MY little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,I struck him, and dismissedWith hard words and unkiss’d,—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,I visited his bed,But found him slumbering deep,With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet.And I, with moan,Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head,He had put, within his reach,A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,A piece of glass abraded by the beach,And six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebells,And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray’dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’
MY little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,I struck him, and dismissedWith hard words and unkiss’d,—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,I visited his bed,But found him slumbering deep,With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet.And I, with moan,Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head,He had put, within his reach,A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,A piece of glass abraded by the beach,And six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebells,And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray’dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’
MY little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyesAnd moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,I struck him, and dismissedWith hard words and unkiss’d,—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,I visited his bed,But found him slumbering deep,With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yetFrom his late sobbing wet.And I, with moan,Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;For, on a table drawn beside his head,He had put, within his reach,A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,A piece of glass abraded by the beach,And six or seven shells,A bottle with bluebells,And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,To comfort his sad heart.So when that night I pray’dTo God, I wept, and said:Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,Not vexing Thee in death,And Thou rememberest of what toysWe made our joys,How weakly understoodThy great commanded good,Then, fatherly not lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’
764.
WITH all my will, but much against my heart,We two now part.My Very Dear,Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.It needs no art,With faint, averted feetAnd many a tear,In our opposèd paths to persevere.Go thou to East, I West.We will not sayThere’s any hope, it is so far away.But, O, my Best,When the one darling of our widowhead,The nursling Grief,Is dead,And no dews blur our eyesTo see the peach-bloom come in evening skies,Perchance we may,Where now this night is day,And even through faith of still averted feet,Making full circle of our banishment,Amazèd meet;The bitter journey to the bourne so sweetSeasoning the termless feast of our contentWith tears of recognition never dry.
WITH all my will, but much against my heart,We two now part.My Very Dear,Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.It needs no art,With faint, averted feetAnd many a tear,In our opposèd paths to persevere.Go thou to East, I West.We will not sayThere’s any hope, it is so far away.But, O, my Best,When the one darling of our widowhead,The nursling Grief,Is dead,And no dews blur our eyesTo see the peach-bloom come in evening skies,Perchance we may,Where now this night is day,And even through faith of still averted feet,Making full circle of our banishment,Amazèd meet;The bitter journey to the bourne so sweetSeasoning the termless feast of our contentWith tears of recognition never dry.
WITH all my will, but much against my heart,We two now part.My Very Dear,Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.It needs no art,With faint, averted feetAnd many a tear,In our opposèd paths to persevere.Go thou to East, I West.We will not sayThere’s any hope, it is so far away.But, O, my Best,When the one darling of our widowhead,The nursling Grief,Is dead,And no dews blur our eyesTo see the peach-bloom come in evening skies,Perchance we may,Where now this night is day,And even through faith of still averted feet,Making full circle of our banishment,Amazèd meet;The bitter journey to the bourne so sweetSeasoning the termless feast of our contentWith tears of recognition never dry.
1824-1874
765.
THE murmur of the mourning ghostThat keeps the shadowy kine,‘O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!’Ravelston, Ravelston,The merry path that leadsDown the golden morning hill,And thro’ the silver meads;Ravelston, Ravelston,The stile beneath the tree,The maid that kept her mother’s kine,The song that sang she!She sang her song, she kept her kine,She sat beneath the thorn,When Andrew Keith of RavelstonRode thro’ the Monday morn.His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,His belted jewels shine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!Year after year, where Andrew came,Comes evening down the glade,And still there sits a moonshine ghostWhere sat the sunshine maid.Her misty hair is faint and fair,She keeps the shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!I lay my hand upon the stile,The stile is lone and cold,The burnie that goes babbling bySays naught that can be told.Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!Step out three steps, where Andrew stood—Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?The ancient stile is not alone,’Tis not the burn I hear!She makes her immemorial moan,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
THE murmur of the mourning ghostThat keeps the shadowy kine,‘O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!’Ravelston, Ravelston,The merry path that leadsDown the golden morning hill,And thro’ the silver meads;Ravelston, Ravelston,The stile beneath the tree,The maid that kept her mother’s kine,The song that sang she!She sang her song, she kept her kine,She sat beneath the thorn,When Andrew Keith of RavelstonRode thro’ the Monday morn.His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,His belted jewels shine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!Year after year, where Andrew came,Comes evening down the glade,And still there sits a moonshine ghostWhere sat the sunshine maid.Her misty hair is faint and fair,She keeps the shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!I lay my hand upon the stile,The stile is lone and cold,The burnie that goes babbling bySays naught that can be told.Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!Step out three steps, where Andrew stood—Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?The ancient stile is not alone,’Tis not the burn I hear!She makes her immemorial moan,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
THE murmur of the mourning ghostThat keeps the shadowy kine,‘O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!’
Ravelston, Ravelston,The merry path that leadsDown the golden morning hill,And thro’ the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,The stile beneath the tree,The maid that kept her mother’s kine,The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,She sat beneath the thorn,When Andrew Keith of RavelstonRode thro’ the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,His belted jewels shine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,Comes evening down the glade,And still there sits a moonshine ghostWhere sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,She keeps the shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,The stile is lone and cold,The burnie that goes babbling bySays naught that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood—Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?The ancient stile is not alone,’Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,She keeps her shadowy kine;O Keith of Ravelston,The sorrows of thy line!
766.
RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning,All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;Like it, I fade and pale, when day returningBears witness that the absent can return,Return, return.Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladnessTo feed the sorrowy signal for return,Return, return.Like it, like it, whene’er the east wind sings,I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,When Hope’s late butterflies, with whispering wings,Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn—Burn in the watchfire of return,Return, return.Like it, the very flame whereby I pineConsumes me to its nature. While I mournMy soul becomes a better soul than mine,And from its brightening beacon I discernMy starry love go forth from me, and shineAcross the seas a path for thy return,Return, return.Return, return! all night I see it burn,All night it prays like me, and lifts a twinOf palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn—Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,And wans the light that withers, tho’ it burnAs warmly still for thy return;Still thro’ the splendid load uplifts the thinPale, paler, palest patience that can learnNaught but that votive sign for thy return—That single suppliant sign for thy return,Return, return.Return, return! lest haply, love, or e’erThou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,And thou, who thro’ the window didst discernThe wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stairTo find no wide eyes watching there,No wither’d welcome waiting thy return!A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,Warm with the famish’d fire that lived to burn—Burn out its lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life to light thy late return,Return, return.
RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning,All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;Like it, I fade and pale, when day returningBears witness that the absent can return,Return, return.Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladnessTo feed the sorrowy signal for return,Return, return.Like it, like it, whene’er the east wind sings,I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,When Hope’s late butterflies, with whispering wings,Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn—Burn in the watchfire of return,Return, return.Like it, the very flame whereby I pineConsumes me to its nature. While I mournMy soul becomes a better soul than mine,And from its brightening beacon I discernMy starry love go forth from me, and shineAcross the seas a path for thy return,Return, return.Return, return! all night I see it burn,All night it prays like me, and lifts a twinOf palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn—Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,And wans the light that withers, tho’ it burnAs warmly still for thy return;Still thro’ the splendid load uplifts the thinPale, paler, palest patience that can learnNaught but that votive sign for thy return—That single suppliant sign for thy return,Return, return.Return, return! lest haply, love, or e’erThou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,And thou, who thro’ the window didst discernThe wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stairTo find no wide eyes watching there,No wither’d welcome waiting thy return!A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,Warm with the famish’d fire that lived to burn—Burn out its lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life to light thy late return,Return, return.
RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning,All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn;Like it, I fade and pale, when day returningBears witness that the absent can return,Return, return.
Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness,Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn,Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladnessTo feed the sorrowy signal for return,Return, return.
Like it, like it, whene’er the east wind sings,I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn,When Hope’s late butterflies, with whispering wings,Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn—Burn in the watchfire of return,Return, return.
Like it, the very flame whereby I pineConsumes me to its nature. While I mournMy soul becomes a better soul than mine,And from its brightening beacon I discernMy starry love go forth from me, and shineAcross the seas a path for thy return,Return, return.
Return, return! all night I see it burn,All night it prays like me, and lifts a twinOf palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn—Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in,And wans the light that withers, tho’ it burnAs warmly still for thy return;Still thro’ the splendid load uplifts the thinPale, paler, palest patience that can learnNaught but that votive sign for thy return—That single suppliant sign for thy return,Return, return.
Return, return! lest haply, love, or e’erThou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn,And thou, who thro’ the window didst discernThe wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stairTo find no wide eyes watching there,No wither’d welcome waiting thy return!A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air,The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn,Warm with the famish’d fire that lived to burn—Burn out its lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life for thy return,Its last of lingering life to light thy late return,Return, return.
767.
FIRST came the primrose,On the bank high,Like a maiden looking forthFrom the window of a towerWhen the battle rolls below,So look’d she,And saw the storms go by.Then came the wind-flowerIn the valley left behind,As a wounded maiden, paleWith purple streaks of woe,When the battle has roll’d byWanders to and fro,So totter’d she,Dishevelled in the wind.Then came the daisies,On the first of May,Like a banner’d show’s advanceWhile the crowd runs by the way,With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.As a happy people come,So came they,As a happy people comeWhen the war has roll’d away,With dance and tabor, pipe and drum.And all make holiday.Then came the cowslip,Like a dancer in the fair,She spread her little mat of green,And on it danced she.With a fillet bound about her brow,A fillet round her happy brow,A golden fillet round her brow,And rubies in her hair.
FIRST came the primrose,On the bank high,Like a maiden looking forthFrom the window of a towerWhen the battle rolls below,So look’d she,And saw the storms go by.Then came the wind-flowerIn the valley left behind,As a wounded maiden, paleWith purple streaks of woe,When the battle has roll’d byWanders to and fro,So totter’d she,Dishevelled in the wind.Then came the daisies,On the first of May,Like a banner’d show’s advanceWhile the crowd runs by the way,With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.As a happy people come,So came they,As a happy people comeWhen the war has roll’d away,With dance and tabor, pipe and drum.And all make holiday.Then came the cowslip,Like a dancer in the fair,She spread her little mat of green,And on it danced she.With a fillet bound about her brow,A fillet round her happy brow,A golden fillet round her brow,And rubies in her hair.
FIRST came the primrose,On the bank high,Like a maiden looking forthFrom the window of a towerWhen the battle rolls below,So look’d she,And saw the storms go by.Then came the wind-flowerIn the valley left behind,As a wounded maiden, paleWith purple streaks of woe,When the battle has roll’d byWanders to and fro,So totter’d she,Dishevelled in the wind.
Then came the daisies,On the first of May,Like a banner’d show’s advanceWhile the crowd runs by the way,With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.As a happy people come,So came they,As a happy people comeWhen the war has roll’d away,With dance and tabor, pipe and drum.And all make holiday.
Then came the cowslip,Like a dancer in the fair,She spread her little mat of green,And on it danced she.With a fillet bound about her brow,A fillet round her happy brow,A golden fillet round her brow,And rubies in her hair.
768.
IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed—And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain’d door,And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o’er the silent floor,And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;‘Touch him not,’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’‘O my own dear mistress,’ the ancient Nurse did say,‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch’d him where he lay.’‘Seven long days and seven long nights,‘the hoary Steward said;‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groan’d the Warrener gray;‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bow’d his aged head;‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried,‘he is but newly dead!’Then a father Priest they sought,The Priest that taught her all she knew,And they told him of her loss.‘For she is mild and sweet of will,She loved him, and his words are peace,And he shall heal her ill.’But her watch she did not cease.He bless’d her where she sat distraught,And show’d her holy cross,—The cross she kiss’d from year to year—But she neither saw nor heard;And said he in her deaf earAll he had been wont to teach,All she had been fond to hear,Missall’d prayer, and solemn speech,But she answer’d not a word.Only when he turn’d to speak with those who wept about the bed,‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’Then how sadly he turn’d from her, it were wonderful to tell,And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,And he lean’d o’er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smooth’d his brow.‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and call’d her maidens round.With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;O Nurse!’ she sigh’d, ‘O Nurse!’ she cried, ‘O Nurse!’ and then she smiled,And then she wept; with that they drewAbout her, as of old;Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,Her trembling touch was cold;But she said, ‘My maidens true,No more weeping and well-away;Let them kill the feast.I would be happy in my soul.“He is better,” saith the Priest;He did but sleep the weary day,And will waken whole.Carry me to his dear side,And let the halls be trim;Whistly, whistly,’ said she,‘I am wan with watching and wail,He must not wake to see me pale,Let me sleep with him.See you keep the tryst for me,I would rest till he awakeAnd rise up like a bride.But whistly, whistly!’ said she.‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;And for His dear sakeSayLaus, Domine.’Silent they cast down their eyes,And every breast a sob did rive,She lifted her in wild surpriseAnd they dared not disobey.‘Laus Deo,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new;‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.The old Nurse moved her lips in vain,And she stood among the trainLike a dead tree shaking dew.Then the Priest he softly sleptMidway in the little band,And he took the Lady’s hand.‘Laus Deo,’ he said aloud,‘Laus Deo,’ they said again,Yet again, and yet again,Humbly cross’d and lowly bow’d,Till in wont and fear it roseTo the Sabbath strain.But she neither turn’d her headNor ‘Whistly, whistly,’ said she.Her hands were folded as in grace,We laid her with her ancient raceAnd all the village wept.
IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed—And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain’d door,And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o’er the silent floor,And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;‘Touch him not,’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’‘O my own dear mistress,’ the ancient Nurse did say,‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch’d him where he lay.’‘Seven long days and seven long nights,‘the hoary Steward said;‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groan’d the Warrener gray;‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bow’d his aged head;‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried,‘he is but newly dead!’Then a father Priest they sought,The Priest that taught her all she knew,And they told him of her loss.‘For she is mild and sweet of will,She loved him, and his words are peace,And he shall heal her ill.’But her watch she did not cease.He bless’d her where she sat distraught,And show’d her holy cross,—The cross she kiss’d from year to year—But she neither saw nor heard;And said he in her deaf earAll he had been wont to teach,All she had been fond to hear,Missall’d prayer, and solemn speech,But she answer’d not a word.Only when he turn’d to speak with those who wept about the bed,‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’Then how sadly he turn’d from her, it were wonderful to tell,And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,And he lean’d o’er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smooth’d his brow.‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and call’d her maidens round.With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;O Nurse!’ she sigh’d, ‘O Nurse!’ she cried, ‘O Nurse!’ and then she smiled,And then she wept; with that they drewAbout her, as of old;Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,Her trembling touch was cold;But she said, ‘My maidens true,No more weeping and well-away;Let them kill the feast.I would be happy in my soul.“He is better,” saith the Priest;He did but sleep the weary day,And will waken whole.Carry me to his dear side,And let the halls be trim;Whistly, whistly,’ said she,‘I am wan with watching and wail,He must not wake to see me pale,Let me sleep with him.See you keep the tryst for me,I would rest till he awakeAnd rise up like a bride.But whistly, whistly!’ said she.‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;And for His dear sakeSayLaus, Domine.’Silent they cast down their eyes,And every breast a sob did rive,She lifted her in wild surpriseAnd they dared not disobey.‘Laus Deo,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new;‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.The old Nurse moved her lips in vain,And she stood among the trainLike a dead tree shaking dew.Then the Priest he softly sleptMidway in the little band,And he took the Lady’s hand.‘Laus Deo,’ he said aloud,‘Laus Deo,’ they said again,Yet again, and yet again,Humbly cross’d and lowly bow’d,Till in wont and fear it roseTo the Sabbath strain.But she neither turn’d her headNor ‘Whistly, whistly,’ said she.Her hands were folded as in grace,We laid her with her ancient raceAnd all the village wept.
IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed—And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain’d door,And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o’er the silent floor,And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;‘Touch him not,’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’‘O my own dear mistress,’ the ancient Nurse did say,‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch’d him where he lay.’‘Seven long days and seven long nights,‘the hoary Steward said;‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groan’d the Warrener gray;‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bow’d his aged head;‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried,‘he is but newly dead!’Then a father Priest they sought,The Priest that taught her all she knew,And they told him of her loss.‘For she is mild and sweet of will,She loved him, and his words are peace,And he shall heal her ill.’But her watch she did not cease.He bless’d her where she sat distraught,And show’d her holy cross,—The cross she kiss’d from year to year—But she neither saw nor heard;And said he in her deaf earAll he had been wont to teach,All she had been fond to hear,Missall’d prayer, and solemn speech,But she answer’d not a word.Only when he turn’d to speak with those who wept about the bed,‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’Then how sadly he turn’d from her, it were wonderful to tell,And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,And he lean’d o’er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smooth’d his brow.‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and call’d her maidens round.With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;O Nurse!’ she sigh’d, ‘O Nurse!’ she cried, ‘O Nurse!’ and then she smiled,And then she wept; with that they drewAbout her, as of old;Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,Her trembling touch was cold;But she said, ‘My maidens true,No more weeping and well-away;Let them kill the feast.I would be happy in my soul.“He is better,” saith the Priest;He did but sleep the weary day,And will waken whole.Carry me to his dear side,And let the halls be trim;Whistly, whistly,’ said she,‘I am wan with watching and wail,He must not wake to see me pale,Let me sleep with him.See you keep the tryst for me,I would rest till he awakeAnd rise up like a bride.But whistly, whistly!’ said she.‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;And for His dear sakeSayLaus, Domine.’Silent they cast down their eyes,And every breast a sob did rive,She lifted her in wild surpriseAnd they dared not disobey.‘Laus Deo,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new;‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.The old Nurse moved her lips in vain,And she stood among the trainLike a dead tree shaking dew.Then the Priest he softly sleptMidway in the little band,And he took the Lady’s hand.‘Laus Deo,’ he said aloud,‘Laus Deo,’ they said again,Yet again, and yet again,Humbly cross’d and lowly bow’d,Till in wont and fear it roseTo the Sabbath strain.But she neither turn’d her headNor ‘Whistly, whistly,’ said she.Her hands were folded as in grace,We laid her with her ancient raceAnd all the village wept.
1824-1889
769.
UP the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nightsTo sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!
UP the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nightsTo sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!
UP the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nightsTo sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!
1824-1905
770.
THEY all were looking for a kingTo slay their foes and lift them high:Thou cam’st, a little baby thingThat made a woman cry.O Son of Man, to right my lotNaught but Thy presence can avail;Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,Nor on the sea Thy sail!My how or when Thou wilt not heed,But come down Thine own secret stair,That Thou mayst answer all my need—Yea, every bygone prayer.
THEY all were looking for a kingTo slay their foes and lift them high:Thou cam’st, a little baby thingThat made a woman cry.O Son of Man, to right my lotNaught but Thy presence can avail;Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,Nor on the sea Thy sail!My how or when Thou wilt not heed,But come down Thine own secret stair,That Thou mayst answer all my need—Yea, every bygone prayer.
THEY all were looking for a kingTo slay their foes and lift them high:Thou cam’st, a little baby thingThat made a woman cry.
O Son of Man, to right my lotNaught but Thy presence can avail;Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,Nor on the sea Thy sail!
My how or when Thou wilt not heed,But come down Thine own secret stair,That Thou mayst answer all my need—Yea, every bygone prayer.
1828-1882
771.
THE blessèd Damozel lean’d outFrom the gold bar of Heaven:Her blue grave eyes were deeper muchThan a deep water, even.She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s giftOn the neck meetly worn;And her hair, lying down her back,Was yellow like ripe corn.Herseem’d she scarce had been a dayOne of God’s choristers;The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.(Tooneit is ten years of years:... Yet now, here in this place,Surely she lean’d o’er me,—her hairFell all about my face....Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.The whole year sets apace.)It was the terrace of God’s houseThat she was standing on,—By God built over the sheer depthIn which Space is begun;So high, that looking downward thence,She scarce could see the sun.It lies from Heaven across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.Beneath, the tides of day and nightWith flame and darkness ridgeThe void, as low as where this earthSpins like a fretful midge.But in those tracts, with her, it wasThe peace of utter lightAnd silence. For no breeze may stirAlong the steady flightOf seraphim; no echo there,Beyond all depth or height.Heard hardly, some of her new friends,Playing at holy games,Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves,Their virginal chaste names;And the souls, mounting up to God,Went by her like thin flames.And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’dInto the vast waste calm;Till her bosom’s pressure must have madeThe bar she lean’d on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleepAlong her bended arm.From the fixt lull of Heaven, she sawTime, like a pulse, shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,In that steep gulf, to pierceThe swarm; and then she spoke, as whenThe stars sang in their spheres.‘I wish that he were come to me,For he will come,’ she said.‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven?On earth, has he not pray’d?Are not two prayers a perfect strength?And shall I feel afraid?‘When round his head the aureole clings,And he is clothed in white,I’ll take his hand, and go with himTo the deep wells of light,And we will step down as to a streamAnd bathe there in God’s sight.‘We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,Whose lamps tremble continuallyWith prayer sent up to God;And where each need, reveal’d, expectsIts patient period.‘We two will lie i’ the shadow ofThat living mystic treeWithin whose secret growth the DoveSometimes is felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touchSaith His name audibly.‘And I myself will teach to him,—I myself, lying so,—The songs I sing here; which his mouthShall pause in, hush’d and slow,Finding some knowledge at each pause,And some new thing to know.’(Alas! toherwise simple mindThese things were all but knownBefore: they trembled on her sense,—Her voice had caught their tone.Alas for lonely Heaven! AlasFor life wrung out alone!Alas, and though the end were reach’d?...Wasthypart understoodOr borne in trust? And for her sakeShall this too be found good?—May the close lips that knew not prayerPraise ever, though they would?)‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the grovesWhere the lady Mary is,With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies:—Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,Margaret and Rosalys.‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locksAnd bosoms coverèd;Into the fine cloth, white like flame,Weaving the golden thread,To fashion the birth-robes for themWho are just born, being dead.‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.Then I will lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,Not once abash’d or weak:And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round whom all soulsKneel—the unnumber’d solemn headsBow’d with their aureoles:And Angels, meeting us, shall singTo their citherns and citoles.‘There will I ask of Christ the LordThus much for him and me:—To have more blessing than on earthIn nowise; but to beAs then we were,—being as thenAt peace. Yea, verily.‘Yea, verily; when he is comeWe will do thus and thus:Till this my vigil seem quite strangeAnd almost fabulous;We two will live at once, one life;And peace shall be with us.’She gazed, and listen’d, and then said,Less sad of speech than mild,—‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased:The light thrill’d past her, fill’dWith Angels, in strong level lapse.Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled.(I saw her smile.) But soon their flightWas vague ’mid the poised spheres.And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,And laid her face between her hands,And wept. (I heard her tears.)
THE blessèd Damozel lean’d outFrom the gold bar of Heaven:Her blue grave eyes were deeper muchThan a deep water, even.She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s giftOn the neck meetly worn;And her hair, lying down her back,Was yellow like ripe corn.Herseem’d she scarce had been a dayOne of God’s choristers;The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.(Tooneit is ten years of years:... Yet now, here in this place,Surely she lean’d o’er me,—her hairFell all about my face....Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.The whole year sets apace.)It was the terrace of God’s houseThat she was standing on,—By God built over the sheer depthIn which Space is begun;So high, that looking downward thence,She scarce could see the sun.It lies from Heaven across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.Beneath, the tides of day and nightWith flame and darkness ridgeThe void, as low as where this earthSpins like a fretful midge.But in those tracts, with her, it wasThe peace of utter lightAnd silence. For no breeze may stirAlong the steady flightOf seraphim; no echo there,Beyond all depth or height.Heard hardly, some of her new friends,Playing at holy games,Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves,Their virginal chaste names;And the souls, mounting up to God,Went by her like thin flames.And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’dInto the vast waste calm;Till her bosom’s pressure must have madeThe bar she lean’d on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleepAlong her bended arm.From the fixt lull of Heaven, she sawTime, like a pulse, shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,In that steep gulf, to pierceThe swarm; and then she spoke, as whenThe stars sang in their spheres.‘I wish that he were come to me,For he will come,’ she said.‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven?On earth, has he not pray’d?Are not two prayers a perfect strength?And shall I feel afraid?‘When round his head the aureole clings,And he is clothed in white,I’ll take his hand, and go with himTo the deep wells of light,And we will step down as to a streamAnd bathe there in God’s sight.‘We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,Whose lamps tremble continuallyWith prayer sent up to God;And where each need, reveal’d, expectsIts patient period.‘We two will lie i’ the shadow ofThat living mystic treeWithin whose secret growth the DoveSometimes is felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touchSaith His name audibly.‘And I myself will teach to him,—I myself, lying so,—The songs I sing here; which his mouthShall pause in, hush’d and slow,Finding some knowledge at each pause,And some new thing to know.’(Alas! toherwise simple mindThese things were all but knownBefore: they trembled on her sense,—Her voice had caught their tone.Alas for lonely Heaven! AlasFor life wrung out alone!Alas, and though the end were reach’d?...Wasthypart understoodOr borne in trust? And for her sakeShall this too be found good?—May the close lips that knew not prayerPraise ever, though they would?)‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the grovesWhere the lady Mary is,With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies:—Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,Margaret and Rosalys.‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locksAnd bosoms coverèd;Into the fine cloth, white like flame,Weaving the golden thread,To fashion the birth-robes for themWho are just born, being dead.‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.Then I will lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,Not once abash’d or weak:And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round whom all soulsKneel—the unnumber’d solemn headsBow’d with their aureoles:And Angels, meeting us, shall singTo their citherns and citoles.‘There will I ask of Christ the LordThus much for him and me:—To have more blessing than on earthIn nowise; but to beAs then we were,—being as thenAt peace. Yea, verily.‘Yea, verily; when he is comeWe will do thus and thus:Till this my vigil seem quite strangeAnd almost fabulous;We two will live at once, one life;And peace shall be with us.’She gazed, and listen’d, and then said,Less sad of speech than mild,—‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased:The light thrill’d past her, fill’dWith Angels, in strong level lapse.Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled.(I saw her smile.) But soon their flightWas vague ’mid the poised spheres.And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,And laid her face between her hands,And wept. (I heard her tears.)
THE blessèd Damozel lean’d outFrom the gold bar of Heaven:Her blue grave eyes were deeper muchThan a deep water, even.She had three lilies in her hand,And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary’s giftOn the neck meetly worn;And her hair, lying down her back,Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseem’d she scarce had been a dayOne of God’s choristers;The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.
(Tooneit is ten years of years:... Yet now, here in this place,Surely she lean’d o’er me,—her hairFell all about my face....Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves.The whole year sets apace.)
It was the terrace of God’s houseThat she was standing on,—By God built over the sheer depthIn which Space is begun;So high, that looking downward thence,She scarce could see the sun.
It lies from Heaven across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.Beneath, the tides of day and nightWith flame and darkness ridgeThe void, as low as where this earthSpins like a fretful midge.
But in those tracts, with her, it wasThe peace of utter lightAnd silence. For no breeze may stirAlong the steady flightOf seraphim; no echo there,Beyond all depth or height.
Heard hardly, some of her new friends,Playing at holy games,Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves,Their virginal chaste names;And the souls, mounting up to God,Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’dInto the vast waste calm;Till her bosom’s pressure must have madeThe bar she lean’d on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleepAlong her bended arm.
From the fixt lull of Heaven, she sawTime, like a pulse, shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove,In that steep gulf, to pierceThe swarm; and then she spoke, as whenThe stars sang in their spheres.
‘I wish that he were come to me,For he will come,’ she said.‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven?On earth, has he not pray’d?Are not two prayers a perfect strength?And shall I feel afraid?
‘When round his head the aureole clings,And he is clothed in white,I’ll take his hand, and go with himTo the deep wells of light,And we will step down as to a streamAnd bathe there in God’s sight.
‘We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,Whose lamps tremble continuallyWith prayer sent up to God;And where each need, reveal’d, expectsIts patient period.
‘We two will lie i’ the shadow ofThat living mystic treeWithin whose secret growth the DoveSometimes is felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touchSaith His name audibly.
‘And I myself will teach to him,—I myself, lying so,—The songs I sing here; which his mouthShall pause in, hush’d and slow,Finding some knowledge at each pause,And some new thing to know.’
(Alas! toherwise simple mindThese things were all but knownBefore: they trembled on her sense,—Her voice had caught their tone.Alas for lonely Heaven! AlasFor life wrung out alone!
Alas, and though the end were reach’d?...Wasthypart understoodOr borne in trust? And for her sakeShall this too be found good?—May the close lips that knew not prayerPraise ever, though they would?)
‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the grovesWhere the lady Mary is,With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies:—Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,Margaret and Rosalys.
‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locksAnd bosoms coverèd;Into the fine cloth, white like flame,Weaving the golden thread,To fashion the birth-robes for themWho are just born, being dead.
‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb.Then I will lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,Not once abash’d or weak:And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.
‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round whom all soulsKneel—the unnumber’d solemn headsBow’d with their aureoles:And Angels, meeting us, shall singTo their citherns and citoles.
‘There will I ask of Christ the LordThus much for him and me:—To have more blessing than on earthIn nowise; but to beAs then we were,—being as thenAt peace. Yea, verily.
‘Yea, verily; when he is comeWe will do thus and thus:Till this my vigil seem quite strangeAnd almost fabulous;We two will live at once, one life;And peace shall be with us.’
She gazed, and listen’d, and then said,Less sad of speech than mild,—‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased:The light thrill’d past her, fill’dWith Angels, in strong level lapse.Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their flightWas vague ’mid the poised spheres.And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,And laid her face between her hands,And wept. (I heard her tears.)
1828-1909
772.
UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,Couch’d with her arms behind her golden head,Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:Then would she hold me and never let me go?. . .Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,Swift as the swallow along the river’s lightCircleting the surface to meet his mirror’d winglets,Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!. . .When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,More love should I have, and much less care.When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,I should miss but one for many boys and girls.. . .Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadowsFlying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure,Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstonesOff a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.. . .Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweepingWavy in the dusk lit by one large star.Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown evejar.Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting:So were it with me if forgetting could be will’d.Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill’d.. . .Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awakingWhisper’d the world was; morning light is she.Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.. . .Happy happy time, when the white star hoversLow over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepensGlowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.. . .Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lightingWild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along,Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughterChill as a dull face frowning on a song.Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather’d bosomBlown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascendScaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunsetRich, deep like love in beauty without end.. . .When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the windowTurns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lilyBursting out of bud in havens of the streams.When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankleIn her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May,Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lilyPure from the night, and splendid for the day.. . .Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash’d twilight,Low-lidded twilight, o’er the valley’s brim,Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.Let me hear her laughter, I would have her everCool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.. . .All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose;Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters,Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands.Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,Coming the rose: and unaware a crySprings in her bosom for odours and for colour,Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.. . .Kerchief’d head and chin she darts between her tulips,Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain:Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angelShe will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again.Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway:She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth.So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunderSaw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.. . .Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden,Train’d to stand in rows, and asking if they please.I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones:O my wild ones! they tell me more than these.You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose,Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they,They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness,You are of life’s, on the banks that line the way.. . .Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose,Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBreathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest?Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.. . .Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades;Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf;Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow;Blue-neck’d the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf.Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle;Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine:Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens,Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.. . .This I may know: her dressing and undressingSuch a change of light shows as when the skies in sportShift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunderSlips a ray of sun; or sweeping into portWhite sails furl; or on the ocean bordersWhite sails lean along the waves leaping green.Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesightGuarded she would be like the sun were she seen.. . .Front door and back of the moss’d old farmhouseOpen with the morn, and in a breezy linkFreshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow’d orchard,Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.Busy in the grass the early sun of summerSwarms, and the blackbird’s mellow fluting notesCall my darling up with round and roguish challenge:Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats!. . .Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairyKeeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school,Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine;O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool!Spying from the farm, herself she fetch’d a pitcherFull of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe,Said, ‘I will kiss you’: she laugh’d and lean’d her cheek.. . .Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roofThrough the long noon coo, crooning through the coo.Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadwaySometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue.Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river,Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly.Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere,Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky.. . .O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!O the treasure-tresses one another overNodding! O the girdle slack about the waist!Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarletQuick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist,Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!. . .Large and smoky red the sun’s cold disk drops,Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow:Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise,Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow.Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-treeGazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.Here may life on death or death on life be painted.Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!. . .Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamberWhere there is no window, read not heaven or her.‘When she was a tiny,’ one agèd woman quavers,Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.Faults she had once as she learn’d to run and tumbled:Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holyEarth and air, may have faults from head to feet.. . .Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surpriseHigh rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.—Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,Arms up, she dropp’d: our souls were in our names.. . .Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise.Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,Felt the girdle loosen’d, seen the tresses fly.Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing’d Spring!Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants,Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.. . .Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy AprilSpreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, youLucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields,Youngest green transfused in silver shining through:Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry:Fair as in image my seraph love appearsBorne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.. . .Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need.Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood,Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed.Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October;Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown;Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam:All seem to know what is for heaven alone.
UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,Couch’d with her arms behind her golden head,Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:Then would she hold me and never let me go?. . .Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,Swift as the swallow along the river’s lightCircleting the surface to meet his mirror’d winglets,Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!. . .When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,More love should I have, and much less care.When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,I should miss but one for many boys and girls.. . .Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadowsFlying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure,Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstonesOff a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.. . .Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweepingWavy in the dusk lit by one large star.Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown evejar.Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting:So were it with me if forgetting could be will’d.Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill’d.. . .Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awakingWhisper’d the world was; morning light is she.Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.. . .Happy happy time, when the white star hoversLow over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepensGlowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.. . .Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lightingWild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along,Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughterChill as a dull face frowning on a song.Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather’d bosomBlown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascendScaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunsetRich, deep like love in beauty without end.. . .When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the windowTurns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lilyBursting out of bud in havens of the streams.When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankleIn her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May,Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lilyPure from the night, and splendid for the day.. . .Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash’d twilight,Low-lidded twilight, o’er the valley’s brim,Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.Let me hear her laughter, I would have her everCool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.. . .All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose;Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters,Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands.Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,Coming the rose: and unaware a crySprings in her bosom for odours and for colour,Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.. . .Kerchief’d head and chin she darts between her tulips,Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain:Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angelShe will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again.Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway:She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth.So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunderSaw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.. . .Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden,Train’d to stand in rows, and asking if they please.I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones:O my wild ones! they tell me more than these.You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose,Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they,They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness,You are of life’s, on the banks that line the way.. . .Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose,Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBreathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest?Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.. . .Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades;Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf;Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow;Blue-neck’d the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf.Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle;Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine:Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens,Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.. . .This I may know: her dressing and undressingSuch a change of light shows as when the skies in sportShift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunderSlips a ray of sun; or sweeping into portWhite sails furl; or on the ocean bordersWhite sails lean along the waves leaping green.Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesightGuarded she would be like the sun were she seen.. . .Front door and back of the moss’d old farmhouseOpen with the morn, and in a breezy linkFreshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow’d orchard,Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.Busy in the grass the early sun of summerSwarms, and the blackbird’s mellow fluting notesCall my darling up with round and roguish challenge:Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats!. . .Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairyKeeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school,Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine;O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool!Spying from the farm, herself she fetch’d a pitcherFull of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe,Said, ‘I will kiss you’: she laugh’d and lean’d her cheek.. . .Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roofThrough the long noon coo, crooning through the coo.Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadwaySometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue.Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river,Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly.Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere,Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky.. . .O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!O the treasure-tresses one another overNodding! O the girdle slack about the waist!Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarletQuick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist,Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!. . .Large and smoky red the sun’s cold disk drops,Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow:Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise,Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow.Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-treeGazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.Here may life on death or death on life be painted.Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!. . .Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamberWhere there is no window, read not heaven or her.‘When she was a tiny,’ one agèd woman quavers,Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.Faults she had once as she learn’d to run and tumbled:Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holyEarth and air, may have faults from head to feet.. . .Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surpriseHigh rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.—Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,Arms up, she dropp’d: our souls were in our names.. . .Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise.Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,Felt the girdle loosen’d, seen the tresses fly.Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing’d Spring!Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants,Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.. . .Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy AprilSpreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, youLucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields,Youngest green transfused in silver shining through:Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry:Fair as in image my seraph love appearsBorne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.. . .Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need.Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood,Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed.Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October;Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown;Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam:All seem to know what is for heaven alone.
UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,Couch’d with her arms behind her golden head,Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:Then would she hold me and never let me go?. . .Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,Swift as the swallow along the river’s lightCircleting the surface to meet his mirror’d winglets,Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!. . .When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,More love should I have, and much less care.When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,I should miss but one for many boys and girls.. . .Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadowsFlying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure,Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstonesOff a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.. . .Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweepingWavy in the dusk lit by one large star.Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown evejar.Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting:So were it with me if forgetting could be will’d.Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill’d.. . .Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,Arm in arm, all against the raying West,Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d.Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awakingWhisper’d the world was; morning light is she.Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.. . .Happy happy time, when the white star hoversLow over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepensGlowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.. . .Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lightingWild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along,Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughterChill as a dull face frowning on a song.Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather’d bosomBlown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascendScaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunsetRich, deep like love in beauty without end.. . .When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the windowTurns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lilyBursting out of bud in havens of the streams.When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankleIn her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May,Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lilyPure from the night, and splendid for the day.. . .Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash’d twilight,Low-lidded twilight, o’er the valley’s brim,Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.Let me hear her laughter, I would have her everCool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.. . .All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose;Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters,Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands.Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,Coming the rose: and unaware a crySprings in her bosom for odours and for colour,Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.. . .Kerchief’d head and chin she darts between her tulips,Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain:Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angelShe will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again.Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway:She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth.So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunderSaw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.. . .Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden,Train’d to stand in rows, and asking if they please.I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones:O my wild ones! they tell me more than these.You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose,Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they,They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness,You are of life’s, on the banks that line the way.. . .Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose,Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBreathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest?Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmineBears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.. . .Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades;Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf;Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow;Blue-neck’d the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf.Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle;Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine:Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens,Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine.. . .This I may know: her dressing and undressingSuch a change of light shows as when the skies in sportShift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunderSlips a ray of sun; or sweeping into portWhite sails furl; or on the ocean bordersWhite sails lean along the waves leaping green.Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesightGuarded she would be like the sun were she seen.. . .Front door and back of the moss’d old farmhouseOpen with the morn, and in a breezy linkFreshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow’d orchard,Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink.Busy in the grass the early sun of summerSwarms, and the blackbird’s mellow fluting notesCall my darling up with round and roguish challenge:Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats!. . .Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairyKeeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school,Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine;O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool!Spying from the farm, herself she fetch’d a pitcherFull of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak.Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe,Said, ‘I will kiss you’: she laugh’d and lean’d her cheek.. . .Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roofThrough the long noon coo, crooning through the coo.Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadwaySometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue.Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river,Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly.Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere,Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky.. . .O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!O the treasure-tresses one another overNodding! O the girdle slack about the waist!Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarletQuick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist,Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness!O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced!. . .Large and smoky red the sun’s cold disk drops,Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow:Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise,Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow.Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-treeGazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.Here may life on death or death on life be painted.Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!. . .Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamberWhere there is no window, read not heaven or her.‘When she was a tiny,’ one agèd woman quavers,Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.Faults she had once as she learn’d to run and tumbled:Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holyEarth and air, may have faults from head to feet.. . .Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surpriseHigh rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.—Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,Arms up, she dropp’d: our souls were in our names.. . .Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise.Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,Felt the girdle loosen’d, seen the tresses fly.Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing’d Spring!Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants,Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.. . .Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy AprilSpreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, youLucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields,Youngest green transfused in silver shining through:Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry:Fair as in image my seraph love appearsBorne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.. . .Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need.Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood,Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed.Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October;Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown;Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam:All seem to know what is for heaven alone.
773.