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 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
73
A GARDEN REVERIE.
I hear the sweeping fitful breeze
This early night in June;
I hear the rustling of the trees
That had no voice at noon.
Clouds brood, and rain will soon come down
To gladden all the panting town
With the cool melody that beats
Upon the busy dusty streets.
This early night in June;
I hear the rustling of the trees
That had no voice at noon.
Clouds brood, and rain will soon come down
To gladden all the panting town
With the cool melody that beats
Upon the busy dusty streets.
But in this space of narrow ground
We call a garden here —
Because less loudly falls the sound
Of traffic on the ear,
Because its faded grass-plot shows
One hawthorn tree, which each May blows,
Whereon the birds in early spring
At sun-dawn and at sun-down sing —
We call a garden here —
Because less loudly falls the sound
Of traffic on the ear,
Because its faded grass-plot shows
One hawthorn tree, which each May blows,
Whereon the birds in early spring
At sun-dawn and at sun-down sing —
I muse alone. A rose-tree twines
About the brown brick wall,
Which strives, when Summer's glory shines,
To gladden at its festival,
Yet lets, upon the path beneath,
Such pale leaves drop as I would wreathe
Around a portrait that to me
Is all my soul's divinity:
About the brown brick wall,
Which strives, when Summer's glory shines,
To gladden at its festival,
Yet lets, upon the path beneath,
Such pale leaves drop as I would wreathe
Around a portrait that to me
Is all my soul's divinity:
A face in nowise proud or grand,
But strange, and sad and fair;
A maiden twining round her hand
A tress of golden hair,
While in her deep pathetic eyes
The light of coming trouble lies,
As on some silent sea and warm
The shadow of a coming storm.
But strange, and sad and fair;
A maiden twining round her hand
A tress of golden hair,
74
The light of coming trouble lies,
As on some silent sea and warm
The shadow of a coming storm.
From those still lips shall no more flow
The tones that, in excess
Of tremulous love, touched more on woe
Than quiet happiness,
When my arms strained her in a grasp
That sought her very soul to clasp;
When my hand pressed that hand most fair, —
I hold now but a tress of hair.
The tones that, in excess
Of tremulous love, touched more on woe
Than quiet happiness,
When my arms strained her in a grasp
That sought her very soul to clasp;
When my hand pressed that hand most fair, —
I hold now but a tress of hair.
How look, this breezy summer night,
The places that we knew
When all the hills were flushed with light
And July seas were blue?
Does the wind eddy through our wood
As through this garden solitude?
Do the same trees their branches toss
The undulating wind across?
The places that we knew
When all the hills were flushed with light
And July seas were blue?
Does the wind eddy through our wood
As through this garden solitude?
Do the same trees their branches toss
The undulating wind across?
What feet tread paths that now no more
Our feet together tread?
How in the twilight looks the shore?
Is still the sea outspread
Beneath the sky, a silent plain
Of silver lights that wax and wane?
What ships go sailing by the strand
Of that fair consecrated land?
Our feet together tread?
How in the twilight looks the shore?
Is still the sea outspread
Beneath the sky, a silent plain
Of silver lights that wax and wane?
What ships go sailing by the strand
Of that fair consecrated land?
Alas! what voice shall now reply?
Not thine, arrested gale,
That 'neath the dark and pregnant sky
Subsidest to a wail.
On dusty city, silent plain,
And on thy village grave the rain
Comes down, while I to night shall jest,
And hide a secret in my breast.
Not thine, arrested gale,
That 'neath the dark and pregnant sky
Subsidest to a wail.
75
And on thy village grave the rain
Comes down, while I to night shall jest,
And hide a secret in my breast.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |