BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefromYe learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,Among the flowers, which in that heavenly airBloom the year long!Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,A throe of the heart,Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,For all our art.Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of menWe pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,As night is withdrawnFrom these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,Dream, while the innumerable choir of dayWelcome the dawn.
BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefromYe learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,Among the flowers, which in that heavenly airBloom the year long!Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,A throe of the heart,Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,For all our art.Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of menWe pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,As night is withdrawnFrom these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,Dream, while the innumerable choir of dayWelcome the dawn.
BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefromYe learn your song:Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,Among the flowers, which in that heavenly airBloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,A throe of the heart,Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of menWe pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,As night is withdrawnFrom these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,Dream, while the innumerable choir of dayWelcome the dawn.
835.
WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or restIn a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandestPeak, that is over the feathery palms, more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or restIn a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandestPeak, that is over the feathery palms, more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or restIn a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandestPeak, that is over the feathery palms, more fairThan thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.
And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless,I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divineThat thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s lineIn the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.
836.
WHEN my love was away,Full three days were not sped,I caught my fancy astrayThinking if she were dead,And I alone, alone:It seem’d in my miseryIn all the world was noneEver so lone as I.I wept; but it did not shameNor comfort my heart: awayI rode as I might, and cameTo my love at close of day.The sight of her still’d my fears,My fairest-hearted love:And yet in her eyes were tears:Which when I questioned of,‘O now thou art come,’ she cried,‘’Tis fled: but I thought to-dayI never could here abide,If thou wert longer away.’
WHEN my love was away,Full three days were not sped,I caught my fancy astrayThinking if she were dead,And I alone, alone:It seem’d in my miseryIn all the world was noneEver so lone as I.I wept; but it did not shameNor comfort my heart: awayI rode as I might, and cameTo my love at close of day.The sight of her still’d my fears,My fairest-hearted love:And yet in her eyes were tears:Which when I questioned of,‘O now thou art come,’ she cried,‘’Tis fled: but I thought to-dayI never could here abide,If thou wert longer away.’
WHEN my love was away,Full three days were not sped,I caught my fancy astrayThinking if she were dead,
And I alone, alone:It seem’d in my miseryIn all the world was noneEver so lone as I.
I wept; but it did not shameNor comfort my heart: awayI rode as I might, and cameTo my love at close of day.
The sight of her still’d my fears,My fairest-hearted love:And yet in her eyes were tears:Which when I questioned of,
‘O now thou art come,’ she cried,‘’Tis fled: but I thought to-dayI never could here abide,If thou wert longer away.’
837.
PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee,With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!Though cold and stark and bare,The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longerTo visit her heart with wondrous joy; to beThy father’s pride:—ah, heMust gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;Startling my fancy fondWith a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it:But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;Yet feels to my hand as if’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—Propping thy wise, sad head,Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?The vision of which I miss,Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail usTo lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,Unwilling, alone we embark,And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee,With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!Though cold and stark and bare,The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longerTo visit her heart with wondrous joy; to beThy father’s pride:—ah, heMust gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;Startling my fancy fondWith a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it:But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;Yet feels to my hand as if’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—Propping thy wise, sad head,Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?The vision of which I miss,Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail usTo lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,Unwilling, alone we embark,And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee,With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!Though cold and stark and bare,The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longerTo visit her heart with wondrous joy; to beThy father’s pride:—ah, heMust gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.
To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;Startling my fancy fondWith a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.
Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it:But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;Yet feels to my hand as if’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.
So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—Propping thy wise, sad head,Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.
So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?The vision of which I miss,Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?
Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail usTo lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,Unwilling, alone we embark,And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
838.
SENSE with keenest edge unusèd,Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire;Lovely feet as yet unbruisèdOn the ways of dark desire;Sweetest hope that lookest smilingO’er the wilderness defiling!Why such beauty, to be blightedBy the swarm of foul destruction?Why such innocence delighted,When sin stalks to thy seduction?All the litanies e’er chauntedShall not keep thy faith undaunted.I have pray’d the sainted MorningTo unclasp her hands to hold thee;From resignful Eve’s adorningStol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee;With all charms of man’s contrivingArm’d thee for thy lonely striving.Me too once unthinking Nature,—Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,—Fashion’d so divine a creature,Yea, and like a beast forsook me.I forgave, but tell the measureOf her crime in thee, my treasure.
SENSE with keenest edge unusèd,Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire;Lovely feet as yet unbruisèdOn the ways of dark desire;Sweetest hope that lookest smilingO’er the wilderness defiling!Why such beauty, to be blightedBy the swarm of foul destruction?Why such innocence delighted,When sin stalks to thy seduction?All the litanies e’er chauntedShall not keep thy faith undaunted.I have pray’d the sainted MorningTo unclasp her hands to hold thee;From resignful Eve’s adorningStol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee;With all charms of man’s contrivingArm’d thee for thy lonely striving.Me too once unthinking Nature,—Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,—Fashion’d so divine a creature,Yea, and like a beast forsook me.I forgave, but tell the measureOf her crime in thee, my treasure.
SENSE with keenest edge unusèd,Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire;Lovely feet as yet unbruisèdOn the ways of dark desire;Sweetest hope that lookest smilingO’er the wilderness defiling!
Why such beauty, to be blightedBy the swarm of foul destruction?Why such innocence delighted,When sin stalks to thy seduction?All the litanies e’er chauntedShall not keep thy faith undaunted.
I have pray’d the sainted MorningTo unclasp her hands to hold thee;From resignful Eve’s adorningStol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee;With all charms of man’s contrivingArm’d thee for thy lonely striving.
Me too once unthinking Nature,—Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,—Fashion’d so divine a creature,Yea, and like a beast forsook me.I forgave, but tell the measureOf her crime in thee, my treasure.
839.
THE day begins to droop,—Its course is done:But nothing tells the placeOf the setting sun.The hazy darkness deepens,And up the laneYou may hear, but cannot see,The homing wain.An engine pants and humsIn the farm hard by:Its lowering smoke is lostIn the lowering sky.The soaking branches drip,And all night throughThe dropping will not ceaseIn the avenue.A tall man there in the houseMust keep his chair:He knows he will never againBreathe the spring air:His heart is worn with work;He is giddy and sickIf he rise to go as farAs the nearest rick:He thinks of his morn of life,His hale, strong years;And braves as he may the nightOf darkness and tears.
THE day begins to droop,—Its course is done:But nothing tells the placeOf the setting sun.The hazy darkness deepens,And up the laneYou may hear, but cannot see,The homing wain.An engine pants and humsIn the farm hard by:Its lowering smoke is lostIn the lowering sky.The soaking branches drip,And all night throughThe dropping will not ceaseIn the avenue.A tall man there in the houseMust keep his chair:He knows he will never againBreathe the spring air:His heart is worn with work;He is giddy and sickIf he rise to go as farAs the nearest rick:He thinks of his morn of life,His hale, strong years;And braves as he may the nightOf darkness and tears.
THE day begins to droop,—Its course is done:But nothing tells the placeOf the setting sun.
The hazy darkness deepens,And up the laneYou may hear, but cannot see,The homing wain.
An engine pants and humsIn the farm hard by:Its lowering smoke is lostIn the lowering sky.
The soaking branches drip,And all night throughThe dropping will not ceaseIn the avenue.
A tall man there in the houseMust keep his chair:He knows he will never againBreathe the spring air:
His heart is worn with work;He is giddy and sickIf he rise to go as farAs the nearest rick:
He thinks of his morn of life,His hale, strong years;And braves as he may the nightOf darkness and tears.
840.
WHEN Death to either shall come,—I pray it be first to me,—Be happy as ever at home,If so, as I wish, it be.Possess thy heart, my own;And sing to the child on thy knee,Or read to thyself aloneThe songs that I made for thee.
WHEN Death to either shall come,—I pray it be first to me,—Be happy as ever at home,If so, as I wish, it be.Possess thy heart, my own;And sing to the child on thy knee,Or read to thyself aloneThe songs that I made for thee.
WHEN Death to either shall come,—I pray it be first to me,—Be happy as ever at home,If so, as I wish, it be.
Possess thy heart, my own;And sing to the child on thy knee,Or read to thyself aloneThe songs that I made for thee.
1844-1912
841.
AS one that for a weary space has lainLull’d by the song of Circe and her wineIn gardens near the pale of Proserpine,Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,And only the low lutes of love complain,And only shadows of wan lovers pine—As such an one were glad to know the brineSalt on his lips, and the large air again—So gladly from the songs of modern speechMen turn, and see the stars, and feel the freeShrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,And through the music of the languid hoursThey hear like Ocean on a western beachThe surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
AS one that for a weary space has lainLull’d by the song of Circe and her wineIn gardens near the pale of Proserpine,Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,And only the low lutes of love complain,And only shadows of wan lovers pine—As such an one were glad to know the brineSalt on his lips, and the large air again—So gladly from the songs of modern speechMen turn, and see the stars, and feel the freeShrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,And through the music of the languid hoursThey hear like Ocean on a western beachThe surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
AS one that for a weary space has lainLull’d by the song of Circe and her wineIn gardens near the pale of Proserpine,Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,And only the low lutes of love complain,And only shadows of wan lovers pine—As such an one were glad to know the brineSalt on his lips, and the large air again—So gladly from the songs of modern speechMen turn, and see the stars, and feel the freeShrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,And through the music of the languid hoursThey hear like Ocean on a western beachThe surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
1849-1903
842.
OUT of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbow’d.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
OUT of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbow’d.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
OUT of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbow’d.
Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
843.
ALATE lark twitters from the quiet skies:And from the west,Where the sun, his day’s work ended,Lingers as in content,There falls on the old, gray cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.So be my passing!My task accomplish’d and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gather’d to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.
ALATE lark twitters from the quiet skies:And from the west,Where the sun, his day’s work ended,Lingers as in content,There falls on the old, gray cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.So be my passing!My task accomplish’d and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gather’d to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.
ALATE lark twitters from the quiet skies:And from the west,Where the sun, his day’s work ended,Lingers as in content,There falls on the old, gray cityAn influence luminous and serene,A shining peace.
The smoke ascendsIn a rosy-and-golden haze. The spiresShine and are changed. In the valleyShadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,Closing his benediction,Sinks, and the darkening airThrills with a sense of the triumphing night—Night with her train of starsAnd her great gift of sleep.
So be my passing!My task accomplish’d and the long day done,My wages taken, and in my heartSome late lark singing,Let me be gather’d to the quiet west,The sundown splendid and serene,Death.
844.
WHAT have I done for you,England, my England?What is there I would not do,England, my own?With your glorious eyes austere,As the Lord were walking near,Whispering terrible things and dearAs the Song on your bugles blown,England—Round the world on your bugles blown?Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you’ve done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs come forward, one to ten,To the Song on your bugles blown,England—Down the years on your bugles blown?Ever the faith endures,England, my England:—‘Take and break us: we are yours,England, my own!Life is good, and joy runs highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song on your bugles blown,England—To the stars on your bugles blown!’They call you proud and hard,England, my England:You with worlds to watch and ward,England, my own!You whose mail’d hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown,England,Round the Pit on your bugles blown!Mother of Ships whose might,England, my England,Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,England, my own,Chosen daughter of the Lord,Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,There’s the menace of the WordIn the Song on your bugles blown, England—Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
WHAT have I done for you,England, my England?What is there I would not do,England, my own?With your glorious eyes austere,As the Lord were walking near,Whispering terrible things and dearAs the Song on your bugles blown,England—Round the world on your bugles blown?Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you’ve done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs come forward, one to ten,To the Song on your bugles blown,England—Down the years on your bugles blown?Ever the faith endures,England, my England:—‘Take and break us: we are yours,England, my own!Life is good, and joy runs highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song on your bugles blown,England—To the stars on your bugles blown!’They call you proud and hard,England, my England:You with worlds to watch and ward,England, my own!You whose mail’d hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown,England,Round the Pit on your bugles blown!Mother of Ships whose might,England, my England,Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,England, my own,Chosen daughter of the Lord,Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,There’s the menace of the WordIn the Song on your bugles blown, England—Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
WHAT have I done for you,England, my England?What is there I would not do,England, my own?With your glorious eyes austere,As the Lord were walking near,Whispering terrible things and dearAs the Song on your bugles blown,England—Round the world on your bugles blown?
Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you’ve done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs come forward, one to ten,To the Song on your bugles blown,England—Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,England, my England:—‘Take and break us: we are yours,England, my own!Life is good, and joy runs highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song on your bugles blown,England—To the stars on your bugles blown!’
They call you proud and hard,England, my England:You with worlds to watch and ward,England, my own!You whose mail’d hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown,England,Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,England, my England,Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,England, my own,Chosen daughter of the Lord,Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,There’s the menace of the WordIn the Song on your bugles blown, England—Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
b. 1849
845.
INTO the silver nightShe brought with her pale handThe topaz lanthorn-light,And darted splendour o’er the land;Around her in a band,Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,And flapping with their mad wings, fann’dThe flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.Behind the thorny pinkClose wall of blossom’d may,I gazed thro’ one green chinkAnd saw no more than thousands may,—Saw sweetness, tender and gay,—Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,Saw braided locks more dark than bay,And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.With food for furry friendsShe pass’d, her lamp and she,Till eaves and gable-endsHid all that saffron sheen from me:Around my rosy treeOnce more the silver-starry night was shining,With depths of heaven, dewy and free,And crystals of a carven moon declining.Alas! for him who dwellsIn frigid air of thought,When warmer light dispelsThe frozen calm his spirit sought;By life too lately taughtHe sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;Reels from the joy experience brought,And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.
INTO the silver nightShe brought with her pale handThe topaz lanthorn-light,And darted splendour o’er the land;Around her in a band,Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,And flapping with their mad wings, fann’dThe flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.Behind the thorny pinkClose wall of blossom’d may,I gazed thro’ one green chinkAnd saw no more than thousands may,—Saw sweetness, tender and gay,—Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,Saw braided locks more dark than bay,And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.With food for furry friendsShe pass’d, her lamp and she,Till eaves and gable-endsHid all that saffron sheen from me:Around my rosy treeOnce more the silver-starry night was shining,With depths of heaven, dewy and free,And crystals of a carven moon declining.Alas! for him who dwellsIn frigid air of thought,When warmer light dispelsThe frozen calm his spirit sought;By life too lately taughtHe sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;Reels from the joy experience brought,And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.
INTO the silver nightShe brought with her pale handThe topaz lanthorn-light,And darted splendour o’er the land;Around her in a band,Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,And flapping with their mad wings, fann’dThe flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.
Behind the thorny pinkClose wall of blossom’d may,I gazed thro’ one green chinkAnd saw no more than thousands may,—Saw sweetness, tender and gay,—Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,Saw braided locks more dark than bay,And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.
With food for furry friendsShe pass’d, her lamp and she,Till eaves and gable-endsHid all that saffron sheen from me:Around my rosy treeOnce more the silver-starry night was shining,With depths of heaven, dewy and free,And crystals of a carven moon declining.
Alas! for him who dwellsIn frigid air of thought,When warmer light dispelsThe frozen calm his spirit sought;By life too lately taughtHe sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;Reels from the joy experience brought,And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.
1850-1894
846.
IWILL make you brooches and toys for your delightOf bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.I will make a palace fit for you and me,Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,And you shall wash your linen and keep your body whiteIn rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.And this shall be for music when no one else is near,The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!That only I remember, that only you admire,Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
IWILL make you brooches and toys for your delightOf bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.I will make a palace fit for you and me,Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,And you shall wash your linen and keep your body whiteIn rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.And this shall be for music when no one else is near,The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!That only I remember, that only you admire,Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
IWILL make you brooches and toys for your delightOf bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.I will make a palace fit for you and me,Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,And you shall wash your linen and keep your body whiteIn rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!That only I remember, that only you admire,Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
847.
IN the highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies—O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarr’d!O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath!Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only winds and rivers,Life and death.
IN the highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies—O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarr’d!O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath!Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only winds and rivers,Life and death.
IN the highlands, in the country places,Where the old plain men have rosy faces,And the young fair maidensQuiet eyes;Where essential silence cheers and blesses,And for ever in the hill-recessesHermore lovely musicBroods and dies—
O to mount again where erst I haunted;Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,And the low green meadowsBright with sward;And when even dies, the million-tinted,And the night has come, and planets glinted,Lo, the valley hollowLamp-bestarr’d!
O to dream, O to awake and wanderThere, and with delight to take and render,Through the trance of silence,Quiet breath!Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;Only winds and rivers,Life and death.
848.
UNDER the wide and starry skyDig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he long’d to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.
UNDER the wide and starry skyDig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he long’d to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.
UNDER the wide and starry skyDig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he long’d to be;Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill.
b. 1857
849.
FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O’GILLAN
IN a quiet water’d land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran’s plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
IN a quiet water’d land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran’s plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
IN a quiet water’d land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.
There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran’s plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
1857-1909
850.
THE boat is chafing at our long delay,And we must leave too soonThe spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,The tawny sands, the moon.Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!Watch from thy pearly throneOur vessel, plunging deeper into nightTo reach a land unknown.
THE boat is chafing at our long delay,And we must leave too soonThe spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,The tawny sands, the moon.Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!Watch from thy pearly throneOur vessel, plunging deeper into nightTo reach a land unknown.
THE boat is chafing at our long delay,And we must leave too soonThe spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,The tawny sands, the moon.
Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!Watch from thy pearly throneOur vessel, plunging deeper into nightTo reach a land unknown.
851.
‘OWHICH is the last rose?’A blossom of no name.At midnight the snow came;At daybreak a vast rose,In darkness unfurl’d,O’er-petall’d the world.Its odourless pallorBlossom’d forlorn,Till radiant valourEstablished the morn—Till the nightWas undoneIn her fightWith the sun.The brave orb in state rose,And crimson he shone first;While from the high vineOf heaven the dawn burst,Staining the great roseFrom sky-line to sky-line.The red rose of mornA white rose at noon turn’d;But at sunset rebornAll red again soon burn’d.Then the pale rose of noondayRebloom’d in the night,And spectrally whiteIn the lightOf the moon lay.But the vast roseWas scentless,And this is the reason:When the blast roseRelentless,And brought in due seasonThe snow rose, the last roseCongeal’d in its breath,Then came with it treason;The traitor was Death.In lee-valleys crowded,The sheep and the birdsWere frozen and shroudedIn flights and in herds.In highwaysAnd bywaysThe young and the oldWere tortured and madden’dAnd kill’d by the cold.But many were gladden’dBy the beautiful last rose,The blossom of no nameThat came when the snow came,In darkness unfurl’d—The wonderful vast roseThat fill’d all the world.
‘OWHICH is the last rose?’A blossom of no name.At midnight the snow came;At daybreak a vast rose,In darkness unfurl’d,O’er-petall’d the world.Its odourless pallorBlossom’d forlorn,Till radiant valourEstablished the morn—Till the nightWas undoneIn her fightWith the sun.The brave orb in state rose,And crimson he shone first;While from the high vineOf heaven the dawn burst,Staining the great roseFrom sky-line to sky-line.The red rose of mornA white rose at noon turn’d;But at sunset rebornAll red again soon burn’d.Then the pale rose of noondayRebloom’d in the night,And spectrally whiteIn the lightOf the moon lay.But the vast roseWas scentless,And this is the reason:When the blast roseRelentless,And brought in due seasonThe snow rose, the last roseCongeal’d in its breath,Then came with it treason;The traitor was Death.In lee-valleys crowded,The sheep and the birdsWere frozen and shroudedIn flights and in herds.In highwaysAnd bywaysThe young and the oldWere tortured and madden’dAnd kill’d by the cold.But many were gladden’dBy the beautiful last rose,The blossom of no nameThat came when the snow came,In darkness unfurl’d—The wonderful vast roseThat fill’d all the world.
‘OWHICH is the last rose?’A blossom of no name.At midnight the snow came;At daybreak a vast rose,In darkness unfurl’d,O’er-petall’d the world.
Its odourless pallorBlossom’d forlorn,Till radiant valourEstablished the morn—Till the nightWas undoneIn her fightWith the sun.
The brave orb in state rose,And crimson he shone first;While from the high vineOf heaven the dawn burst,Staining the great roseFrom sky-line to sky-line.
The red rose of mornA white rose at noon turn’d;But at sunset rebornAll red again soon burn’d.Then the pale rose of noondayRebloom’d in the night,And spectrally whiteIn the lightOf the moon lay.
But the vast roseWas scentless,And this is the reason:When the blast roseRelentless,And brought in due seasonThe snow rose, the last roseCongeal’d in its breath,Then came with it treason;The traitor was Death.
In lee-valleys crowded,The sheep and the birdsWere frozen and shroudedIn flights and in herds.In highwaysAnd bywaysThe young and the oldWere tortured and madden’dAnd kill’d by the cold.But many were gladden’dBy the beautiful last rose,The blossom of no nameThat came when the snow came,In darkness unfurl’d—The wonderful vast roseThat fill’d all the world.
b. 1858
852.
APRIL, April,Laugh thy girlish laughter;Then, the moment after,Weep thy girlish tears!April, that mine earsLike a lover greetest,If I tell thee, sweetest,All my hopes and fears,April, April,Laugh thy golden laughter,But, the moment after,Weep thy golden tears!
APRIL, April,Laugh thy girlish laughter;Then, the moment after,Weep thy girlish tears!April, that mine earsLike a lover greetest,If I tell thee, sweetest,All my hopes and fears,April, April,Laugh thy golden laughter,But, the moment after,Weep thy golden tears!
APRIL, April,Laugh thy girlish laughter;Then, the moment after,Weep thy girlish tears!April, that mine earsLike a lover greetest,If I tell thee, sweetest,All my hopes and fears,April, April,Laugh thy golden laughter,But, the moment after,Weep thy golden tears!
853.
LET me go forth, and shareThe overflowing SunWith one wise friend, or oneBetter than wise, being fair,Where the pewit wheels and dipsOn heights of bracken and ling,And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,Tingles with the Spring.What is so sweet and dearAs a prosperous morn in May,The confident prime of the day,And the dauntless youth of the year,When nothing that asks for bliss,Asking aright, is denied,And half of the world a bridegroom is,And half of the world a bride?The Song of Mingling flows,Grave, ceremonial, pure,As once, from lips that endure,The cosmic descant rose,When the temporal lord of life,Going his golden way,Had taken a wondrous maid to wifeThat long had said him nay.For of old the Sun, our sire,Came wooing the mother of men,Earth, that was virginal then,Vestal fire to his fire.Silent her bosom and coy,But the strong god sued and press’d;And born of their starry nuptial joyAre all that drink of her breast.And the triumph of him that begot,And the travail of her that bore,Behold they are evermoreAs warp and weft in our lot.We are children of splendour and flame,Of shuddering, also, and tears.Magnificent out of the dust we came,And abject from the Spheres.O bright irresistible lord!We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,Whence first was the seed outpour’d.To thee as our Father we bow,Forbidden thy Father to see,Who is older and greater than thou, as thouArt greater and older than we.Thou art but as a word of his speech;Thou art but as a wave of his hand;Thou art brief as a glitter of sand’Twixt tide and tide on his beach;Thou art less than a spark of his fire,Or a moment’s mood of his soul:Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choirThat chant the chant of the Whole.
LET me go forth, and shareThe overflowing SunWith one wise friend, or oneBetter than wise, being fair,Where the pewit wheels and dipsOn heights of bracken and ling,And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,Tingles with the Spring.What is so sweet and dearAs a prosperous morn in May,The confident prime of the day,And the dauntless youth of the year,When nothing that asks for bliss,Asking aright, is denied,And half of the world a bridegroom is,And half of the world a bride?The Song of Mingling flows,Grave, ceremonial, pure,As once, from lips that endure,The cosmic descant rose,When the temporal lord of life,Going his golden way,Had taken a wondrous maid to wifeThat long had said him nay.For of old the Sun, our sire,Came wooing the mother of men,Earth, that was virginal then,Vestal fire to his fire.Silent her bosom and coy,But the strong god sued and press’d;And born of their starry nuptial joyAre all that drink of her breast.And the triumph of him that begot,And the travail of her that bore,Behold they are evermoreAs warp and weft in our lot.We are children of splendour and flame,Of shuddering, also, and tears.Magnificent out of the dust we came,And abject from the Spheres.O bright irresistible lord!We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,Whence first was the seed outpour’d.To thee as our Father we bow,Forbidden thy Father to see,Who is older and greater than thou, as thouArt greater and older than we.Thou art but as a word of his speech;Thou art but as a wave of his hand;Thou art brief as a glitter of sand’Twixt tide and tide on his beach;Thou art less than a spark of his fire,Or a moment’s mood of his soul:Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choirThat chant the chant of the Whole.
LET me go forth, and shareThe overflowing SunWith one wise friend, or oneBetter than wise, being fair,Where the pewit wheels and dipsOn heights of bracken and ling,And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,Tingles with the Spring.
What is so sweet and dearAs a prosperous morn in May,The confident prime of the day,And the dauntless youth of the year,When nothing that asks for bliss,Asking aright, is denied,And half of the world a bridegroom is,And half of the world a bride?
The Song of Mingling flows,Grave, ceremonial, pure,As once, from lips that endure,The cosmic descant rose,When the temporal lord of life,Going his golden way,Had taken a wondrous maid to wifeThat long had said him nay.
For of old the Sun, our sire,Came wooing the mother of men,Earth, that was virginal then,Vestal fire to his fire.Silent her bosom and coy,But the strong god sued and press’d;And born of their starry nuptial joyAre all that drink of her breast.
And the triumph of him that begot,And the travail of her that bore,Behold they are evermoreAs warp and weft in our lot.We are children of splendour and flame,Of shuddering, also, and tears.Magnificent out of the dust we came,And abject from the Spheres.
O bright irresistible lord!We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,Whence first was the seed outpour’d.To thee as our Father we bow,Forbidden thy Father to see,Who is older and greater than thou, as thouArt greater and older than we.
Thou art but as a word of his speech;Thou art but as a wave of his hand;Thou art brief as a glitter of sand’Twixt tide and tide on his beach;Thou art less than a spark of his fire,Or a moment’s mood of his soul:Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choirThat chant the chant of the Whole.
854.
‘NOT ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread;Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell:Life is a feast, and we have banqueted—Shall not the worms as well?‘The after-silence, when the feast is o’er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.’Ah, but the Apparition—the dumb sign—The beckoning finger bidding me forgoThe fellowship, the converse, and the wine,The songs, the festal glow!And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit,And while the purple joy is pass’d about,Whether ’tis ampler day divinelier litOr homeless night without;And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall seeNew prospects, or fall sheer—a blinded thing!Thereis, O grave, thy hourly victory,And there, O death, thy sting.
‘NOT ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread;Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell:Life is a feast, and we have banqueted—Shall not the worms as well?‘The after-silence, when the feast is o’er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.’Ah, but the Apparition—the dumb sign—The beckoning finger bidding me forgoThe fellowship, the converse, and the wine,The songs, the festal glow!And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit,And while the purple joy is pass’d about,Whether ’tis ampler day divinelier litOr homeless night without;And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall seeNew prospects, or fall sheer—a blinded thing!Thereis, O grave, thy hourly victory,And there, O death, thy sting.
‘NOT ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread;Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell:Life is a feast, and we have banqueted—Shall not the worms as well?
‘The after-silence, when the feast is o’er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.’
Ah, but the Apparition—the dumb sign—The beckoning finger bidding me forgoThe fellowship, the converse, and the wine,The songs, the festal glow!
And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit,And while the purple joy is pass’d about,Whether ’tis ampler day divinelier litOr homeless night without;
And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall seeNew prospects, or fall sheer—a blinded thing!Thereis, O grave, thy hourly victory,And there, O death, thy sting.
1859-1919
855.
GOD who created meNimble and light of limb,In three elements free,To run, to ride, to swim:Not when the sense is dim,But now from the heart of joy,I would remember Him:Take the thanks of a boy.Jesu, King and Lord,Whose are my foes to fight,Gird me with Thy swordSwift and sharp and bright.Thee would I serve if I might;And conquer if I can,From day-dawn till night,Take the strength of a man.Spirit of Love and Truth,Breathing in grosser clay,The light and flame of youth,Delight of men in the fray,Wisdom in strength’s decay;From pain, strife, wrong to be free,This best gift I pray,Take my spirit to Thee.
GOD who created meNimble and light of limb,In three elements free,To run, to ride, to swim:Not when the sense is dim,But now from the heart of joy,I would remember Him:Take the thanks of a boy.Jesu, King and Lord,Whose are my foes to fight,Gird me with Thy swordSwift and sharp and bright.Thee would I serve if I might;And conquer if I can,From day-dawn till night,Take the strength of a man.Spirit of Love and Truth,Breathing in grosser clay,The light and flame of youth,Delight of men in the fray,Wisdom in strength’s decay;From pain, strife, wrong to be free,This best gift I pray,Take my spirit to Thee.
GOD who created meNimble and light of limb,In three elements free,To run, to ride, to swim:Not when the sense is dim,But now from the heart of joy,I would remember Him:Take the thanks of a boy.
Jesu, King and Lord,Whose are my foes to fight,Gird me with Thy swordSwift and sharp and bright.Thee would I serve if I might;And conquer if I can,From day-dawn till night,Take the strength of a man.
Spirit of Love and Truth,Breathing in grosser clay,The light and flame of youth,Delight of men in the fray,Wisdom in strength’s decay;From pain, strife, wrong to be free,This best gift I pray,Take my spirit to Thee.
856.
A BOY’S SONG
WITH lifted feet, hands still,I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind.Swifter and yet more swift,Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.‘Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy,For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!’Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?’Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground.Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,My feet to the treadles fall.Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still,Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,Shall find wings waiting there.
WITH lifted feet, hands still,I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind.Swifter and yet more swift,Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.‘Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy,For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!’Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?’Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground.Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,My feet to the treadles fall.Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still,Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,Shall find wings waiting there.
WITH lifted feet, hands still,I am poised, and down the hillDart, with heedful mind;The air goes by in a wind.
Swifter and yet more swift,Till the heart with a mighty liftMakes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.
‘Is this, is this your joy?O bird, then I, though a boy,For a golden moment shareYour feathery life in air!’
Say, heart, is there aught like thisIn a world that is full of bliss?’Tis more than skating, boundSteel-shod to the level ground.
Speed slackens now, I floatAwhile in my airy boat;Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,My feet to the treadles fall.
Alas, that the longest hillMust end in a vale; but still,Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,Shall find wings waiting there.
b. 1861
857.
FOR a name unknown,Whose fame unblownSleeps in the hillsFor ever and aye;For her who hearsThe stir of the yearsGo by on the windBy night and day;And heeds no thingOf the needs of spring,Of autumn’s wonderOr winter’s chill;For one who seesThe great sun freeze,As he wanders a-coldFrom hill to hill;And all her heartIs a woven partOf the flurry and driftOf whirling snow;For the sake of twoSad eyes and true,And the old, old loveSo long ago.
FOR a name unknown,Whose fame unblownSleeps in the hillsFor ever and aye;For her who hearsThe stir of the yearsGo by on the windBy night and day;And heeds no thingOf the needs of spring,Of autumn’s wonderOr winter’s chill;For one who seesThe great sun freeze,As he wanders a-coldFrom hill to hill;And all her heartIs a woven partOf the flurry and driftOf whirling snow;For the sake of twoSad eyes and true,And the old, old loveSo long ago.
FOR a name unknown,Whose fame unblownSleeps in the hillsFor ever and aye;
For her who hearsThe stir of the yearsGo by on the windBy night and day;
And heeds no thingOf the needs of spring,Of autumn’s wonderOr winter’s chill;For one who seesThe great sun freeze,As he wanders a-coldFrom hill to hill;
And all her heartIs a woven partOf the flurry and driftOf whirling snow;
For the sake of twoSad eyes and true,And the old, old loveSo long ago.
b. 1861
858.
FROM THE IRISH
MY grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!Abandon’d, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?My grief and my trouble!Would he and I were,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare!Were I and my darling—O heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.And my Love came behind me,He came from the South;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
MY grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!Abandon’d, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?My grief and my trouble!Would he and I were,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare!Were I and my darling—O heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.And my Love came behind me,He came from the South;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
MY grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!
Abandon’d, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?
My grief and my trouble!Would he and I were,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare!
Were I and my darling—O heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.
On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.
And my Love came behind me,He came from the South;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
b. 1862
859.