 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
330
NOCTURN.
THE moon looks in upon me through the casement
And creeping round to where I lie at gaze,
Wide-eyed, and wait in vain coy sleep's embracement,
Upon my face her ghostly fingers lays.
And creeping round to where I lie at gaze,
Wide-eyed, and wait in vain coy sleep's embracement,
Upon my face her ghostly fingers lays.
I know that sign; she wills me rise and follow
Her feet; she lures me with her lamp of white,
Till at the window, o'er the wooded hollow,
I stand and look upon the silver night.
Her feet; she lures me with her lamp of white,
Till at the window, o'er the wooded hollow,
I stand and look upon the silver night.
Pale lies the world and pure as a dead maiden;
No birdsong breaks the silence, thrush or merle:
The woodlands lie and slumber, heavy-laden
With dreams, beneath a dreaming sea of pearl.
No birdsong breaks the silence, thrush or merle:
The woodlands lie and slumber, heavy-laden
With dreams, beneath a dreaming sea of pearl.
From out that moony sea how many a hoping
Fain would I raise, that is for ever sped;
I go among old memories seeking, groping
For what I know is buried with the dead.
Fain would I raise, that is for ever sped;
I go among old memories seeking, groping
For what I know is buried with the dead.
Still the moon calls me. What to wait availeth
For sleep unanswering? Better forth to go,
To wander 'twere, before her fair light faileth,
Before her horn th' horizon dips below.
For sleep unanswering? Better forth to go,
To wander 'twere, before her fair light faileth,
Before her horn th' horizon dips below.
White moon, thou ever wast my friend and lover;
Ne'er have I asked in vain for aid from thee;
Still all my toils and troubles didst thou cover
And drown'dst my sorrows in thy silver sea.
Ne'er have I asked in vain for aid from thee;
Still all my toils and troubles didst thou cover
And drown'dst my sorrows in thy silver sea.
The doors stand barless all; the gates are gaping;
The ways are open to the open night,
Fulfilled with figures of the moonlight's shaping:
So forth I fare into a world of white.
The ways are open to the open night,
Fulfilled with figures of the moonlight's shaping:
So forth I fare into a world of white.
331
In the wild park I stray, where all is sleeping,
Save in the dreaming avenue of elms,
Where down the moonlit aisles the ghosts are sweeping,
That may not rest in sleep's sepulchral realms.
Save in the dreaming avenue of elms,
Where down the moonlit aisles the ghosts are sweeping,
That may not rest in sleep's sepulchral realms.
Like me, they watch and wake whilst all else sleepeth;
Like me, the backward, not the forward ways,
They tread; like me, they sow when all else reapeth;
Like me, they love the nights and not the days.
Like me, the backward, not the forward ways,
They tread; like me, they sow when all else reapeth;
Like me, they love the nights and not the days.
Like me, outsetting know they, not arriving;
Like me, the night's their day, the moon their sun;
Like me, for ever, ever are they striving
To make the done undone, the undone done.
Like me, the night's their day, the moon their sun;
Like me, for ever, ever are they striving
To make the done undone, the undone done.
Among the ghosts I wander, dreaming, deeming,
Mid ghosts and dreams myself a dreaming ghost,
In the loud world of men a thing of seeming,
A wandering wraith amid a living host.
Mid ghosts and dreams myself a dreaming ghost,
In the loud world of men a thing of seeming,
A wandering wraith amid a living host.
The silence solace brings to thought and feeling;
The quiet fills my bleeding heart with balm;
The moon upon my wounds pours oils of healing;
My cares are half-forgotten in the calm.
The quiet fills my bleeding heart with balm;
The moon upon my wounds pours oils of healing;
My cares are half-forgotten in the calm.
But lo! across the hills the dark is breaking;
The breeze of dawn sighs shrilly through the trees;
The world, so sweet that slept and dreamt, is waking,
To run its round of travail and unease.
The breeze of dawn sighs shrilly through the trees;
The world, so sweet that slept and dreamt, is waking,
To run its round of travail and unease.
And thou, who needst must wake, whilst others slumber,
Who, whilst all rest, the weapon-watch must keep,
Will the blue morning quit thee of thy cumber?
Shall the day wind thee in the woofs of sleep?
Who, whilst all rest, the weapon-watch must keep,
Will the blue morning quit thee of thy cumber?
Shall the day wind thee in the woofs of sleep?
Nay, for thou ever wast a doubter, dreamer,
And he whose feet the paths of vision tread
Was ever out of grace with Sleep the Seemer;
She hath no crown of poppies for his head.
And he whose feet the paths of vision tread
Was ever out of grace with Sleep the Seemer;
She hath no crown of poppies for his head.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |