 | The pink book |  |
50
THE LOST SONG.
“O Shepherd, wherefore singest thou?”
The white mists crept down the valley,
The red dawn burned and brake into day,
As he carolled away in the mountains.
The white mists crept down the valley,
The red dawn burned and brake into day,
As he carolled away in the mountains.
“Ah! said the crone, “he is happy,
That singer there in the mists,
Hearken now to his music,—
Wild and sweet as the mirth of the tossing lark!
Dear heart! it might have been April,
Lilting some catch of gladness
Wherewith to quicken the world.
That singer there in the mists,
Hearken now to his music,—
Wild and sweet as the mirth of the tossing lark!
Dear heart! it might have been April,
Lilting some catch of gladness
Wherewith to quicken the world.
Long echoed the magical notes, long and clearly;
But they died away, ere the mists were done,
Into the summer silence;
And all the wide, blue valley
Slept in bloom and in noontide.
But they died away, ere the mists were done,
Into the summer silence;
51
Slept in bloom and in noontide.
“Hush!” she said, “he has finished,
He grows tired even of singing;
Ay, well! it is only mortal
To weary of things immortal:
Yet he cannot rest long—yonder singer;
He is young, and his life is pleasant;
Age hath no heart to make music;
No hope nor faith that should waken
Into sweet sounds. Age is songless;
Youth sings, and cannot help it.”
He grows tired even of singing;
Ay, well! it is only mortal
To weary of things immortal:
Yet he cannot rest long—yonder singer;
He is young, and his life is pleasant;
Age hath no heart to make music;
No hope nor faith that should waken
Into sweet sounds. Age is songless;
Youth sings, and cannot help it.”
She waited, and listened and waited:
Round the bloom, the wild bee murmured,
Three fluted notes came to her from the pine wood,
Across the summer silence;
But the wild singer of the mountains
Sang no more in her hearing,
And the wonder of his singing
Faded through long remembrance,
Till it died and was lost and forgotten.
Round the bloom, the wild bee murmured,
Three fluted notes came to her from the pine wood,
Across the summer silence;
But the wild singer of the mountains
Sang no more in her hearing,
And the wonder of his singing
Faded through long remembrance,
Till it died and was lost and forgotten.
52
There were dawns and golden lapses of day;
Wild wonderful sunsets, glorified nights,
Haunted of dreams and quiet, and the moon,
There were storms, long rains and lightnings,
Swift floods and starless mirk,
And the roar and white of the winter.
Wild wonderful sunsets, glorified nights,
Haunted of dreams and quiet, and the moon,
There were storms, long rains and lightnings,
Swift floods and starless mirk,
And the roar and white of the winter.
One night in the black December,
When the mad north wind howled in the pine woods,
And the valley was blind with snow;
She crouched by a dying fire,
Dreaming she looked down the mists of her years.
And anon she smiled and anon she wept,
At what she saw in her fancies:
And she wept more than she smiled.
When the mad north wind howled in the pine woods,
And the valley was blind with snow;
She crouched by a dying fire,
Dreaming she looked down the mists of her years.
And anon she smiled and anon she wept,
At what she saw in her fancies:
And she wept more than she smiled.
Howled and cried the wind in the pine wood,
The cold snow drifted in at the lintel,
And through the chinks and the crannies
Of her hut on the lonely hillside.
But above the roar of the wind,
Like a far-off sound from a sunnier world,
That song of the mists and the morning
Came suddenly on her ear;
And she went out into the night,
And stood in the storm and listened.
The cold snow drifted in at the lintel,
And through the chinks and the crannies
Of her hut on the lonely hillside.
53
Like a far-off sound from a sunnier world,
That song of the mists and the morning
Came suddenly on her ear;
And she went out into the night,
And stood in the storm and listened.
The dawn flashed over the mountain tops;
The lark shot up in the warm blue sky;
Bloom and summer slept in the valley.
She stepped forth into the dawning,
With a song on her lips and joy in her heart
And the lonely hut on the hill-side,
And the dark merciless winter
Knew her no more, for she travelled
Through the halls of the dawn, beyond them.
The lark shot up in the warm blue sky;
Bloom and summer slept in the valley.
She stepped forth into the dawning,
With a song on her lips and joy in her heart
And the lonely hut on the hill-side,
And the dark merciless winter
Knew her no more, for she travelled
Through the halls of the dawn, beyond them.
| The pink book | |