Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.
As I entered—mosses hushing
Stole all noises from my foot:
And a round elastic cushion,
Clasped within the linden’s root,
Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.
So, young muser, I sat listeningTo my Fancy’s wildest word—On a sudden, through the glisteningLeaves around, a little stirred,Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.
So, young muser, I sat listening
To my Fancy’s wildest word—
On a sudden, through the glistening
Leaves around, a little stirred,
Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.
Softly, finely, it inwound me—From the world it shut me in,—Like a fountain falling round me,Which with silver waters thinClips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within.
Softly, finely, it inwound me—
From the world it shut me in,—
Like a fountain falling round me,
Which with silver waters thin
Clips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within.
Whence the music came, who knoweth?Iknow nothing. But indeedPan or Faunus never blowethSo much sweetness from a reedWhich has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head.
Whence the music came, who knoweth?
Iknow nothing. But indeed
Pan or Faunus never bloweth
So much sweetness from a reed
Which has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head.
Never lark the sun can wakenWith such sweetness! when the lark,The high planets overtakingIn the half-evanished Dark,Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.
Never lark the sun can waken
With such sweetness! when the lark,
The high planets overtaking
In the half-evanished Dark,
Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.
Never nightingale so singeth—Oh! she leans on thorny tree,And her poet-soul she flingethOver pain to victory!Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!
Never nightingale so singeth—
Oh! she leans on thorny tree,
And her poet-soul she flingeth
Over pain to victory!
Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!
Never blackbirds, never thrushes,Nor small finches sing as sweet,When the sun strikes through the bushesTo their crimson clinging feet,And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.
Never blackbirds, never thrushes,
Nor small finches sing as sweet,
When the sun strikes through the bushes
To their crimson clinging feet,
And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.
In a child-abstraction lifted,Straightway from the bower I passed;Foot and soul being dimly driftedThrough the greenwood, till, at last,In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast.
In a child-abstraction lifted,
Straightway from the bower I passed;
Foot and soul being dimly drifted
Through the greenwood, till, at last,
In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast.
And I said within me, laughing,I have found a bower to-day,A green lusus[52]—fashioned half inChance, and half in Nature’s play—And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.
And I said within me, laughing,
I have found a bower to-day,
A green lusus[52]—fashioned half in
Chance, and half in Nature’s play—
And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.
Henceforth,Iwill be the fairyOf this bower, not built by one;I will go there, sad or merry,With each morning’s benison;And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.
Henceforth,Iwill be the fairy
Of this bower, not built by one;
I will go there, sad or merry,
With each morning’s benison;
And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.
So I said. But the next morning,(—Child, look up into my face—’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning!This is truth in its pure grace;)The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.
So I said. But the next morning,
(—Child, look up into my face—
’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning!
This is truth in its pure grace;)
The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.
Day by day, with new desire,Toward my wood I ran in faith—Under leaf and over brier—Through the thickets, out of breath—Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.
Day by day, with new desire,
Toward my wood I ran in faith—
Under leaf and over brier—
Through the thickets, out of breath—
Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.
But his sword of mettle clashèd,And his arm smote strong, I ween;And her dreaming spirit flashèdThrough her body’s fair white screen,And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green.
But his sword of mettle clashèd,
And his arm smote strong, I ween;
And her dreaming spirit flashèd
Through her body’s fair white screen,
And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green.
But for me, I saw no splendour—All my sword was my child-heart;And the wood refused surrenderOf that bower it held apart,Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart.
But for me, I saw no splendour—
All my sword was my child-heart;
And the wood refused surrender
Of that bower it held apart,
Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart.
I have lost—oh many a pleasure—Many a hope, and many a power—Studious health and merry leisure—The first dew on the first flower!But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.
I have lost—oh many a pleasure—
Many a hope, and many a power—
Studious health and merry leisure—
The first dew on the first flower!
But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.
All my losses did I tell you,Ye, perchance, would look away;—Ye would answer me, “Farewell! youMake sad company to-day;And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”
All my losses did I tell you,
Ye, perchance, would look away;—
Ye would answer me, “Farewell! you
Make sad company to-day;
And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”
For God placed me like a dialIn the open ground, with power;And my heart had for its trial,All the sun and all the shower!And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.
For God placed me like a dial
In the open ground, with power;
And my heart had for its trial,
All the sun and all the shower!
And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
[52]lusus: a sport, a freak.
[52]lusus: a sport, a freak.