 | A lover's diary |  |
31
2. PART II.
SERENADES.
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I.
APRIL.
With the yellow daybreak
Shimmering on his wings,
A robin in my orchard-trees
Sings and sings and sings;
Come to my nest o' down,
Lady-bird o' mine,
Come in your russet gown,—
Don't you be too fine!
Shimmering on his wings,
A robin in my orchard-trees
Sings and sings and sings;
Come to my nest o' down,
Lady-bird o' mine,
Come in your russet gown,—
Don't you be too fine!
Flushing like great jewels
Warmed alive in the sun,
Dainty triflers round me
Are flitting, many a one;
Some with caps of sky-blue
Dashed with flakes of white,—
Some with golden zigzags
In velvets black as night.
Warmed alive in the sun,
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Are flitting, many a one;
Some with caps of sky-blue
Dashed with flakes of white,—
Some with golden zigzags
In velvets black as night.
Some in pretty bodices
Of green, with silver specks,
And some with blood-red ruffles
Shivering on their necks.
How they flash and sparkle
Round each orchard-tree,
With their darling little heads
All aside to me!
Of green, with silver specks,
And some with blood-red ruffles
Shivering on their necks.
How they flash and sparkle
Round each orchard-tree,
With their darling little heads
All aside to me!
You may go, my beauties,
Each of you your gate,—
Your finery frightens from me
My modest little mate;
She will come in colors
As quiet as a mouse,—
Go your ways and sing your lays,—
She shall keep my house!
Each of you your gate,—
Your finery frightens from me
My modest little mate;
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As quiet as a mouse,—
Go your ways and sing your lays,—
She shall keep my house!
So this robin with the dews
Shimmering on his wings,
Daily in my orchard-trees
Sings and sings and sings;
Come to my nest o' down
Lady-bird o' mine,—
Come in your russet gown,—
Don't you be too fine!
Shimmering on his wings,
Daily in my orchard-trees
Sings and sings and sings;
Come to my nest o' down
Lady-bird o' mine,—
Come in your russet gown,—
Don't you be too fine!
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II.
MAY.
To meet my darling May,
Under the boughs of the milk-white thorn,
I hastened early the summer morn,
Up with the shining day,—
Ay, long ere the shining day.
Under the boughs of the milk-white thorn,
I hastened early the summer morn,
Up with the shining day,—
Ay, long ere the shining day.
The clovers white and high,
Covered her feet as she crossed the hill
To tell that she loved me truly still,
And stay till the dew was dry,—
Ay, till after the dew was dry.
Covered her feet as she crossed the hill
To tell that she loved me truly still,
And stay till the dew was dry,—
Ay, till after the dew was dry.
O the sweet, sweet troth
We plighted under the milk-white thorn!
The golden cloak of the friendly morn
Softly wrapping us both,—
Ay, closely wrapping us both.
We plighted under the milk-white thorn!
The golden cloak of the friendly morn
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Ay, closely wrapping us both.
The cold of heart may frown,
That I and my gentle, gentle May,
Under the milk-white thorn that day,
Talked till the sun was down,—
Ay, till after the sun was down.
That I and my gentle, gentle May,
Under the milk-white thorn that day,
Talked till the sun was down,—
Ay, till after the sun was down.
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III.
JUNE.
As I went out to plough in the corn,
In the field beside the mill,
In the tender light of the early morn,
My heart was calm and still;
And the sheep, with fleeces wet with dew,
Went with me up the hill,
To the meadow by the mill.
In the field beside the mill,
In the tender light of the early morn,
My heart was calm and still;
And the sheep, with fleeces wet with dew,
Went with me up the hill,
To the meadow by the mill.
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As I went home, at the shut of day,
In a window of the mill
There hung modest Muriel May,
Like a lily, over the sill;
And when I ploughed the corn, next day,
My heart would not be still,
For Muriel, in the mill.
In a window of the mill
There hung modest Muriel May,
Like a lily, over the sill;
And when I ploughed the corn, next day,
My heart would not be still,
For Muriel, in the mill.
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IV.
JULY.
On the mountain, in the mowing,
Over valleys bright and gay,
Now coming, and now going,
I 've been hunting all the day.
Over valleys bright and gay,
Now coming, and now going,
I 've been hunting all the day.
I have seen the river winding
Its slow mist, fold in fold,
And the flag-flower meekly binding
Her dim leaves all in gold.
Its slow mist, fold in fold,
And the flag-flower meekly binding
Her dim leaves all in gold.
I have seen the little bosoms
Of the larkspurs all aglow,
And the mullein with her blossoms
Like a turban on her brow.
Of the larkspurs all aglow,
And the mullein with her blossoms
Like a turban on her brow.
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The willow-flower has drifted
In sweetness to my lips,
And the lady-rose has lifted
To my hand her finger-tips.
In sweetness to my lips,
And the lady-rose has lifted
To my hand her finger-tips.
I have seen the ivy twining
With the low and knotty grass,
And the long red berries shining
In the pleasant sassafras.
With the low and knotty grass,
And the long red berries shining
In the pleasant sassafras.
But lacking one thing only,
All the rest is incomplete,—
The gladdest place is lonely,
And the sweetest is not sweet.
All the rest is incomplete,—
The gladdest place is lonely,
And the sweetest is not sweet.
So, the flowery folk affronting
With my sad and selfish pain,
I 've been all day a-hunting,
A-hunting all in vain.
With my sad and selfish pain,
I 've been all day a-hunting,
A-hunting all in vain.
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V.
JULY.
Down by the mill, down by the mill,
Through all the summer hours,
There they grew and grew and grew,
Red and white and purple and blue,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
Down by the water, bright and still,
Set like sentinels round the mill,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
Through all the summer hours,
There they grew and grew and grew,
Red and white and purple and blue,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
Down by the water, bright and still,
Set like sentinels round the mill,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
There they grew and there they stood
Together, two and two,
And some had hearts like a drop of blood,
And some like a drop of dew;
Down by the mill, down by the mill,
Through all the summer hours,
There they swung and there they swayed,
Like spots of sunshine over the shade;
And over the waters, cold and still,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
Together, two and two,
And some had hearts like a drop of blood,
And some like a drop of dew;
Down by the mill, down by the mill,
Through all the summer hours,
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Like spots of sunshine over the shade;
And over the waters, cold and still,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
And some had slippers of yellow gold,
And some had caps of snow,
And some their heads held high and bold,
And some their heads held low;
And so they stood up side by side,
Meek and mournful and modest-eyed,
Through all the summer hours;
Down in the meadow, gay and green,
Like bridesmaids standing round their queen,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
And some had caps of snow,
And some their heads held high and bold,
And some their heads held low;
And so they stood up side by side,
Meek and mournful and modest-eyed,
Through all the summer hours;
Down in the meadow, gay and green,
Like bridesmaids standing round their queen,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
O, to see them bloom and blush
Was the sweetest show of shows!
The daisy under the lilac-bush,
And the violet by the rose!
Down by the mill, down by the mill,
Through all the summer hours,
Some so high and some so low,
But all as fair as fair can grow,
Down by the water, bright and still,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
Was the sweetest show of shows!
The daisy under the lilac-bush,
And the violet by the rose!
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Through all the summer hours,
Some so high and some so low,
But all as fair as fair can grow,
Down by the water, bright and still,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
O, the little maid of the mill,
That dazzles and deceives,
With a head as bright as the daffodil,
And a hand like the lily-leaves,
She it is that makes them grow
Through all the summer hours;
They with cloaks of speckled dyes,
And they with hoods about their eyes,
Meek and modest and high and low;
She can tell, if tell she will,
Why they dazzle down by the mill,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
That dazzles and deceives,
With a head as bright as the daffodil,
And a hand like the lily-leaves,
She it is that makes them grow
Through all the summer hours;
They with cloaks of speckled dyes,
And they with hoods about their eyes,
Meek and modest and high and low;
She can tell, if tell she will,
Why they dazzle down by the mill,
My beautiful, beautiful flowers!
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VI.
AUGUST.
Come out to the side of the sea, my love,
Come out to the side of the sea;
The sun is set, and the stars are met,
And the winds and the waves agree;
But star so bright nor wave so light
Brings pleasure or peace to me.
O come, for I sit and wait, alone,
On the rocks by the side of the sea!
Come out to the side of the sea;
The sun is set, and the stars are met,
And the winds and the waves agree;
But star so bright nor wave so light
Brings pleasure or peace to me.
O come, for I sit and wait, alone,
On the rocks by the side of the sea!
I am going down in my memory
To the blessed long ago,
When the golden ground of the buttercups
Was dashed with the daisies' snow.
And I'm thinking of all you said to me,
And if it were true or no,
While I watch the tide as it runs away
From the beach so black and low.
To the blessed long ago,
When the golden ground of the buttercups
Was dashed with the daisies' snow.
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And if it were true or no,
While I watch the tide as it runs away
From the beach so black and low.
If I should die, my love, my sweet,
Die of your smile forlorn,
Bury me here by the side of the sea,
Where all my joy was born.
Where the waves shall make my lullaby,
And the winds from night till morn
Shall say to the rocks, “He is gone to sleep
Where all his joy was born.”
Die of your smile forlorn,
Bury me here by the side of the sea,
Where all my joy was born.
Where the waves shall make my lullaby,
And the winds from night till morn
Shall say to the rocks, “He is gone to sleep
Where all his joy was born.”
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VII.
AUGUST.
Come and comfort the flowers, my sweet,
Come and comfort the flowers!
They 're hanging their heads in the garden-beds,
They 're dying in all the bowers;
Like a beam from the sun, my pretty one,
Come and comfort the flowers!
Come and comfort the flowers!
They 're hanging their heads in the garden-beds,
They 're dying in all the bowers;
Like a beam from the sun, my pretty one,
Come and comfort the flowers!
The violet, she is faint with heat,—
The lily is all forlorn;
My love arise, with thy dewy eyes,
Arise, and be their morn!
With thy hand so white and thy cheek so bright,
Come thou, and be their morn!
The lily is all forlorn;
My love arise, with thy dewy eyes,
Arise, and be their morn!
With thy hand so white and thy cheek so bright,
Come thou, and be their morn!
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Sad as Lear with the straw on his head,
The fringéd sunflower stands;
The rose doth wait in her queenly state
To scent herself in your hands;
Come, my dove, my lady and love,
And comfort the flowery bands!
The fringéd sunflower stands;
The rose doth wait in her queenly state
To scent herself in your hands;
Come, my dove, my lady and love,
And comfort the flowery bands!
The robin has learned your name, my sweet,
And that is all he sings;
The bee so brown her flight keeps down
To fan your cheek with her wings,
And the homely bean of his tendrils green
Is tying you finger rings.
And that is all he sings;
The bee so brown her flight keeps down
To fan your cheek with her wings,
And the homely bean of his tendrils green
Is tying you finger rings.
She is stitching all with true-love knots
Her sampler round, I know,
With true-love knots and sanguine spots,
Unconscious of your woe,
Else, pretty flowers, she 'd seek your bowers,
And comfort your grief, I know.
Her sampler round, I know,
With true-love knots and sanguine spots,
Unconscious of your woe,
Else, pretty flowers, she 'd seek your bowers,
And comfort your grief, I know.
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VIII.
SEPTEMBER.
Eve after eve, from early spring,
Till the autumn winds are heard,
I hear a wild bird sing and sing,
But I never see the bird!
Till the autumn winds are heard,
I hear a wild bird sing and sing,
But I never see the bird!
All together the high notes fall,
And each doth each prolong,
For he never ends his song at all,
And he never begins his song!
And each doth each prolong,
For he never ends his song at all,
And he never begins his song!
But at the golden middle still
He taketh up his tune,
And sings from sunset till the hill
Is lighted by the moon.
He taketh up his tune,
And sings from sunset till the hill
Is lighted by the moon.
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The cricket, then, he creeps in the sedge,
The hum-bee into the flower,
And the water dripping under the bridge
Is almost still for an hour.
The hum-bee into the flower,
And the water dripping under the bridge
Is almost still for an hour.
The speckled trout, he taketh care
That not a wave is stirred,
And the merry-makers everywhere,
They are silent for my bird!
That not a wave is stirred,
And the merry-makers everywhere,
They are silent for my bird!
The oarsman doth his paddle drop,
And his craft to the music floats,
As my minstrel runneth down and up
Through the golden middle notes,
And his craft to the music floats,
As my minstrel runneth down and up
Through the golden middle notes,
That all together rise and fall,
A sweetly tangled throng,
For he never ends his song at all,
And he never begins his song.
A sweetly tangled throng,
For he never ends his song at all,
And he never begins his song.
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Do you ask me what he sings about,
This minstrel of the grove?
I cannot tell, nor can you doubt
That, first and last, 't is Love!
This minstrel of the grove?
I cannot tell, nor can you doubt
That, first and last, 't is Love!
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IX.
NOVEMBER.
O leaves, will you never be stayed,
Till all the garden is bare?
Fade, fade, fade!
They are falling and filling the air!
But what care I for the naked bushes,
So long as my darling be clothed with blushes!
Till all the garden is bare?
Fade, fade, fade!
They are falling and filling the air!
But what care I for the naked bushes,
So long as my darling be clothed with blushes!
O rain, are you never to stop?
O sky, will you never be cleared?
Drop, drop, drop!
All over my hair and my beard!
But what for the cold and the wet care I,
So long as my darling be warm and dry!
O sky, will you never be cleared?
Drop, drop, drop!
All over my hair and my beard!
But what for the cold and the wet care I,
So long as my darling be warm and dry!
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O winds, are you always to blow?
O clouds, are you never to lift?
Snow, snow, snow!
I am up to my knees in the drift!
But what care I though it cover my head,
So long as my darling be safe in her bed!
O clouds, are you never to lift?
Snow, snow, snow!
I am up to my knees in the drift!
But what care I though it cover my head,
So long as my darling be safe in her bed!
O night, so laden with ill,
Will you never and never depart?
Chill, chill, chill!
To the innermost blood of my heart!
But what care I though I freeze where I stand,
If my darling but throw me a kiss from her hand!
Will you never and never depart?
Chill, chill, chill!
To the innermost blood of my heart!
But what care I though I freeze where I stand,
If my darling but throw me a kiss from her hand!
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X.
DECEMBER.
The moon, she is little and old,
The flowers are all in their graves,
And the withered leaves they are drifting by
In the cruel and crazy waves;
For the boughs are brown, and the leaves are down
In the cold and curdling waves.
The flowers are all in their graves,
And the withered leaves they are drifting by
In the cruel and crazy waves;
For the boughs are brown, and the leaves are down
In the cold and curdling waves.
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The moon she is little and low,
And over the hill, and away
By the huts of the fishers, I see the lift
Of the sea-fog cold and gray;
And the bars of sand lying in toward the land
Are blind with the fog so gray.
And over the hill, and away
By the huts of the fishers, I see the lift
Of the sea-fog cold and gray;
And the bars of sand lying in toward the land
Are blind with the fog so gray.
I am come to an unknown world,
Where all is dreary and dim,
And no man speaketh back to me
In the tongue that I speak to him,
And my old old dreams they are like the streams
With the leaves of December dim.
Where all is dreary and dim,
And no man speaketh back to me
In the tongue that I speak to him,
And my old old dreams they are like the streams
With the leaves of December dim.
The moon she is little and old,
And down in the fields by the sea
The cow-boy calls to his cows in a voice
That is sad and strange to me;
And the winds have a tone that is not their own,
Beating about on the sea.
And down in the fields by the sea
The cow-boy calls to his cows in a voice
That is sad and strange to me;
And the winds have a tone that is not their own,
Beating about on the sea.
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XI.
DECEMBER.
One, by the stroke of the clock!
The time drags heavy and slow;
And I wake from dreams as full of thee
As the clouds are full of snow,—
From dreams as white with thee, my dove,
As the clouds are white with snow.
The time drags heavy and slow;
And I wake from dreams as full of thee
As the clouds are full of snow,—
From dreams as white with thee, my dove,
As the clouds are white with snow.
I call thee all sweet names,
Song-lark, lily, and rose,
And I only hear the night-fowl's cry,
And the wind as it beats and blows,
And the moan of the river under the hill
Freezing as it flows.
Song-lark, lily, and rose,
And I only hear the night-fowl's cry,
And the wind as it beats and blows,
And the moan of the river under the hill
Freezing as it flows.
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One, by the stroke of the clock!
The night will never go by!
My love, thou hast grown as cold
As the gray cloud up in the sky!
Yet come, and snow thyself in my arms,
And chill me, till I die.
The night will never go by!
My love, thou hast grown as cold
As the gray cloud up in the sky!
Yet come, and snow thyself in my arms,
And chill me, till I die.
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XII.
JANUARY.
When Winter sends
The frost to make his rude alarms,
The frozen dove doth leave her mate,
And, wintering in my love's white arms,
Doth for her melancholy fate
Find fair amends.
The frost to make his rude alarms,
The frozen dove doth leave her mate,
And, wintering in my love's white arms,
Doth for her melancholy fate
Find fair amends.
When winds unblest,
Blow down the chimney night by night,
And all the heavy ashes stir,
And from his song the cricket fright,
They do not dare to come to her,
In her warm nest.
Blow down the chimney night by night,
And all the heavy ashes stir,
And from his song the cricket fright,
They do not dare to come to her,
In her warm nest.
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When from the skies
The lady-moon goes in white grace,
(No matter in what secret nook
My love be hid,) she finds the place,
And leaves a tender piteous look
In her dear eyes.
The lady-moon goes in white grace,
(No matter in what secret nook
My love be hid,) she finds the place,
And leaves a tender piteous look
In her dear eyes.
When snow-drifts drive,
And all the other flowers expire,
Or beds of quiet slumber seek,
The red rose maketh up a fire
Upon my modest darling's cheek,
And there doth live.
And all the other flowers expire,
Or beds of quiet slumber seek,
The red rose maketh up a fire
Upon my modest darling's cheek,
And there doth live.
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