 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
223
IN LILAC TIME
Through orchards of old apple-trees,
That Spring makes musical with bees;
By garden ways of vines and flowers
Where, twittering sweet, the bird-box towers,
And swallows sun their plumes:
The path leads winding to the gate,—
Hung with its rusty chain and weight,—
That opens on a lilac-walk
Where dreams of love and memories talk,
Born of the dim perfumes.
That Spring makes musical with bees;
By garden ways of vines and flowers
Where, twittering sweet, the bird-box towers,
And swallows sun their plumes:
The path leads winding to the gate,—
Hung with its rusty chain and weight,—
That opens on a lilac-walk
Where dreams of love and memories talk,
Born of the dim perfumes.
The old house stands with porches wide
And locust-trees on either side;
Its windows, kindly as the eyes
Of friendship, smiling at the skies,
Each side its open door:
Beside its steps May-lilies lift
Bell'd sprays of snow in drift on drift;
And in the door, a lily too,
Again she stands, the one he knew
In days that are no more.
And locust-trees on either side;
Its windows, kindly as the eyes
Of friendship, smiling at the skies,
Each side its open door:
Beside its steps May-lilies lift
Bell'd sprays of snow in drift on drift;
And in the door, a lily too,
Again she stands, the one he knew
In days that are no more.
Again he meets her, brown of hair,
Among the clustered lilacs there;
The sun is set; the blue dusk falls;
A nesting bird another calls;
A star leaps in the sky:
Again he breathes the lilac scent
And rose; again her head is bent;
And oh! again, beside the gate,
To see the round moon rise they wait,
Before they kiss good-bye.
Among the clustered lilacs there;
The sun is set; the blue dusk falls;
A nesting bird another calls;
224
Again he breathes the lilac scent
And rose; again her head is bent;
And oh! again, beside the gate,
To see the round moon rise they wait,
Before they kiss good-bye.
Long years have passed: the times, since then,
Have changed: and customs too and men:
But she has never changed to him,
Nor has the house, so old and dim,
Where once they said good-bye;
That place, which Spring keeps ever fair
Through memories of her face and hair—
Unchanged, like some immortal rhyme,
Where evermore't is lilac-time,
And love can never die.
Have changed: and customs too and men:
But she has never changed to him,
Nor has the house, so old and dim,
Where once they said good-bye;
That place, which Spring keeps ever fair
Through memories of her face and hair—
Unchanged, like some immortal rhyme,
Where evermore't is lilac-time,
And love can never die.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |