I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill cladRemembering their soft dress in spring?Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,—They sound so strong for any wind.But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamedAnd I am awkward and ill at ease—Clothes have a way of telling storiesEven as the bark of trees will tellWhich way the storm winds blow—I remember when I was youngAnd scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leavesAnd there were more than I needed;And my hair was soft and thick,With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;And my body was lithe and vigorous;When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,The least clearing wind set me free againAnd I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leavesShaking the sunlight into dance.
I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill cladRemembering their soft dress in spring?Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,—They sound so strong for any wind.But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamedAnd I am awkward and ill at ease—Clothes have a way of telling storiesEven as the bark of trees will tellWhich way the storm winds blow—I remember when I was youngAnd scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leavesAnd there were more than I needed;And my hair was soft and thick,With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;And my body was lithe and vigorous;When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,The least clearing wind set me free againAnd I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leavesShaking the sunlight into dance.
I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill cladRemembering their soft dress in spring?Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,—They sound so strong for any wind.But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamedAnd I am awkward and ill at ease—Clothes have a way of telling storiesEven as the bark of trees will tellWhich way the storm winds blow—I remember when I was youngAnd scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leavesAnd there were more than I needed;And my hair was soft and thick,With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;And my body was lithe and vigorous;When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,The least clearing wind set me free againAnd I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leavesShaking the sunlight into dance.
Now I lie awake at night, many nights,Sometimes when I am ill,Sometimes when I am well,And think about money and rents in worn clothesAnd feel the hunger of old women and backyard catsAs if it were my own hunger;And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaperAnd flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,And my thoughts are bent and oldAnd I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.I wonder why God gives Himself to treesAnd lets old women starve?And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper?And why certain rich people are as well varnished against coldAs fat beech buds against the frost?Do you suppose God is a MerchantAnd sells this warm lustre from the stars—Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind—And plans to make a profit from the rich?...I am not an anarchistExcept in stars.
Now I lie awake at night, many nights,Sometimes when I am ill,Sometimes when I am well,And think about money and rents in worn clothesAnd feel the hunger of old women and backyard catsAs if it were my own hunger;And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaperAnd flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,And my thoughts are bent and oldAnd I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.I wonder why God gives Himself to treesAnd lets old women starve?And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper?And why certain rich people are as well varnished against coldAs fat beech buds against the frost?Do you suppose God is a MerchantAnd sells this warm lustre from the stars—Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind—And plans to make a profit from the rich?...I am not an anarchistExcept in stars.
Now I lie awake at night, many nights,Sometimes when I am ill,Sometimes when I am well,And think about money and rents in worn clothesAnd feel the hunger of old women and backyard catsAs if it were my own hunger;And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaperAnd flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,And my thoughts are bent and oldAnd I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.I wonder why God gives Himself to treesAnd lets old women starve?And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper?And why certain rich people are as well varnished against coldAs fat beech buds against the frost?Do you suppose God is a MerchantAnd sells this warm lustre from the stars—Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind—And plans to make a profit from the rich?...I am not an anarchistExcept in stars.
When the dawn comes it brings the crows.Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows!The crow sleeps east but west he blowsTo pick some carrion that he knowsCaw! Caw! Caw! It blows!
When the dawn comes it brings the crows.Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows!The crow sleeps east but west he blowsTo pick some carrion that he knowsCaw! Caw! Caw! It blows!
When the dawn comes it brings the crows.Caw! Caw! Caw! The crows!The crow sleeps east but west he blowsTo pick some carrion that he knowsCaw! Caw! Caw! It blows!
I travel East to meet the sunWith a gray heron battling up against the wind,Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep,Above the trees that toss the light,Above the rocks that blossom into rose,On towards the sun!It does not matter now how I am clothed;For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts,Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored,Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind,And the lustre on the heron’s breastIs now God and now the Morning Star:I travel East to meet the sun!
I travel East to meet the sunWith a gray heron battling up against the wind,Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep,Above the trees that toss the light,Above the rocks that blossom into rose,On towards the sun!It does not matter now how I am clothed;For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts,Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored,Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind,And the lustre on the heron’s breastIs now God and now the Morning Star:I travel East to meet the sun!
I travel East to meet the sunWith a gray heron battling up against the wind,Above the nests that knew the ravens in their sleep,Above the trees that toss the light,Above the rocks that blossom into rose,On towards the sun!It does not matter now how I am clothed;For my mind glitters with a thousand thoughts,Star-sown, moon-shaped, sun-colored,Amber-shining like polished foliage in a great dawn wind,And the lustre on the heron’s breastIs now God and now the Morning Star:I travel East to meet the sun!
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, my love does it stir, is it living?Is this seed-time in darkness? It is bleak, and the rainDrums hard on this silence, makes heavy my pain.I am blind yet the wind does search me like eyes that are old.O, my Mother, sweet Mother, through the lengthening night it is cold!Brown Mother, Earth Mother, the swell of your bosom, the scent of your hair,They are life, they are death, two in one to your child,Like the flame of your blossom, the sweep of your wild,Or the primal red mud of life’s sowing.Earth Mother, brown Mother, dear Mother, will the long night be run?...Touch the root to its milk, do you say? Send the sap to the bud,Feel the five-fingered leaf on my bosom, the grass on my lip?Find my bed in the wild? Bear the rose and the lily for child?...O, my Mother, Earth Mother, reach me round with your loving,Fold me in to your heart, base me deep on your breast for this sleep!Then, Mother, sweet Mother, with the clay and the spring I shall wake,Turn my back to the East with its frost and its manacled trees,Turn my face to the West and the blaze of my lover the Sun!
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, my love does it stir, is it living?Is this seed-time in darkness? It is bleak, and the rainDrums hard on this silence, makes heavy my pain.I am blind yet the wind does search me like eyes that are old.O, my Mother, sweet Mother, through the lengthening night it is cold!Brown Mother, Earth Mother, the swell of your bosom, the scent of your hair,They are life, they are death, two in one to your child,Like the flame of your blossom, the sweep of your wild,Or the primal red mud of life’s sowing.Earth Mother, brown Mother, dear Mother, will the long night be run?...Touch the root to its milk, do you say? Send the sap to the bud,Feel the five-fingered leaf on my bosom, the grass on my lip?Find my bed in the wild? Bear the rose and the lily for child?...O, my Mother, Earth Mother, reach me round with your loving,Fold me in to your heart, base me deep on your breast for this sleep!Then, Mother, sweet Mother, with the clay and the spring I shall wake,Turn my back to the East with its frost and its manacled trees,Turn my face to the West and the blaze of my lover the Sun!
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, my love does it stir, is it living?Is this seed-time in darkness? It is bleak, and the rainDrums hard on this silence, makes heavy my pain.I am blind yet the wind does search me like eyes that are old.O, my Mother, sweet Mother, through the lengthening night it is cold!
Brown Mother, Earth Mother, the swell of your bosom, the scent of your hair,They are life, they are death, two in one to your child,Like the flame of your blossom, the sweep of your wild,Or the primal red mud of life’s sowing.
Earth Mother, brown Mother, dear Mother, will the long night be run?...Touch the root to its milk, do you say? Send the sap to the bud,Feel the five-fingered leaf on my bosom, the grass on my lip?Find my bed in the wild? Bear the rose and the lily for child?...
O, my Mother, Earth Mother, reach me round with your loving,Fold me in to your heart, base me deep on your breast for this sleep!
Then, Mother, sweet Mother, with the clay and the spring I shall wake,Turn my back to the East with its frost and its manacled trees,Turn my face to the West and the blaze of my lover the Sun!
Sea gulls I saw lifting the dawn with rosy feet,Bearing the sunlight on their wings,Dripping the dusk from burnished plumes;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gullAt dusk, at dawn of day,And through long sunlit hours.Sea gulls I saw carrying the night upon their backs,Wide tail spread crescent for the moon and stars—The moon a glowing jelly fish,The stars foam flecks of light;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gull!How I would dart with them,Strike storm with coral spur,Rip whirling spray of angry tides,Snatch mangled, light-shot offal of the sea,—Torn, tossed and moving terribly;And stare for stare answer those myriad eyesThat float and sway, stab, sting and die away!How I would peer from wide cold eyes of fireAt dusk, at dawnAnd through the long daylightInto those coiling depths of sea;Then split the sun, the moon, the stars,With laughter, laughter, laughter,For the sea’s mad power!
Sea gulls I saw lifting the dawn with rosy feet,Bearing the sunlight on their wings,Dripping the dusk from burnished plumes;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gullAt dusk, at dawn of day,And through long sunlit hours.Sea gulls I saw carrying the night upon their backs,Wide tail spread crescent for the moon and stars—The moon a glowing jelly fish,The stars foam flecks of light;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gull!How I would dart with them,Strike storm with coral spur,Rip whirling spray of angry tides,Snatch mangled, light-shot offal of the sea,—Torn, tossed and moving terribly;And stare for stare answer those myriad eyesThat float and sway, stab, sting and die away!How I would peer from wide cold eyes of fireAt dusk, at dawnAnd through the long daylightInto those coiling depths of sea;Then split the sun, the moon, the stars,With laughter, laughter, laughter,For the sea’s mad power!
Sea gulls I saw lifting the dawn with rosy feet,Bearing the sunlight on their wings,Dripping the dusk from burnished plumes;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gullAt dusk, at dawn of day,And through long sunlit hours.
Sea gulls I saw carrying the night upon their backs,Wide tail spread crescent for the moon and stars—The moon a glowing jelly fish,The stars foam flecks of light;And I thoughtIt would be joy to be a sea gull!
How I would dart with them,Strike storm with coral spur,Rip whirling spray of angry tides,Snatch mangled, light-shot offal of the sea,—Torn, tossed and moving terribly;And stare for stare answer those myriad eyesThat float and sway, stab, sting and die away!
How I would peer from wide cold eyes of fireAt dusk, at dawnAnd through the long daylightInto those coiling depths of sea;Then split the sun, the moon, the stars,With laughter, laughter, laughter,For the sea’s mad power!
Some saw a dragon eating up the light,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!But I saw:A low dark hill with its twisted back,Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack,A sprawling flank overlaid with leafGlitter and gleam and shine like steel,Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!And I heard:The wind draw out of the west and wail,Dance and stagger and jig and reelWith the long low sound of a life in grief!I saw a life in griefOho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Dance and stagger and jig and reel!Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
Some saw a dragon eating up the light,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!But I saw:A low dark hill with its twisted back,Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack,A sprawling flank overlaid with leafGlitter and gleam and shine like steel,Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!And I heard:The wind draw out of the west and wail,Dance and stagger and jig and reelWith the long low sound of a life in grief!I saw a life in griefOho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Dance and stagger and jig and reel!Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
Some saw a dragon eating up the light,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Some heard a lost bird riding out the night,Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
But I saw:A low dark hill with its twisted back,Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack,A sprawling flank overlaid with leafGlitter and gleam and shine like steel,Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!
And I heard:The wind draw out of the west and wail,Dance and stagger and jig and reelWith the long low sound of a life in grief!
I saw a life in griefOho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!Dance and stagger and jig and reel!Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!
Hear the illimitable windRush from a desolate sea of spaceInto the valley’s folded gloom,And smite the branches gibbetedOn frosty trees, and lash the woodsTo moans of age-old agony!Hark! how it leaps upon the roofsOf cottages, to drop whimperingLike some old dog before the door of home;Or pipes through chink and sill, a witless thing.It is the only houseless one,A pensioner of sea and cloud,An outcast in a universeOf night and day, of life and death,An alien, frenzied wanderer,—Homeless, illimitable wind!
Hear the illimitable windRush from a desolate sea of spaceInto the valley’s folded gloom,And smite the branches gibbetedOn frosty trees, and lash the woodsTo moans of age-old agony!Hark! how it leaps upon the roofsOf cottages, to drop whimperingLike some old dog before the door of home;Or pipes through chink and sill, a witless thing.It is the only houseless one,A pensioner of sea and cloud,An outcast in a universeOf night and day, of life and death,An alien, frenzied wanderer,—Homeless, illimitable wind!
Hear the illimitable windRush from a desolate sea of spaceInto the valley’s folded gloom,And smite the branches gibbetedOn frosty trees, and lash the woodsTo moans of age-old agony!
Hark! how it leaps upon the roofsOf cottages, to drop whimperingLike some old dog before the door of home;Or pipes through chink and sill, a witless thing.
It is the only houseless one,A pensioner of sea and cloud,An outcast in a universeOf night and day, of life and death,An alien, frenzied wanderer,—Homeless, illimitable wind!
In dreams have come to stayEarth’s golden bonnet of the day,Her gay attire,The dove wings gray she wore at dawn,The ivory of her cradled breast,Her dusk of plumèd fire,And all her garments of delight.Heavily I gropeStep after step,Afar,About this star-illumined sod,Silver with all the slumber of the world,Jewelled with every gem of light,Splintered with frosty air,—And know blind sleep.
In dreams have come to stayEarth’s golden bonnet of the day,Her gay attire,The dove wings gray she wore at dawn,The ivory of her cradled breast,Her dusk of plumèd fire,And all her garments of delight.Heavily I gropeStep after step,Afar,About this star-illumined sod,Silver with all the slumber of the world,Jewelled with every gem of light,Splintered with frosty air,—And know blind sleep.
In dreams have come to stayEarth’s golden bonnet of the day,Her gay attire,The dove wings gray she wore at dawn,The ivory of her cradled breast,Her dusk of plumèd fire,And all her garments of delight.
Heavily I gropeStep after step,Afar,About this star-illumined sod,Silver with all the slumber of the world,Jewelled with every gem of light,Splintered with frosty air,—And know blind sleep.
God said, “For you this bowl is life!Draw near and look!Therein is the bright water of dawn,Night’s silver covering of rain!Therein is dream lying like day,—Topaz with sun upon it!Lithe out of this bowlShall leap the larch in spring,For this is love,—Green flame of flight to the very tip!”I looked into the bowl, wondering:And night and dawn mingledAnd sleep stirredAnd the day turned in its dream,And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip.Then I took the bowl in my two hands,Thanking God.But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more,Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leavesBeaten by frozen wind.There is no rain to soften sleep,No day like topaz in the sun,I see the larch crumble to ash,—My arms grow numb back to the very heartHolding this bowl God gave to me!
God said, “For you this bowl is life!Draw near and look!Therein is the bright water of dawn,Night’s silver covering of rain!Therein is dream lying like day,—Topaz with sun upon it!Lithe out of this bowlShall leap the larch in spring,For this is love,—Green flame of flight to the very tip!”I looked into the bowl, wondering:And night and dawn mingledAnd sleep stirredAnd the day turned in its dream,And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip.Then I took the bowl in my two hands,Thanking God.But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more,Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leavesBeaten by frozen wind.There is no rain to soften sleep,No day like topaz in the sun,I see the larch crumble to ash,—My arms grow numb back to the very heartHolding this bowl God gave to me!
God said, “For you this bowl is life!Draw near and look!Therein is the bright water of dawn,Night’s silver covering of rain!Therein is dream lying like day,—Topaz with sun upon it!Lithe out of this bowlShall leap the larch in spring,For this is love,—Green flame of flight to the very tip!”
I looked into the bowl, wondering:And night and dawn mingledAnd sleep stirredAnd the day turned in its dream,And flame, flickering, swept the bowl’s lip.Then I took the bowl in my two hands,Thanking God.
But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more,Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leavesBeaten by frozen wind.There is no rain to soften sleep,No day like topaz in the sun,I see the larch crumble to ash,—My arms grow numb back to the very heartHolding this bowl God gave to me!
Magnificent, my Own,Across the City’s crash of sound,Above the marching of her war-shod feet,I hear you call, “I am alone,—alone!”In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat,Echo and tone,“Alone,—I am alone!”
Magnificent, my Own,Across the City’s crash of sound,Above the marching of her war-shod feet,I hear you call, “I am alone,—alone!”In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat,Echo and tone,“Alone,—I am alone!”
Magnificent, my Own,Across the City’s crash of sound,Above the marching of her war-shod feet,I hear you call, “I am alone,—alone!”In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat,Echo and tone,“Alone,—I am alone!”
Oh, Splendid One,The stars still hang the City’s nightWith peace and light!What wars could ever bindThe signing of God’s universe in space?You turn your eyes,Burning, ancient, wise,And speak, “All have I seen,Evil and good,All man has been,All man has done,—And I am blind.”But God, I cried ...Then came your moan,Like Pontius Pilate overthrown,“God I have denied!”
Oh, Splendid One,The stars still hang the City’s nightWith peace and light!What wars could ever bindThe signing of God’s universe in space?You turn your eyes,Burning, ancient, wise,And speak, “All have I seen,Evil and good,All man has been,All man has done,—And I am blind.”But God, I cried ...Then came your moan,Like Pontius Pilate overthrown,“God I have denied!”
Oh, Splendid One,The stars still hang the City’s nightWith peace and light!What wars could ever bindThe signing of God’s universe in space?You turn your eyes,Burning, ancient, wise,And speak, “All have I seen,Evil and good,All man has been,All man has done,—And I am blind.”But God, I cried ...Then came your moan,Like Pontius Pilate overthrown,“God I have denied!”
Magnificent, my Own,There beyond the City’s skyAre pinnacle and dream,The rushing of a mighty stream,The night-wind’s cryAnd thunder-harp of pine.“Oh, Christ,” you weep,“They are not mine,They are not mine!I cannot see, I cannot hear,Only I remember year on yearAbel and Cain.Yet somewhere in this welter of my painI keepMemory of another,—those two lost syllables of doom.”“What syllables are they, my Own?”“That word is ‘Brother’!”
Magnificent, my Own,There beyond the City’s skyAre pinnacle and dream,The rushing of a mighty stream,The night-wind’s cryAnd thunder-harp of pine.“Oh, Christ,” you weep,“They are not mine,They are not mine!I cannot see, I cannot hear,Only I remember year on yearAbel and Cain.Yet somewhere in this welter of my painI keepMemory of another,—those two lost syllables of doom.”“What syllables are they, my Own?”“That word is ‘Brother’!”
Magnificent, my Own,There beyond the City’s skyAre pinnacle and dream,The rushing of a mighty stream,The night-wind’s cryAnd thunder-harp of pine.“Oh, Christ,” you weep,“They are not mine,They are not mine!I cannot see, I cannot hear,Only I remember year on yearAbel and Cain.Yet somewhere in this welter of my painI keepMemory of another,—those two lost syllables of doom.”“What syllables are they, my Own?”“That word is ‘Brother’!”
All the warmth has gone out of white hair,It only answers to the windAnd lifts and stirs like creeping snowClose to the frozen scalp of earth.It has no gold of autumn grassesOr red of beech budsOr warm brown of tree barkOr depths of quietIn which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night.Has death white hairAnd the cramped empty shoulders of old age?If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him.But if his touch is the touch of warm rain,If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper,If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlockAnd his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing,Then I shall go to him gladly,And sleep well....
All the warmth has gone out of white hair,It only answers to the windAnd lifts and stirs like creeping snowClose to the frozen scalp of earth.It has no gold of autumn grassesOr red of beech budsOr warm brown of tree barkOr depths of quietIn which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night.Has death white hairAnd the cramped empty shoulders of old age?If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him.But if his touch is the touch of warm rain,If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper,If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlockAnd his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing,Then I shall go to him gladly,And sleep well....
All the warmth has gone out of white hair,It only answers to the windAnd lifts and stirs like creeping snowClose to the frozen scalp of earth.It has no gold of autumn grassesOr red of beech budsOr warm brown of tree barkOr depths of quietIn which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night.
Has death white hairAnd the cramped empty shoulders of old age?If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him.But if his touch is the touch of warm rain,If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper,If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlockAnd his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing,Then I shall go to him gladly,And sleep well....
What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes?What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood?What these cries that stop the ears with their pain?Let us take our love unto God,He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind;How well He knows that love must carry its burdenIf it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!What are we that we should not know that we are His,And of Him our passion and of Him our tears?His breast is deep and He will fold us thereIn the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness.Distance from us knows He not nor space,And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself?Are we not one even as we are His?What is that cry?Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters?What is this light that flows like a brook?How well He knows that love must carry its burden,If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes?What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood?What these cries that stop the ears with their pain?Let us take our love unto God,He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind;How well He knows that love must carry its burdenIf it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!What are we that we should not know that we are His,And of Him our passion and of Him our tears?His breast is deep and He will fold us thereIn the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness.Distance from us knows He not nor space,And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself?Are we not one even as we are His?What is that cry?Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters?What is this light that flows like a brook?How well He knows that love must carry its burden,If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes?What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood?What these cries that stop the ears with their pain?Let us take our love unto God,He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind;How well He knows that love must carry its burdenIf it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
What are we that we should not know that we are His,And of Him our passion and of Him our tears?His breast is deep and He will fold us thereIn the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness.Distance from us knows He not nor space,And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself?Are we not one even as we are His?
What is that cry?Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters?What is this light that flows like a brook?How well He knows that love must carry its burden,If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
Sometimes when I am alone at nightI put my hand upon my heart;But it matters little to me that these two are oneFrom the deep inflow of the rushing bloodEven to the extremity of each living fingerSwung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:—This heart and hand that are so wonderful,So joined in life; so fashionedIn the beat of pulseAnd passionate discernment of touch for joy,So separate and yet not to be divided.It is not of them I am thinkingWhen I place my hand on my heartIn the lonely night.In its weightAgain I feel your head lying on my breastAnd in its touch the oval of your childlike face.You are wide-eyed once more,With those gray eyes of the seaFull of space and the shadows of birds’ wingsAnd the terror of known depths of human tragedy;You are wide-eyed nowLooking into the dark with me,Wondering about the night.I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heartAnd that we are separated;I cannot understand the use of my own fingersOr the beating of my own pulse;And I take my hand awayAnd lie alone in the darkAnd suffer.
Sometimes when I am alone at nightI put my hand upon my heart;But it matters little to me that these two are oneFrom the deep inflow of the rushing bloodEven to the extremity of each living fingerSwung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:—This heart and hand that are so wonderful,So joined in life; so fashionedIn the beat of pulseAnd passionate discernment of touch for joy,So separate and yet not to be divided.It is not of them I am thinkingWhen I place my hand on my heartIn the lonely night.In its weightAgain I feel your head lying on my breastAnd in its touch the oval of your childlike face.You are wide-eyed once more,With those gray eyes of the seaFull of space and the shadows of birds’ wingsAnd the terror of known depths of human tragedy;You are wide-eyed nowLooking into the dark with me,Wondering about the night.I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heartAnd that we are separated;I cannot understand the use of my own fingersOr the beating of my own pulse;And I take my hand awayAnd lie alone in the darkAnd suffer.
Sometimes when I am alone at nightI put my hand upon my heart;But it matters little to me that these two are oneFrom the deep inflow of the rushing bloodEven to the extremity of each living fingerSwung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:—This heart and hand that are so wonderful,So joined in life; so fashionedIn the beat of pulseAnd passionate discernment of touch for joy,So separate and yet not to be divided.
It is not of them I am thinkingWhen I place my hand on my heartIn the lonely night.In its weightAgain I feel your head lying on my breastAnd in its touch the oval of your childlike face.You are wide-eyed once more,With those gray eyes of the seaFull of space and the shadows of birds’ wingsAnd the terror of known depths of human tragedy;You are wide-eyed nowLooking into the dark with me,Wondering about the night.
I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heartAnd that we are separated;I cannot understand the use of my own fingersOr the beating of my own pulse;And I take my hand awayAnd lie alone in the darkAnd suffer.
A station is a place of miracle:So many trains passing and repassing,So many thoughts coming and going,So many greetings and farewells!Any surprise might happen there:God come and go,Street cries turn to stars,Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole!Thus, in such a place,Love met me once.That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity,And we heard the street cries sing like stars,And we saw God come and goAnd the dust upon our hair was gold!Now, blinded, I look past all I see:It might happen,Love might be there again!It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven.Who does!Yet so many greetings and farewells,—Anything might happen!Have you not felt that way,And, bewildered, watched;And, longing, waited?
A station is a place of miracle:So many trains passing and repassing,So many thoughts coming and going,So many greetings and farewells!Any surprise might happen there:God come and go,Street cries turn to stars,Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole!Thus, in such a place,Love met me once.That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity,And we heard the street cries sing like stars,And we saw God come and goAnd the dust upon our hair was gold!Now, blinded, I look past all I see:It might happen,Love might be there again!It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven.Who does!Yet so many greetings and farewells,—Anything might happen!Have you not felt that way,And, bewildered, watched;And, longing, waited?
A station is a place of miracle:So many trains passing and repassing,So many thoughts coming and going,So many greetings and farewells!Any surprise might happen there:God come and go,Street cries turn to stars,Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole!Thus, in such a place,Love met me once.That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity,And we heard the street cries sing like stars,And we saw God come and goAnd the dust upon our hair was gold!Now, blinded, I look past all I see:It might happen,Love might be there again!It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven.Who does!Yet so many greetings and farewells,—Anything might happen!Have you not felt that way,And, bewildered, watched;And, longing, waited?
How shall I link my thought to yoursThrough hours that whirl to dust!Fling me some word will keep me close to you,If but a rainbow bubble like our breath,And share with me its swift-revolving dream!See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun!In purple sleep it spins among the stars,Or crimson film it holds the dawn,Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,—One azure word turned kiss!
How shall I link my thought to yoursThrough hours that whirl to dust!Fling me some word will keep me close to you,If but a rainbow bubble like our breath,And share with me its swift-revolving dream!See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun!In purple sleep it spins among the stars,Or crimson film it holds the dawn,Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,—One azure word turned kiss!
How shall I link my thought to yoursThrough hours that whirl to dust!Fling me some word will keep me close to you,If but a rainbow bubble like our breath,And share with me its swift-revolving dream!
See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun!In purple sleep it spins among the stars,Or crimson film it holds the dawn,Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,—One azure word turned kiss!
“May I not sell this gewgaw red?”“You must not sell!You cannot buy!”“Not sell my own, my heart?”“You two are one: you may not part,—One peddled joy, you both are dead!”“Must I go hungry all the way?”“You must not beg!You must not cry!”“Not for two bits o’love today?”“Your empty scrip for pillow keep:It brings great gifts,—thirst, sorrow, sleep!”
“May I not sell this gewgaw red?”“You must not sell!You cannot buy!”“Not sell my own, my heart?”“You two are one: you may not part,—One peddled joy, you both are dead!”“Must I go hungry all the way?”“You must not beg!You must not cry!”“Not for two bits o’love today?”“Your empty scrip for pillow keep:It brings great gifts,—thirst, sorrow, sleep!”
“May I not sell this gewgaw red?”“You must not sell!You cannot buy!”“Not sell my own, my heart?”“You two are one: you may not part,—One peddled joy, you both are dead!”
“Must I go hungry all the way?”“You must not beg!You must not cry!”“Not for two bits o’love today?”“Your empty scrip for pillow keep:It brings great gifts,—thirst, sorrow, sleep!”
I told my heart that work must beThe only aim of life for me.But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!”And wept bitterly.
I told my heart that work must beThe only aim of life for me.But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!”And wept bitterly.
I told my heart that work must beThe only aim of life for me.But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!”And wept bitterly.
Somewhere I have heard bellsMellow as the moon:Somewhere they hung and swung,With slender sound they roseTiptoe with hunger for the sky,Star-pointed with the light of dream;Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,—That was another day,And we were gay!
Somewhere I have heard bellsMellow as the moon:Somewhere they hung and swung,With slender sound they roseTiptoe with hunger for the sky,Star-pointed with the light of dream;Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,—That was another day,And we were gay!
Somewhere I have heard bellsMellow as the moon:Somewhere they hung and swung,With slender sound they roseTiptoe with hunger for the sky,Star-pointed with the light of dream;Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,—That was another day,And we were gay!
And now this withered sound’s farewellSwinging like tethered rhyme,Slow-moving, pendulous,A sigh upon the water’s breast,A cloud within the sky!Never again for us, Belovèd,Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,—Somewhere tonight!
And now this withered sound’s farewellSwinging like tethered rhyme,Slow-moving, pendulous,A sigh upon the water’s breast,A cloud within the sky!Never again for us, Belovèd,Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,—Somewhere tonight!
And now this withered sound’s farewellSwinging like tethered rhyme,Slow-moving, pendulous,A sigh upon the water’s breast,A cloud within the sky!Never again for us, Belovèd,Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,—Somewhere tonight!
Should one thought cry against me in your heart,I could not rise from Death, saying, “Love, my placeIs by your living side; ghostly, I touchYour precious hands, I kiss your lovely face!”
Should one thought cry against me in your heart,I could not rise from Death, saying, “Love, my placeIs by your living side; ghostly, I touchYour precious hands, I kiss your lovely face!”
Should one thought cry against me in your heart,I could not rise from Death, saying, “Love, my placeIs by your living side; ghostly, I touchYour precious hands, I kiss your lovely face!”
I would not have you shrink to feel me near,Or claim despite your will what once was mine,Was ours in God-flung vow, passionate, dearBy night, by day, companioned or apart.
I would not have you shrink to feel me near,Or claim despite your will what once was mine,Was ours in God-flung vow, passionate, dearBy night, by day, companioned or apart.
I would not have you shrink to feel me near,Or claim despite your will what once was mine,Was ours in God-flung vow, passionate, dearBy night, by day, companioned or apart.
Not mine to snare your liberty, to cageYour sunlit way. Yet, wish me gone, I leapFrom light, I plunge to find amen and shroudIn Death,—this time for Love’s eternal sleep.
Not mine to snare your liberty, to cageYour sunlit way. Yet, wish me gone, I leapFrom light, I plunge to find amen and shroudIn Death,—this time for Love’s eternal sleep.
Not mine to snare your liberty, to cageYour sunlit way. Yet, wish me gone, I leapFrom light, I plunge to find amen and shroudIn Death,—this time for Love’s eternal sleep.
There!That is the face for me—That face I shall never seeIn this world again!All that I miss is there,Touch of life and its kiss!O, mysterious love in our heartFound for us both as we pass,—As we part!
There!That is the face for me—That face I shall never seeIn this world again!All that I miss is there,Touch of life and its kiss!O, mysterious love in our heartFound for us both as we pass,—As we part!
There!That is the face for me—That face I shall never seeIn this world again!All that I miss is there,Touch of life and its kiss!O, mysterious love in our heartFound for us both as we pass,—As we part!
You I love,You and you:One I never seeAnd one I know.Well, and what then?Nothing.But, I ask,Does the wind blow?Do feet drift or go?And where?How shall a tinker mendA pinch of dust?Some things are mine to keep,Some to share:My thoughts I bearBecause I must;My love I spendBecause I wish,On you I never see,On you I know,—Everywhere.
You I love,You and you:One I never seeAnd one I know.Well, and what then?Nothing.But, I ask,Does the wind blow?Do feet drift or go?And where?How shall a tinker mendA pinch of dust?Some things are mine to keep,Some to share:My thoughts I bearBecause I must;My love I spendBecause I wish,On you I never see,On you I know,—Everywhere.
You I love,You and you:One I never seeAnd one I know.
Well, and what then?Nothing.But, I ask,Does the wind blow?Do feet drift or go?And where?How shall a tinker mendA pinch of dust?
Some things are mine to keep,Some to share:My thoughts I bearBecause I must;My love I spendBecause I wish,On you I never see,On you I know,—Everywhere.
A slate galleon hurrying across a sea of fire,—And they callthat“cloud”!And the sea it sails upon “sky”!Tut, it is a ship as plain as anythingFull-spread to find the silver edges of the worldWhere ships and island daffodilsBurn, follow sun, dip,Cling to the shining brim like flapping butterflies,Let go,Then, whirling sail and streaming daffodil,Dart into night and flame to stars!And the “sky” ...Now you tell what the sky is!
A slate galleon hurrying across a sea of fire,—And they callthat“cloud”!And the sea it sails upon “sky”!Tut, it is a ship as plain as anythingFull-spread to find the silver edges of the worldWhere ships and island daffodilsBurn, follow sun, dip,Cling to the shining brim like flapping butterflies,Let go,Then, whirling sail and streaming daffodil,Dart into night and flame to stars!And the “sky” ...Now you tell what the sky is!
A slate galleon hurrying across a sea of fire,—And they callthat“cloud”!And the sea it sails upon “sky”!Tut, it is a ship as plain as anythingFull-spread to find the silver edges of the worldWhere ships and island daffodilsBurn, follow sun, dip,Cling to the shining brim like flapping butterflies,Let go,Then, whirling sail and streaming daffodil,Dart into night and flame to stars!And the “sky” ...Now you tell what the sky is!
Dawn, bright dawn,White swan on the edge of the dark pool of nightFan the shade from its mirror,Cleave the stars on its deep!Joyous barge of my dream,On the wave, on the wind, O Bucentaur,With your cry sweep the seas,Shake the wind from the trees,Wake the world from its sleep,Meet and greetSong within song!Your eyes jewelled fire,Your touch my desire,Draw nearer, draw nearerDown the rose-colored stream;White swan, bright dawn,Kiss me, and lift meOn the wing of your light!
Dawn, bright dawn,White swan on the edge of the dark pool of nightFan the shade from its mirror,Cleave the stars on its deep!Joyous barge of my dream,On the wave, on the wind, O Bucentaur,With your cry sweep the seas,Shake the wind from the trees,Wake the world from its sleep,Meet and greetSong within song!Your eyes jewelled fire,Your touch my desire,Draw nearer, draw nearerDown the rose-colored stream;White swan, bright dawn,Kiss me, and lift meOn the wing of your light!
Dawn, bright dawn,White swan on the edge of the dark pool of nightFan the shade from its mirror,Cleave the stars on its deep!
Joyous barge of my dream,On the wave, on the wind, O Bucentaur,With your cry sweep the seas,Shake the wind from the trees,Wake the world from its sleep,Meet and greetSong within song!
Your eyes jewelled fire,Your touch my desire,Draw nearer, draw nearerDown the rose-colored stream;White swan, bright dawn,Kiss me, and lift meOn the wing of your light!
Gray as a moth the light of dayDawns in the east,Dimming the star that crowns the hill,Stilling the wind,Hushing the deepOf the water’s sleep;Flits like a moth’s pearl wing in the nightTo the peak of mastAnd the spire of tree,Touches the nest and its thrush to song,Flutters the edge of the sky along.Gray like a mothDawn slips away,Bright in apocalypse of light.Rose and gold and green of the world,Wind and bird and the great sea’s layPossess the day!
Gray as a moth the light of dayDawns in the east,Dimming the star that crowns the hill,Stilling the wind,Hushing the deepOf the water’s sleep;Flits like a moth’s pearl wing in the nightTo the peak of mastAnd the spire of tree,Touches the nest and its thrush to song,Flutters the edge of the sky along.Gray like a mothDawn slips away,Bright in apocalypse of light.Rose and gold and green of the world,Wind and bird and the great sea’s layPossess the day!
Gray as a moth the light of dayDawns in the east,Dimming the star that crowns the hill,Stilling the wind,Hushing the deepOf the water’s sleep;
Flits like a moth’s pearl wing in the nightTo the peak of mastAnd the spire of tree,Touches the nest and its thrush to song,Flutters the edge of the sky along.
Gray like a mothDawn slips away,Bright in apocalypse of light.Rose and gold and green of the world,Wind and bird and the great sea’s layPossess the day!
Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea,—Upon the sea!Lay me within some caverned rockWhose bosom, hard from all the years,Knows nothing of men’s tears,—Gray peaceful rest beside the sea,Beside the sea!Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea!Upon the sea!
Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea,—Upon the sea!Lay me within some caverned rockWhose bosom, hard from all the years,Knows nothing of men’s tears,—Gray peaceful rest beside the sea,Beside the sea!Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea!Upon the sea!
Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea,—Upon the sea!
Lay me within some caverned rockWhose bosom, hard from all the years,Knows nothing of men’s tears,—Gray peaceful rest beside the sea,Beside the sea!
Take me to some isle upon the sea!Bear me on wing of bird or keel of shipOut where gray waters slipAbout some isle upon the sea!Upon the sea!
I shall not hear the thrushes sing,Though sing they will that day;For me will be an unknown sodAnd an undreamed-of May!
I shall not hear the thrushes sing,Though sing they will that day;For me will be an unknown sodAnd an undreamed-of May!
I shall not hear the thrushes sing,Though sing they will that day;For me will be an unknown sodAnd an undreamed-of May!
Here are white paths that gleamIn the twilight space of dream;Here the winds turn in their sleepWith the rocking of the deep;Here the golden song of thrushIs music’s sunlight, evening’s hush;Here the rustle of our prayerClimbs the forest altar stair;And here the stars burn in the sod—Peaceful candlelight for God.
Here are white paths that gleamIn the twilight space of dream;Here the winds turn in their sleepWith the rocking of the deep;Here the golden song of thrushIs music’s sunlight, evening’s hush;Here the rustle of our prayerClimbs the forest altar stair;And here the stars burn in the sod—Peaceful candlelight for God.
Here are white paths that gleamIn the twilight space of dream;Here the winds turn in their sleepWith the rocking of the deep;Here the golden song of thrushIs music’s sunlight, evening’s hush;Here the rustle of our prayerClimbs the forest altar stair;And here the stars burn in the sod—Peaceful candlelight for God.
Ebony, Ebony,Dreaming of a rose,Flame in the flower-heart,Dusk in repose;Jeweled eyes glistening,Dew on the leaf,Sweet to AfricaIs the thought of her grief.
Ebony, Ebony,Dreaming of a rose,Flame in the flower-heart,Dusk in repose;Jeweled eyes glistening,Dew on the leaf,Sweet to AfricaIs the thought of her grief.
Ebony, Ebony,Dreaming of a rose,Flame in the flower-heart,Dusk in repose;
Jeweled eyes glistening,Dew on the leaf,Sweet to AfricaIs the thought of her grief.
Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds!And I? I praise you for your saucy joyOn dusty streets; I love you for your twitterIn vines that cling to heated city walls;Your noisy congregations on the trees;Unchurchly ways of saying this and thatAbout your brother men; your gaietiesIn parks nearby a fountain’s dripping brim.Men say your manners are not fine. And, too,They call you scavengers, they call you thiefAnd enemy to other prettier birds.Perhaps we are one feather, you and I!I would not hold it any grief to beYour brother bird upon the city street.I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heardThe lark in other lands, the thrush in this.Dull many a day had been without your din,Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways.Men say unfriendly words of you. Of meThey speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gayWe are! Ah, well, we are one feather, youAnd I! We have the city streets for plunder,The eaves for wonder, and above there isThe sky!
Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds!And I? I praise you for your saucy joyOn dusty streets; I love you for your twitterIn vines that cling to heated city walls;Your noisy congregations on the trees;Unchurchly ways of saying this and thatAbout your brother men; your gaietiesIn parks nearby a fountain’s dripping brim.Men say your manners are not fine. And, too,They call you scavengers, they call you thiefAnd enemy to other prettier birds.Perhaps we are one feather, you and I!I would not hold it any grief to beYour brother bird upon the city street.I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heardThe lark in other lands, the thrush in this.Dull many a day had been without your din,Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways.Men say unfriendly words of you. Of meThey speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gayWe are! Ah, well, we are one feather, youAnd I! We have the city streets for plunder,The eaves for wonder, and above there isThe sky!
Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds!And I? I praise you for your saucy joyOn dusty streets; I love you for your twitterIn vines that cling to heated city walls;Your noisy congregations on the trees;Unchurchly ways of saying this and thatAbout your brother men; your gaietiesIn parks nearby a fountain’s dripping brim.
Men say your manners are not fine. And, too,They call you scavengers, they call you thiefAnd enemy to other prettier birds.Perhaps we are one feather, you and I!I would not hold it any grief to beYour brother bird upon the city street.
I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heardThe lark in other lands, the thrush in this.Dull many a day had been without your din,Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways.
Men say unfriendly words of you. Of meThey speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gayWe are! Ah, well, we are one feather, youAnd I! We have the city streets for plunder,The eaves for wonder, and above there isThe sky!
Night in an oriole’s hanging nestIs rocking a basket world to sleep.The wind blows softAnd the wind blows far,Star, creep, star!Pack me tight in my basket world,Tread me and turn me with feet of your love!O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!Down in the marshes the little fish gleam,Down in the marshes the little fish stirRushes in sleep,Rushes that keepWrinkling the light of a drowsy star.Here in my basket world hung on the windOver me rustles an ebony bough,Over me hovers a silvery beak;And clear and softAnd near and farLustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest,Eyes that are gentle,Eyes that are meek.O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
Night in an oriole’s hanging nestIs rocking a basket world to sleep.The wind blows softAnd the wind blows far,Star, creep, star!Pack me tight in my basket world,Tread me and turn me with feet of your love!O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!Down in the marshes the little fish gleam,Down in the marshes the little fish stirRushes in sleep,Rushes that keepWrinkling the light of a drowsy star.Here in my basket world hung on the windOver me rustles an ebony bough,Over me hovers a silvery beak;And clear and softAnd near and farLustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest,Eyes that are gentle,Eyes that are meek.O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
Night in an oriole’s hanging nestIs rocking a basket world to sleep.The wind blows softAnd the wind blows far,Star, creep, star!
Pack me tight in my basket world,Tread me and turn me with feet of your love!O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!Down in the marshes the little fish gleam,Down in the marshes the little fish stirRushes in sleep,Rushes that keepWrinkling the light of a drowsy star.
Here in my basket world hung on the windOver me rustles an ebony bough,Over me hovers a silvery beak;And clear and softAnd near and farLustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest,Eyes that are gentle,Eyes that are meek.O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-townGoes walking the valleys and meadows adown;She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moonAnd she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune.Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,—Is dear unto me!Her arms are so eager but tiny are they,And her fingers are agile as waters at play.Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope,Must go without laughter and live without hope:Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain,Must shiver and quiver and ache with the painOf climbing for stars and wanting the moonAs she puts an old chanty once more into tune,Ere the stars will come down or the moon will replyExcept by a wink through a chink in the skyOh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me,So dear unto me!
Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-townGoes walking the valleys and meadows adown;She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moonAnd she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune.Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,—Is dear unto me!Her arms are so eager but tiny are they,And her fingers are agile as waters at play.Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope,Must go without laughter and live without hope:Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain,Must shiver and quiver and ache with the painOf climbing for stars and wanting the moonAs she puts an old chanty once more into tune,Ere the stars will come down or the moon will replyExcept by a wink through a chink in the skyOh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me,So dear unto me!
Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-townGoes walking the valleys and meadows adown;She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moonAnd she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune.Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,—Is dear unto me!
Her arms are so eager but tiny are they,And her fingers are agile as waters at play.Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope,Must go without laughter and live without hope:Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain,Must shiver and quiver and ache with the painOf climbing for stars and wanting the moonAs she puts an old chanty once more into tune,Ere the stars will come down or the moon will replyExcept by a wink through a chink in the skyOh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me,So dear unto me!
Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!Jewelled red eyes for you.Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!
Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!Jewelled red eyes for you.Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!
Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!Jewelled red eyes for you.Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!
Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!Little green snake in the bush.Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!
Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!Little green snake in the bush.Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!
Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!Little green snake in the bush.Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!
Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!Gold on its wings and fuzz.Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!
Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!Gold on its wings and fuzz.Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!
Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!Gold on its wings and fuzz.Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!
Oh Boy, give me your yellow thatch for home,Your yellow thatch of hair,Straw with the wind and air!Oh Boy, give me your stubble cheek to roam,Brown hayfield in the dew,—Rusty with sun and you!
Oh Boy, give me your yellow thatch for home,Your yellow thatch of hair,Straw with the wind and air!Oh Boy, give me your stubble cheek to roam,Brown hayfield in the dew,—Rusty with sun and you!
Oh Boy, give me your yellow thatch for home,Your yellow thatch of hair,Straw with the wind and air!
Oh Boy, give me your stubble cheek to roam,Brown hayfield in the dew,—Rusty with sun and you!