CANTICLE

I knowthat the tawny grass of the plainIs blown like the sea to-dayBy the wind that follows the autumn rainAnd chases the clouds away,And ruffles the winding lagoon, and nowThe sky’s blue, dewy and clean,Will show in the lee where the rushes bowLike shattered aquamarine.To-day, when the cranes in their grey and pinkFish solemnly in the weeds,To-day, when the cattle come down to drinkAnd push through the whispering reeds,I stand there and watch them, in Culgai too,And they do not heed or fear;There is not one lark in the radiant blueWhose carol I do not hear.This morning the wind on the grasses brownBlows tingling and sweet and rare;Now though my body must tarry in townThank God that my soul is there!Sydney, Australia.

I knowthat the tawny grass of the plainIs blown like the sea to-dayBy the wind that follows the autumn rainAnd chases the clouds away,

And ruffles the winding lagoon, and nowThe sky’s blue, dewy and clean,Will show in the lee where the rushes bowLike shattered aquamarine.

To-day, when the cranes in their grey and pinkFish solemnly in the weeds,To-day, when the cattle come down to drinkAnd push through the whispering reeds,I stand there and watch them, in Culgai too,And they do not heed or fear;There is not one lark in the radiant blueWhose carol I do not hear.

This morning the wind on the grasses brownBlows tingling and sweet and rare;Now though my body must tarry in townThank God that my soul is there!

Sydney, Australia.

Forthe honey-coloured moon, and the shining host of stars,And the sun’s great golden targe,And the luminous red leaves of the sapling gums in spring,And the fen-lake’s reed-grown marge:May’st Thou who mad’st all things to be alive,Thou who hast given the Senses Five,Thou who hast portioned the Nights and Days,Thou who hast given us lips for praise,Be thanked, Lord God!For the arrowy swift stream flowing silent in the shadeWith its twisting waters green,For the spray-dewed slender fern-fronds beside the cataract,The wet black rocks between:For the pine-tree like a church-spire, that grows upon the ridge,For the lizard at its footThat is quicker than a thought, yea, and greener than the mossGrowing round the great tree’s root:For the ocean stretching dark to the clear horizon-line,For the one white distant sail,For the ripple and the crisp and the calmness of the bayWith the tide-lines showing pale:For the bright-eyed life astir in the grave depths of the bush,For each glimpse of it we get;For the pattering of rain when the tree-frogs chant in choirAnd the glistening leaves are wet:For the sea of tossing horns when the round-up’s at an end,For the thousand hoofs unshod;For the blossoms and the bees and the floating butterfliesWe thank Thee, O Lord God!May’st Thou who mad’st all things to be alive,Thou who hast given the Senses Five,Thou who hast portioned the Nights and Days,Thou who hast given us lips for praise,Be thanked, Lord God!Australia.

Forthe honey-coloured moon, and the shining host of stars,And the sun’s great golden targe,And the luminous red leaves of the sapling gums in spring,And the fen-lake’s reed-grown marge:

May’st Thou who mad’st all things to be alive,Thou who hast given the Senses Five,Thou who hast portioned the Nights and Days,Thou who hast given us lips for praise,Be thanked, Lord God!

For the arrowy swift stream flowing silent in the shadeWith its twisting waters green,For the spray-dewed slender fern-fronds beside the cataract,The wet black rocks between:

For the pine-tree like a church-spire, that grows upon the ridge,For the lizard at its footThat is quicker than a thought, yea, and greener than the mossGrowing round the great tree’s root:

For the ocean stretching dark to the clear horizon-line,For the one white distant sail,For the ripple and the crisp and the calmness of the bayWith the tide-lines showing pale:

For the bright-eyed life astir in the grave depths of the bush,For each glimpse of it we get;For the pattering of rain when the tree-frogs chant in choirAnd the glistening leaves are wet:

For the sea of tossing horns when the round-up’s at an end,For the thousand hoofs unshod;For the blossoms and the bees and the floating butterfliesWe thank Thee, O Lord God!

May’st Thou who mad’st all things to be alive,Thou who hast given the Senses Five,Thou who hast portioned the Nights and Days,Thou who hast given us lips for praise,Be thanked, Lord God!

Australia.

Windsgo streaming, shouting loud,At their play around the sky,And my soul is like a cloudBlown about with them on high.Like a hawk unhooded, sheFrom my body broke away,Longing for the companyOf the winds at holiday.So she scours the skiey plain,Wheeling, dipping in the blue—Hawk-soul, cloud-soul, turn again!What’s the lure to use for you?Cairo.

Windsgo streaming, shouting loud,At their play around the sky,And my soul is like a cloudBlown about with them on high.

Like a hawk unhooded, sheFrom my body broke away,Longing for the companyOf the winds at holiday.

So she scours the skiey plain,Wheeling, dipping in the blue—Hawk-soul, cloud-soul, turn again!What’s the lure to use for you?

Cairo.

Thelovely things that I have watched unthinking,Unknowing, day by day,That their soft dyes had steeped my soul in colourThat will not pass away:—Great saffron sunset clouds, and larkspur mountains,And fenceless miles of plain,And hillsides golden-green in that unearthlyClear shining after rain;And nights of blue and pearl; and long smooth beaches,Yellow as sunburnt wheat,Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses,Enticing weary feet;And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals,And Asian marble, veinedWith scarlet flame; and cool green jade, and moonstones,Misty and azure-stained;And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders,Or a wide purple seaOf plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison—The evil Darling pea:—If I am tired I call on these to help meTo dream—and dawn-lit skies,Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac,Float on my soothéd eyes.There is no night so black but you shine through it,There is no morn so drear,O Colour of the World, but I can find you,Most tender, pure, and clear.Thanks be to God who gave this gift of colourWhich who shall seek shall find;Thanks be to God who gives me strength to hold it,Though I were stricken blind.Australia.

Thelovely things that I have watched unthinking,Unknowing, day by day,That their soft dyes had steeped my soul in colourThat will not pass away:—

Great saffron sunset clouds, and larkspur mountains,And fenceless miles of plain,And hillsides golden-green in that unearthlyClear shining after rain;

And nights of blue and pearl; and long smooth beaches,Yellow as sunburnt wheat,Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses,Enticing weary feet;And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals,And Asian marble, veinedWith scarlet flame; and cool green jade, and moonstones,Misty and azure-stained;

And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders,Or a wide purple seaOf plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison—The evil Darling pea:—

If I am tired I call on these to help meTo dream—and dawn-lit skies,Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac,Float on my soothéd eyes.

There is no night so black but you shine through it,There is no morn so drear,O Colour of the World, but I can find you,Most tender, pure, and clear.

Thanks be to God who gave this gift of colourWhich who shall seek shall find;Thanks be to God who gives me strength to hold it,Though I were stricken blind.

Australia.

WhenI pass by below your window, singing,Never by any chance I think of you;And jealousy your hard heart may be wringing—I go that way because I’ve work to do.And if you think, beneath the gay voice throbbing,You hear the sound of one in sorrow sobbing—I sing thus since my mood is thus. Believe me,Madame, no hopeless love of you shall grieve me.If they have said that I look pale and worn,Time is at fault, not any woman’s scorn.If they have said I daily seek Death’s doors,What’s that to you? Am I a love of yours?But if I see you smiling at Gigi that sweet way,Then I go to the galleys and you to churchyard clay.

If they have said that I look pale and worn,Time is at fault, not any woman’s scorn.If they have said I daily seek Death’s doors,What’s that to you? Am I a love of yours?

But if I see you smiling at Gigi that sweet way,Then I go to the galleys and you to churchyard clay.

Alongthe road to RondaGrow rosemary and thyme,And trails of periwinkleAmong the brambles climb;But ’tis the broom the paths alongThat lifts the traveller’s heart to song.The broom its royal treasureSpills lavish, far and wide,No stone but has its bannerOf cloth-of-gold beside,No weed but bears its nodding plume,Its careless bravery of bloom.The purple spears of lavenderSmell sweet as charity,And amaryllis blossomsBy grey-flowered rosemary;It’s worth a year of sufferingTo walk the Ronda road in spring.There grows a gallant armyOf blossoms great and smallAlong the road to Ronda—The broom is lord of all.O fair and fair and wonder-fair,Spilt like the sunshine everywhere!Ronda, Spain.

Alongthe road to RondaGrow rosemary and thyme,And trails of periwinkleAmong the brambles climb;But ’tis the broom the paths alongThat lifts the traveller’s heart to song.

The broom its royal treasureSpills lavish, far and wide,No stone but has its bannerOf cloth-of-gold beside,No weed but bears its nodding plume,Its careless bravery of bloom.

The purple spears of lavenderSmell sweet as charity,And amaryllis blossomsBy grey-flowered rosemary;It’s worth a year of sufferingTo walk the Ronda road in spring.

There grows a gallant armyOf blossoms great and smallAlong the road to Ronda—The broom is lord of all.O fair and fair and wonder-fair,Spilt like the sunshine everywhere!

Ronda, Spain.

Themoon is riding high, the stars are shiningBut very palely, through the clear blue light;The plain is empty, and the circling mountainsRise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.There is no wind astir, the serried rushesStand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon;Within still waters grows a single lily,A great white flower of solitude, the moon.My shadow that seemed taller than the mountainsLies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink,And as I move towards the sombre reed-bedsI watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.Here in the moon-blanched pasture wide and silentWith no voice waking and no foot astirSave mine, the lovely sleeping night surrounds meAnd naught is real save the thought of her.And yet the plain will wake to green and goldenWithin a few still hours; a breath will passCrisping the mirror-surface of the water;The larks will start up from the dewy grass;The proud far sky will smile and grow more kindly;The gauzy wisps of cloud that float in it—The small pale frightened clouds that cast no shadowSince they dim not the starshine as they flit—Will mass to eastward like a host with banners,Dawn’s dazzling banners streaming out unfurledAbove the dayspring’s golden fountain wellingUp from beneath the dark rim of the world.

Themoon is riding high, the stars are shiningBut very palely, through the clear blue light;The plain is empty, and the circling mountainsRise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.

There is no wind astir, the serried rushesStand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon;Within still waters grows a single lily,A great white flower of solitude, the moon.

My shadow that seemed taller than the mountainsLies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink,And as I move towards the sombre reed-bedsI watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.

Here in the moon-blanched pasture wide and silentWith no voice waking and no foot astirSave mine, the lovely sleeping night surrounds meAnd naught is real save the thought of her.

And yet the plain will wake to green and goldenWithin a few still hours; a breath will passCrisping the mirror-surface of the water;The larks will start up from the dewy grass;

The proud far sky will smile and grow more kindly;The gauzy wisps of cloud that float in it—The small pale frightened clouds that cast no shadowSince they dim not the starshine as they flit—

Will mass to eastward like a host with banners,Dawn’s dazzling banners streaming out unfurledAbove the dayspring’s golden fountain wellingUp from beneath the dark rim of the world.

Blackthe storm-wind rides the sky, all the leaves are torn,Briers upon the common stand stripped to stick and thorn;Thorny is the brier, thorny is the brier,Mother Mary, keep me safe, give me my desire!Now the winter rains have gone, Heaven’s washed and clean,All the brooks are laughing sweet, all the trees are green;Leafy is the brier, leafy is the brier,Mother Mary in the sky, grant me my desire!Summer’s yellow on the land, throbbing warm and live,Hear her million voices hum like a lucky hive;Blossom of the brier, blossom of the brier,Mary in the summertime, give me my desire!All the talking winds are stilled in the autumn pause,Redder far than blood or fire blaze the hips and haws;Fruiting of the brier, fruiting of the brier—Mother Mary, must I die starved of my desire?

Now the winter rains have gone, Heaven’s washed and clean,All the brooks are laughing sweet, all the trees are green;Leafy is the brier, leafy is the brier,Mother Mary in the sky, grant me my desire!

Summer’s yellow on the land, throbbing warm and live,Hear her million voices hum like a lucky hive;Blossom of the brier, blossom of the brier,Mary in the summertime, give me my desire!

All the talking winds are stilled in the autumn pause,Redder far than blood or fire blaze the hips and haws;Fruiting of the brier, fruiting of the brier—Mother Mary, must I die starved of my desire?

Faraway to southwardThe grey lake lies,Thirty leagues of mud, bareTo turquoise skies.Shallow, sluggish water,Warm—warm as blood;Not enough to coverThe quaking mud.Hot winds drive the waterIn summer timeSouthward—and behind themThere lies grey slime.Forty miles to westward,A hundred north,Wind-fiends hunt the waterBack—back and forth.There are reed-grown islandsThe eye scarce sees,Grey ooze guarding grimlyTheir mysteries.Strange Things may survive there,What, who can tell?Monsters old—the lake-slimeCan guard them well.No one knows those islands,—The gulls that flyMay go near, but othersWould surely die.For the wind-scourged waterWould flee the ships,And the mud would openHer soft smooth lips.So the isles are sacredFrom alien tread,Since the slime can swallowAnd keep her dead.Who can know her secrets?The blue sky might—(Cloudless-hot in daytime,Star-gemmed at night).To and fro for everThe water swings,And the gulls fly over,Fortheyhave wings.

Faraway to southwardThe grey lake lies,Thirty leagues of mud, bareTo turquoise skies.

Shallow, sluggish water,Warm—warm as blood;Not enough to coverThe quaking mud.

Hot winds drive the waterIn summer timeSouthward—and behind themThere lies grey slime.

Forty miles to westward,A hundred north,Wind-fiends hunt the waterBack—back and forth.

There are reed-grown islandsThe eye scarce sees,Grey ooze guarding grimlyTheir mysteries.

Strange Things may survive there,What, who can tell?Monsters old—the lake-slimeCan guard them well.

No one knows those islands,—The gulls that flyMay go near, but othersWould surely die.

For the wind-scourged waterWould flee the ships,And the mud would openHer soft smooth lips.

So the isles are sacredFrom alien tread,Since the slime can swallowAnd keep her dead.

Who can know her secrets?The blue sky might—(Cloudless-hot in daytime,Star-gemmed at night).

To and fro for everThe water swings,And the gulls fly over,Fortheyhave wings.

They’reburning off at the Rampadells,The tawny flames upriseWith greedy licking around the trees:The hot breath sears our eyesFrom cores already grown furnace-hot;The logs are well alight;We fling more wood where the flameless heartIs throbbing red and white.The fire bites deep in that beating heart,The creamy smoke-wreaths oozeFrom cracks and knot-holes along the trunkTo melt in greys and blues.. . . . . . . . . .The young horned moon has gone from the sky,And night has settled down;A red glare shows from the Rampadells,Grim as a burning town.Full seven fathoms above the restA tree stands, great and old,A red-hot column whence fly the sparks,One ceaseless shower of gold.All hail the king of the fire beforeHe sway and crack and crashTo earth!—for surely to-morrow’s sunWill see him fine white ash.The king in his robe of falling starsNo trace shall leave behind,And where he stood with his silent courtThe wheat shall bow to the wind.Australia.

They’reburning off at the Rampadells,The tawny flames upriseWith greedy licking around the trees:The hot breath sears our eyes

From cores already grown furnace-hot;The logs are well alight;We fling more wood where the flameless heartIs throbbing red and white.

The fire bites deep in that beating heart,The creamy smoke-wreaths oozeFrom cracks and knot-holes along the trunkTo melt in greys and blues.. . . . . . . . . .The young horned moon has gone from the sky,And night has settled down;A red glare shows from the Rampadells,Grim as a burning town.

Full seven fathoms above the restA tree stands, great and old,A red-hot column whence fly the sparks,One ceaseless shower of gold.

All hail the king of the fire beforeHe sway and crack and crashTo earth!—for surely to-morrow’s sunWill see him fine white ash.

The king in his robe of falling starsNo trace shall leave behind,And where he stood with his silent courtThe wheat shall bow to the wind.

Australia.

Thealmond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride—A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they lightly blew away.I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.

Thealmond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow.I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.

My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride—A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.

The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they lightly blew away.I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.

Divein from the sunlight smiting like a falchionUnderneath the awnings to the sudden shade,Saunter through the packed laneMany-voiced, colourful,Rippling with the currents of the south and eastern trade.Here are Persian carpets, ivory, and peachbloom,Tints to fill the heart of any child of man;Here are copper rose-bowls,Leopard-skins, emeralds,Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan.Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling,Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads;Buy a lump of turquoise,A scimitar, a neckerchiefWorked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady’s needs?Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper-, brass-, and silversmiths,All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam;Here the silken webs hang,Shimmering, delicate,Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream.Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre,Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast;Buy some ostrich-feathers,Silver shawls, perfume-jars,Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best.Assuan.

Here are Persian carpets, ivory, and peachbloom,Tints to fill the heart of any child of man;Here are copper rose-bowls,Leopard-skins, emeralds,Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan.

Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling,Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads;Buy a lump of turquoise,A scimitar, a neckerchiefWorked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady’s needs?

Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper-, brass-, and silversmiths,All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam;Here the silken webs hang,Shimmering, delicate,Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream.

Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre,Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast;Buy some ostrich-feathers,Silver shawls, perfume-jars,Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best.

Assuan.

Springhas come to the plains,And, following close behind,Green of the welcome rains,And spice of the first warm wind;Beating of wings on high,For, overhead in the blue,Southward the brolgas fly,The cranes and pelicans too,Ibis, and proud black swan—And quivering cries float clear,After the birds are gone,Still lingering in the ear.Everywhere we passThe horses tread soft and deep;Clover and young green grass—Hark to the grazing sheep,Cropping steady and slow—A peaceful, satisfied sound;Thick on the paths we goGold flowers are starring the ground.Spring! and the world’s astir,And everything gives praise,Singing the strength of herThese lovely lengthening days.Australia.

Everywhere we passThe horses tread soft and deep;Clover and young green grass—Hark to the grazing sheep,Cropping steady and slow—A peaceful, satisfied sound;Thick on the paths we goGold flowers are starring the ground.Spring! and the world’s astir,And everything gives praise,Singing the strength of herThese lovely lengthening days.

Australia.

Myfeet are grey with the roadside dust,My hair is wet with the dew,My heart is flagging with wearinessAnd faint with the want of you.You are as young as the breaking buds,You are as old as the sea;My soul burns white in the flame of you—Love, open your door to me!...I sought my love in the noontide heat,I sought in the bitter wind,And found her house—and the doors were shut,And the windows were barred and blind.

Myfeet are grey with the roadside dust,My hair is wet with the dew,My heart is flagging with wearinessAnd faint with the want of you.

You are as young as the breaking buds,You are as old as the sea;My soul burns white in the flame of you—Love, open your door to me!...

I sought my love in the noontide heat,I sought in the bitter wind,And found her house—and the doors were shut,And the windows were barred and blind.

Overthe Coorong sandhills only the wild duck fly,Naught is there but the knot-grass rank, and the sea, and the sky;Redder than cooling lava, slow heave the hills to the blue,Splendid, dazzling, and stainless, of sky and of ocean too.South to the frozen mountains faces the last red hill,Only the sea between them; almost as lone and stillShows the sand as the ice-peaks, but it has heat and light,Set against the aurora that shatters the polar night.If the sands have a language, healing it is and kind,Clean and strong like the sea-roar or the glad shout of the wind;If you but face them bravely, lost in a barren land,Never will they betray you, the sky and the sea and sand.Blue burns the sky above me, red the sand at my feet,Near and far on the sandhills shimmers the living heat;Hill after hill I conquer, changing yet still the same,Still flows the sand together and covers the way I came.Stretched in a warm sand-hollow late in the afternoonWatch I the wild duck flying back to the long lagoon;Black on an amber sunset passes the last of the flight—Over the Coorong sandhills quiver the pinions of night.

South to the frozen mountains faces the last red hill,Only the sea between them; almost as lone and stillShows the sand as the ice-peaks, but it has heat and light,Set against the aurora that shatters the polar night.

If the sands have a language, healing it is and kind,Clean and strong like the sea-roar or the glad shout of the wind;If you but face them bravely, lost in a barren land,Never will they betray you, the sky and the sea and sand.

Blue burns the sky above me, red the sand at my feet,Near and far on the sandhills shimmers the living heat;Hill after hill I conquer, changing yet still the same,Still flows the sand together and covers the way I came.

Stretched in a warm sand-hollow late in the afternoonWatch I the wild duck flying back to the long lagoon;Black on an amber sunset passes the last of the flight—Over the Coorong sandhills quiver the pinions of night.

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?There was a bird in a cage of gold, a small red bird in a cage of gold;The sun shone through the bars of the cage, out of the wide heaven;The depths of the sky were soft and blue, greatly to be longed for.The bird sang for desire of the sky, and her feathers shone redder for sorrow;And many passed in the street below, and they said one to another:“Ah, that we had hearts as light as a bird’s!”But what does the passer-by know of the heart of a bird?What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?“I have given grain for you to eat and water that you may bathe.”Shall not this bird be content? is there need to clip her wings?No, for her cage is very strong, the golden bars are set close;Yet the real bird has flown away, very far away over the rice-fields;There is only the shadow-body in the cage.What does the bird-seller care for the heart of a bird?

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?

There was a bird in a cage of gold, a small red bird in a cage of gold;The sun shone through the bars of the cage, out of the wide heaven;The depths of the sky were soft and blue, greatly to be longed for.The bird sang for desire of the sky, and her feathers shone redder for sorrow;And many passed in the street below, and they said one to another:“Ah, that we had hearts as light as a bird’s!”

But what does the passer-by know of the heart of a bird?

What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?

“I have given grain for you to eat and water that you may bathe.”Shall not this bird be content? is there need to clip her wings?No, for her cage is very strong, the golden bars are set close;Yet the real bird has flown away, very far away over the rice-fields;There is only the shadow-body in the cage.

What does the bird-seller care for the heart of a bird?

There is a grey plume of smoke on the horizon,The smoke of a steamer that has departed over the edge of the world.There is the smoke of a dying fire in my heart,The smoke has hurt my eyes, they ache with tears.

Silverand misty roseAnd iris-flushed mother-of-pearlIs the world at the clear day’s close,River and sky and sand:Into a land we sailSoft-hued like the dreams of a girl,Vaguely outlined and bubble-frail—Into a mystic land.Speak, and the vision breaks,Yea, feel but too strongly, it fliesFrom the tumult its beauty wakesDeep in our hearts’ stronghold;We can but stand and gaze,With all our souls’ life in our eyes,As we spin out this day of daysThin to a thread of gold.. . . . . . . . . .Life has a flagon tallO’erbrimming with beauty’s clear wine,We only can sip at it all—If we could lay it by,Treasure it, hold it fast,And revel in colour divineWhen the grey days come past,Then we should never die.That is for gods alone,For beauty has butterfly wings,And we never can make it our own,Bloom unscattered, unlessWe are as gods, apart—And not one of these wonderful thingsMay I ever set down, though my heartBreak in its helplessness.

Speak, and the vision breaks,Yea, feel but too strongly, it fliesFrom the tumult its beauty wakesDeep in our hearts’ stronghold;We can but stand and gaze,With all our souls’ life in our eyes,As we spin out this day of daysThin to a thread of gold.. . . . . . . . . .Life has a flagon tallO’erbrimming with beauty’s clear wine,We only can sip at it all—If we could lay it by,Treasure it, hold it fast,And revel in colour divineWhen the grey days come past,Then we should never die.

That is for gods alone,For beauty has butterfly wings,And we never can make it our own,Bloom unscattered, unlessWe are as gods, apart—And not one of these wonderful thingsMay I ever set down, though my heartBreak in its helplessness.

HadI been Adam in Eden-gladeIshould have climbed the wallOr ever the Woman found the fruit,Crimson and ripe to fall.For though the garden be Paradise,Gardens are little worthTo one who thirsts for the wildernessLonely in all the earth.So out of the garden greeneryHeavy with jasmine scentAnd past the slumbering gentle beastsI would go forth content.I’d think of naught save the wall, but gainOver the other sideA fair mixed world of evil and good,Chancy and wild and wide.Sorrow and hunger and pain and fear,Peace that is won through strife,The changing luck of the changing yearGiving its zest to life.HadIbeen Adam in Eden-closeNever was wall so high’Could keep me out of the lean brown earth,Though it might reach the sky!Had I been Adam in ParadiseI should ha’ climbed the wall,I want not only the sweet of lifeBut all—all—all!

HadI been Adam in Eden-gladeIshould have climbed the wallOr ever the Woman found the fruit,Crimson and ripe to fall.

For though the garden be Paradise,Gardens are little worthTo one who thirsts for the wildernessLonely in all the earth.

So out of the garden greeneryHeavy with jasmine scentAnd past the slumbering gentle beastsI would go forth content.

I’d think of naught save the wall, but gainOver the other sideA fair mixed world of evil and good,Chancy and wild and wide.

Sorrow and hunger and pain and fear,Peace that is won through strife,The changing luck of the changing yearGiving its zest to life.

HadIbeen Adam in Eden-closeNever was wall so high’Could keep me out of the lean brown earth,Though it might reach the sky!

Had I been Adam in ParadiseI should ha’ climbed the wall,I want not only the sweet of lifeBut all—all—all!

Themorns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold,The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold;And over where my heart is, beneath the southern sun,The shearing’s nearly over and the spring’s begun.The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again,They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain,And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keepA flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.Now later comes the sunshine and sooner comes the dark,The barefoot newsboys shiver, the ladies in the ParkWear furs about their shoulders, for autumn winds are keen,And rusty curling edges fleck the chestnuts’ green.The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blueBetween us and the distance, the street-lamps shining throughWear each a golden halo diaphanous and fair—But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air.More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamondIt bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond,It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bellbird notes,With mating calls and answers from a thousand throats.The lamps are lit in London, beneath their searching lightThe smiling anxious faces look strained and very white;And over where my heart is, twelve thousand miles away,The dewy grass is glinting at the break of day.London.

The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again,They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain,And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keepA flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.

Now later comes the sunshine and sooner comes the dark,The barefoot newsboys shiver, the ladies in the ParkWear furs about their shoulders, for autumn winds are keen,And rusty curling edges fleck the chestnuts’ green.

The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blueBetween us and the distance, the street-lamps shining throughWear each a golden halo diaphanous and fair—But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air.

More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamondIt bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond,It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bellbird notes,With mating calls and answers from a thousand throats.

The lamps are lit in London, beneath their searching lightThe smiling anxious faces look strained and very white;And over where my heart is, twelve thousand miles away,The dewy grass is glinting at the break of day.

London.

Mount, mount in the morning dew;A man loved me when the world was new.Ride, ride while the dawn is cool:I was angry and he was a fool.Ride, ride through the shadows grey:I told him to go and he went away.Ride, ride through the sun’s first gold;I go alone now the world is old.Ride, ride, for your horse is good;He never came to me or understood.Ride, ride, and you’ll travel far;I tore my heart out and hid the scar.Ride with a man at your bridle-rein—My man never will come again.Ride, ride, for the sun is strong:O but a lonely road can be long!Ride, ride, for the light grows dim:What of the others? I wanted him.Home, home, for the tale is told:I was young and now I am old.

Mount, mount in the morning dew;A man loved me when the world was new.

Ride, ride while the dawn is cool:I was angry and he was a fool.

Ride, ride through the shadows grey:I told him to go and he went away.

Ride, ride through the sun’s first gold;I go alone now the world is old.

Ride, ride, for your horse is good;He never came to me or understood.

Ride, ride, and you’ll travel far;I tore my heart out and hid the scar.

Ride with a man at your bridle-rein—My man never will come again.

Ride, ride, for the sun is strong:O but a lonely road can be long!

Ride, ride, for the light grows dim:What of the others? I wanted him.

Home, home, for the tale is told:I was young and now I am old.

Ihearda sickle sighing,Yea, sighing through the corn,I heard a maiden cryingThat was for love forlorn.“Give over, love, give over!I care not what may pass,For in the green, green cloverI’ve found another lass.”“If in the green, green cloverThe while I stand apartYou’ve found another loverI well may break my heart.”

Ihearda sickle sighing,Yea, sighing through the corn,I heard a maiden cryingThat was for love forlorn.

“Give over, love, give over!I care not what may pass,For in the green, green cloverI’ve found another lass.”

“If in the green, green cloverThe while I stand apartYou’ve found another loverI well may break my heart.”

Iwasa master-weaverTo weave my grief and care,And day and night I fashionedA heavy robe to wear.I trailed it on the highwayDust-grey, with weary pride,I set upon my foreheadA wreath of thorns beside.The sun on high in HeavenLooked down and loud laughed he:“What little dwarf goes yonderIn robes of majesty?”Ashamed I laid my mantleAnd crown upon the sod,And sorrowless and joylessThe dusty road I plod.

Iwasa master-weaverTo weave my grief and care,And day and night I fashionedA heavy robe to wear.

I trailed it on the highwayDust-grey, with weary pride,I set upon my foreheadA wreath of thorns beside.

The sun on high in HeavenLooked down and loud laughed he:“What little dwarf goes yonderIn robes of majesty?”

Ashamed I laid my mantleAnd crown upon the sod,And sorrowless and joylessThe dusty road I plod.

Outof my slumber I woke in affright;Why does the lark sing so deep in the night?The day is gone, the morning is far,Down on my pillow shines many a star;And ever the song of the lark I hear;Oh, voice of the dawning, I shrink in fear.

Outof my slumber I woke in affright;Why does the lark sing so deep in the night?

The day is gone, the morning is far,Down on my pillow shines many a star;

And ever the song of the lark I hear;Oh, voice of the dawning, I shrink in fear.

Shebore the beaker o’er to him—Her chin was rounded like its rim—So light and steady was her tread,Not one drop of the wine was shed.So light and sinewy his hand,He rode his young horse carelessly,And with an easy masteryHe forced it to a quivering stand.And yet when from her hand the lightSmall beaker he must take, they foundThat it was all too hard, for lo,Both he and she did tremble soTheir two hands never met aright,And dark wine trickled on the ground.

Shebore the beaker o’er to him—Her chin was rounded like its rim—So light and steady was her tread,Not one drop of the wine was shed.

So light and sinewy his hand,He rode his young horse carelessly,And with an easy masteryHe forced it to a quivering stand.

And yet when from her hand the lightSmall beaker he must take, they foundThat it was all too hard, for lo,Both he and she did tremble soTheir two hands never met aright,And dark wine trickled on the ground.

Castle-of-Spainis builded high,Thrusting its towers towards the sky,With its shot-windows looking downOver the ribbed roofs of the townThat like a cat, her mousing done,Stretches at ease there in the sun.Castle-of-Spain upon the crestThrones like an eagle come to rest;Shut wings ready to spread once moreAnd great and still in the blue to soar:—On that day you will turn to findYour castle gone with no wrack behind!Castle-of-Spain is hard to take.Your feet will bleed and your heart may breakLong ere that stony height you gain—Better the safe and pleasant plain!For, reach the summit, nothing’s thereSave mocking sun and empty airOr a tall cloud-tower in the heaven’s span—Small comfort that to an earthly man!Castle-of-Spain is builded highUp above us, beyond the sky....Easy we build you, hardly we gain,Castle-of-Spain, Castle-of-Spain!San Pablo, Andalusia.

Castle-of-Spain upon the crestThrones like an eagle come to rest;Shut wings ready to spread once moreAnd great and still in the blue to soar:—On that day you will turn to findYour castle gone with no wrack behind!

Castle-of-Spain is hard to take.Your feet will bleed and your heart may breakLong ere that stony height you gain—Better the safe and pleasant plain!For, reach the summit, nothing’s thereSave mocking sun and empty airOr a tall cloud-tower in the heaven’s span—Small comfort that to an earthly man!Castle-of-Spain is builded highUp above us, beyond the sky....

Easy we build you, hardly we gain,Castle-of-Spain, Castle-of-Spain!

San Pablo, Andalusia.

Back to Index Next