Life and Phantasy by William Allingham: With frontispiece by Sir John E. Millais: A design by Arthur H. Hughes and a song for voice and piano forte |
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 | Life and Phantasy |  |
The Summer's youth is now at prime.
Swiftly a season whirls away.
Two days past, the bladed corn
Whisper'd nothing of harvest-time;
Already a tinge of brown is born
On the barley-spears that lightly sway;
The plumes of purple-seeded grass,
Bowing and bending as you pass,
Our mowers at the break of day
Shall sweep them into swaths of hay.
So the season whirls away.
And every aspect we must learn,
Every changing mood discern;
All sides, over the country speed,
‘She upon her milk-white steed,
And he upon his gray,’ to roam
Gladly, turn more gladly home;
Plan, improve, and see our tenants;
Visit neighbours, for pleasure or penance;
Excellent people some, no doubt,
And the rest will do to talk about.
June, July, and August: next
September comes; and here we stand
To watch those swallows some clear day
In a birdish trouble, half perplex'd,
Bidding adieu their tribe's old way,
Tho' the sunbeam coaxes them yet to stay;
Swinging through the populous air,
Dipping, every bird, in play,
To kiss its flying image there.
And when Autumn's wealthy heavy hand
Paints with brown gold the beechen leaves,
And the wind comes cool, and the latest sheaves,
Quivers fill'd with bounty, rest
On stubble-slope,—then we shall say
Adieu for a time our fading bow'rs,
Pictures within and out-of-doors,
And all the petted greenhouse flow'rs.
But, though your harp remains behind
To keep the piano company,
Your light-strung Sprite of Serenades
Shall watch with us how daylight fades
Where sea and air enhance their dyes
A thousand-fold for lovers' eyes.
And we shall fancy on far-off coast
The chill pavilions of the frost,
And landscapes in a snow-wreath lost.
—You, the well-fended nun like child,
I, the bold youth, left loose and wild,
Join'd together for evermore,
To wander at will by sea and shore,—
Strange and very strange it seems!
More like the shifting world of dreams.
Swiftly a season whirls away.
Two days past, the bladed corn
Whisper'd nothing of harvest-time;
Already a tinge of brown is born
On the barley-spears that lightly sway;
The plumes of purple-seeded grass,
Bowing and bending as you pass,
87
Shall sweep them into swaths of hay.
So the season whirls away.
And every aspect we must learn,
Every changing mood discern;
All sides, over the country speed,
‘She upon her milk-white steed,
And he upon his gray,’ to roam
Gladly, turn more gladly home;
Plan, improve, and see our tenants;
Visit neighbours, for pleasure or penance;
Excellent people some, no doubt,
And the rest will do to talk about.
June, July, and August: next
September comes; and here we stand
To watch those swallows some clear day
In a birdish trouble, half perplex'd,
Bidding adieu their tribe's old way,
Tho' the sunbeam coaxes them yet to stay;
Swinging through the populous air,
Dipping, every bird, in play,
To kiss its flying image there.
And when Autumn's wealthy heavy hand
Paints with brown gold the beechen leaves,
And the wind comes cool, and the latest sheaves,
Quivers fill'd with bounty, rest
On stubble-slope,—then we shall say
Adieu for a time our fading bow'rs,
Pictures within and out-of-doors,
And all the petted greenhouse flow'rs.
But, though your harp remains behind
To keep the piano company,
Your light-strung Sprite of Serenades
Shall watch with us how daylight fades
Where sea and air enhance their dyes
A thousand-fold for lovers' eyes.
And we shall fancy on far-off coast
88
And landscapes in a snow-wreath lost.
—You, the well-fended nun like child,
I, the bold youth, left loose and wild,
Join'd together for evermore,
To wander at will by sea and shore,—
Strange and very strange it seems!
More like the shifting world of dreams.
Choose at will your path, my Queen,
Through this labyrinth of green,
As tho' 'twere life's perplexing scene.
To go in search of your missing book,
You careless girl? one other search?
Wood or garden, which do you say?
'Twere only toil in vain; for, look—
I found it, free of spot or smirch,
On a pillow of wood-sorrel sleeping
Under the Fox's Cliff to-day.
Not so much as your place is lost,
Given to this delicate warden's keeping,—
Jasmin that deserves to stay
Enshrined there henceforth, never toss'd
Like other dying blooms away.
Through this labyrinth of green,
As tho' 'twere life's perplexing scene.
To go in search of your missing book,
You careless girl? one other search?
Wood or garden, which do you say?
'Twere only toil in vain; for, look—
I found it, free of spot or smirch,
On a pillow of wood-sorrel sleeping
Under the Fox's Cliff to-day.
Not so much as your place is lost,
Given to this delicate warden's keeping,—
Jasmin that deserves to stay
Enshrined there henceforth, never toss'd
Like other dying blooms away.
Summer, autumn, winter—yes,
And much will come that we cannot guess;
Every minute brings its chance.
And much will come that we cannot guess;
Every minute brings its chance.
Bend we now a parting glance
Down through the peaceful purity,
The shadow and the mystery,
As old saints look into their grave.
Water-elves may peep at me;
Only my own wife's face I see,
Like sunny light within the wave,
Dearer to me than sunny light.
It rose, and look'd away my night;
Whose phantoms, of desire or dread,
Like fogs and shades and dreams are fled.”
Down through the peaceful purity,
The shadow and the mystery,
As old saints look into their grave.
Water-elves may peep at me;
Only my own wife's face I see,
Like sunny light within the wave,
Dearer to me than sunny light.
It rose, and look'd away my night;
Whose phantoms, of desire or dread,
Like fogs and shades and dreams are fled.”
| Life and Phantasy | |