 | The ghost's entry and other poems |  |
105
MISCELLANEOUS
THE YELLOW LEAF IN THE POET'S BOOK
I
‘Whisper, Yellow Leaf, to me
Thy forgotten history.’
Thy forgotten history.’
‘One far Spring-time, green and young,
On a sunny bough we hung.
On a sunny bough we hung.
‘Blithest of green leaves were we,
Fluttering glad on the green tree.
Fluttering glad on the green tree.
‘Merrily fairy moonbeams played,
Dancing through our dancing shade.
Dancing through our dancing shade.
‘Decked with Morn's gay jewellery,
Full of singing birds were we.
Full of singing birds were we.
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‘Through the May and through the June
We danced every light wind's tune.
We danced every light wind's tune.
‘Ask not where my kin are flown—
I am old and here alone.
I am old and here alone.
‘Their far Summer-time was brief:—
I am here, a Yellow Leaf.
I am here, a Yellow Leaf.
‘Sunbeams grew chill and winds grew wild—
Kiss the Summer's orphan child!’
Kiss the Summer's orphan child!’
II
‘Whisper, Yellow Leaf, to me
Why the Poet treasures thee.’
Why the Poet treasures thee.’
‘That far Spring, when I was young,
In our shade a maiden sung.
In our shade a maiden sung.
‘And his life, a blossoming tree,
Danced with leaves as glad as we.
Danced with leaves as glad as we.
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‘But those happy leaves at last
Fluttered, falling, to the Past.
Fluttered, falling, to the Past.
‘See his song along with me,
Yellow Leaf of Memory.
Yellow Leaf of Memory.
‘Bookmarks of his life we lie,
Brother-leaves, the song and I.
Brother-leaves, the song and I.
‘Song and leaf, from that far Spring
Dreams of joy and woe we bring.
Dreams of joy and woe we bring.
‘Let the Poet's song be sung—
I again am green and young;
I again am green and young;
‘Look, the maiden sings below!—
Sun-leafed shadows wreathe her brow.
Sun-leafed shadows wreathe her brow.
‘Summer-time and Love were brief—
Love the Poet's Yellow Leaf!’
Love the Poet's Yellow Leaf!’
108
THE WINDOW-MIRACLE
It blossomed here on the window,
All the long still winter night,
While the earth in moonshine slumbered
With face upturned and bright.
All the long still winter night,
While the earth in moonshine slumbered
With face upturned and bright.
It blossomed here on the window,
The phantom-summer of Frost,
With trees and flowers and foliage—
All loveliness that is lost.
The phantom-summer of Frost,
With trees and flowers and foliage—
All loveliness that is lost.
The children, awakened at dawning,
Stand gazing with hushed delight;
They see, with sight beyond seeing,
This miracle of the Night!
Stand gazing with hushed delight;
They see, with sight beyond seeing,
This miracle of the Night!
109
THE MINER'S BETROTHAL
I
The miner kissed his maiden bride. ‘Upon St. Lucia's Day,
Their blessing on our lives, fast-bound, the priestly palms shall lay;
Then we will build our summer nest in sunny trees together,
Where Peace and Love, like mated birds, shall make their happy weather.’
Their blessing on our lives, fast-bound, the priestly palms shall lay;
Then we will build our summer nest in sunny trees together,
Where Peace and Love, like mated birds, shall make their happy weather.’
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Yesterday came the Sabbath, when,—oh, brightly everywhere!—
The Earth was wreathed divinely with the heavenly halo-air;
And in the village-chapel, for the second time proclaimed,
The holy banns were spoken, and the wedding-day was named.
The Earth was wreathed divinely with the heavenly halo-air;
And in the village-chapel, for the second time proclaimed,
The holy banns were spoken, and the wedding-day was named.
‘Good-morning,’ at her window now he greets her, going by
Down to the midnight mine all day—her smile 's her bright reply:
‘Good-morning,’ in his heart it beats, while light of foot and fast
From her sweet sight he vanished ... far away into the Past!
Down to the midnight mine all day—her smile 's her bright reply:
‘Good-morning,’ in his heart it beats, while light of foot and fast
From her sweet sight he vanished ... far away into the Past!
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II
Glad-hearted plays her needle, and her work is made of song;
Fancies, at loving work for Love, lighten slow Time along.
Slowly the morning dies, and slow the evening hours depart,
And in her cheek the roses climb—their fragrance fills her heart.
Fancies, at loving work for Love, lighten slow Time along.
Slowly the morning dies, and slow the evening hours depart,
And in her cheek the roses climb—their fragrance fills her heart.
III
Fifty long years of happy Junes and dreary, cold Decembers!
Fifty long years of smiles and tears—bright firesides, dying embers!
Fifty long years, on what strange shores have crawled their broken waves!—
How far away their echoes dead drop down in Memory's caves!
Fifty long years of smiles and tears—bright firesides, dying embers!
Fifty long years, on what strange shores have crawled their broken waves!—
How far away their echoes dead drop down in Memory's caves!
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Old crowns from dust gleam, buried, and old sceptres are forgot;
Old prisons, earthquake-shaken low—their woes remembered not;
Grey, giant slumberers have awaked with blindness in their eyes;
The West has rounded toward the East more manly destinies.
Old prisons, earthquake-shaken low—their woes remembered not;
Grey, giant slumberers have awaked with blindness in their eyes;
The West has rounded toward the East more manly destinies.
IV
Some miners toil within a mine, one morning bright and fair,
In olden excavations deep below that morning air;
When lo! a dreamer lying there asleep in youth divine;—
And with his dream about him, now they bring him from the mine!
In olden excavations deep below that morning air;
When lo! a dreamer lying there asleep in youth divine;—
And with his dream about him, now they bring him from the mine!
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No one remembers, seeing him. None knows him. Who is he?—
Lying in his long trance alone, a man of mystery?
Full of the love-dream long ago, he seems a dreamer now:
Yesterday's kiss is in his heart, this morning's on his brow!
Lying in his long trance alone, a man of mystery?
Full of the love-dream long ago, he seems a dreamer now:
Yesterday's kiss is in his heart, this morning's on his brow!
They are all gone, they are all gone, the close familiar faces;
Old footsteps falter far away, old echoes lose their places;
No father, no mother, no brother steals among that crowd to see
And find his lost face in their hearts, a buried memory.
Old footsteps falter far away, old echoes lose their places;
No father, no mother, no brother steals among that crowd to see
And find his lost face in their hearts, a buried memory.
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But who is she that comes, her hands long weary with their part? ...
From the old coffin of her love he wakens in her heart!
Love, only sleeping there like him, leaps up as quick and young,
As when the dews of the far days to Maying roses clung.
From the old coffin of her love he wakens in her heart!
Love, only sleeping there like him, leaps up as quick and young,
As when the dews of the far days to Maying roses clung.
Her eyes unblinded by the years of patient-waiting pain,
She claims him for her own, long-lost; she clasps him back again:
To a true heart she clasps him back; her wrinkled features trace
Life's paths of sorrow fifty years—Death has not seen his face!
She claims him for her own, long-lost; she clasps him back again:
To a true heart she clasps him back; her wrinkled features trace
Life's paths of sorrow fifty years—Death has not seen his face!
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‘Good-morning,’ long ago he said; he comes to say ‘Good-even.’
Love that has lived so long on earth has moulted wings for heaven.
A few more days, the appointed time, the blessing One shall say;
She knows her fixed betrothal, and she waits the wedding-day.
Love that has lived so long on earth has moulted wings for heaven.
A few more days, the appointed time, the blessing One shall say;
She knows her fixed betrothal, and she waits the wedding-day.
The story is told of a young miner, somewhere in the North of Europe, whose body was found, fifty years after his death by the falling-in of a mine, preserved life-like by some chemical property in the earth, and was recognised only by the faithful woman, grown old and withered, to whom he had been betrothed.
121
‘CLOSED IN MY POET'S BOOK, I SEE’
Closed in my poet's book, I seeThe flowers your sweet hand gave to me.
All lovely things are there, I deem,
That haunt the poet's waking dream,
Whose gentle company they keep
All night, all day—awake, asleep;
Yet, pity them, they scarce can rest
(Ah, first you wore them on your breast!)
But, wistful, evermore they look,
Whene'er I ope their prisoning book,
And, cheated, take—a moment's space—
Their gaoler's for their angel's face;
Then, sere and and withering, only miss
The resurrection of your kiss.
122
HOME-BELLS IN THE DESERT
FROM AN INCIDENT DESCRIBED IN KINGLAKE'S ‘EOTHEN.’
Sweet Sabbath morn! The summer breeze
With English sunshine fills the trees
About the church-tower old,
Whose bells o'erflow the vale and steal
Through green, deep lanes, with gentle peal,
To many a home's dear fold. ...
With English sunshine fills the trees
About the church-tower old,
Whose bells o'erflow the vale and steal
Through green, deep lanes, with gentle peal,
To many a home's dear fold. ...
Through the dead sand, the boundless glare,
The blinding silence everywhere,
(He veiled from that fierce flame,)
They reached a wanderer's dream; awake,
Those bells the awe-filled silence break—
He hears them yet the same!
The blinding silence everywhere,
(He veiled from that fierce flame,)
They reached a wanderer's dream; awake,
Those bells the awe-filled silence break—
He hears them yet the same!
123
Enchantment! May a mother's prayer
Have breathed these wondrous travellers there—
Far chimes of mother-land—
To call her wanderer's worship home?
Oh, softly clear and close they come,
With Sabbath, o'er the sand!
Have breathed these wondrous travellers there—
Far chimes of mother-land—
To call her wanderer's worship home?
Oh, softly clear and close they come,
With Sabbath, o'er the sand!
Or may some flying dream have sent
Through Memory's passive instrument
A breath those chimes to start,
That, vibrant in the sunshine still,
The desert air with music fill,
And echo in his heart?
Through Memory's passive instrument
A breath those chimes to start,
That, vibrant in the sunshine still,
The desert air with music fill,
And echo in his heart?
He knows not, but, dream-like, he sees
That church-tower old, its clustered trees,
In far familiar air:—
'Tis Sabbath morn in mother-land:
Those home-bells make, through the hot sand,
Their gentle visit there!
That church-tower old, its clustered trees,
In far familiar air:—
'Tis Sabbath morn in mother-land:
Those home-bells make, through the hot sand,
Their gentle visit there!
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What blissful vision he perceives!—
Through sunny liftings of the leaves,
White gleams and faces known:
Dear church-paths old: and one glad door
Opens—its rose's fragrance o'er
The desert's breath has blown!
Through sunny liftings of the leaves,
White gleams and faces known:
Dear church-paths old: and one glad door
Opens—its rose's fragrance o'er
The desert's breath has blown!
129
THE DAYS OF THE WEEK
Daughters of God, sweet Days, ye well beseem!Bright are your feet on the high morning shore,
And, going back to Heaven forevermore
Through golden gates of twilight hush and dream,
Your footsteps in the dews of evening shine.
A radiant garland round the burning throne,
Guarded by holy wings—a heavenly zone—
Fair are ye all, bearing the Light Divine.
Yet fairest is she, the youngest of your name,
In her pure garment of translucent white,
And wearing on her head the halo-light
Brightening till all things near her wear the same:
For, though God loves ye all, when ye are blessed
His Hand lies on thy brow, glad Day of Rest!
130
A CHILD'S FACE
A PHOTOGRAPH
It is the picture of a little child:In the great Babel's roar—he hears it not:
In the great Babel's press—he sees it not.
His mother stoops beside him, and her arm
Caresses him in silence, near her heart. ...
—Sometime an old man shall be gazing at thee,
Sweet Wonder of the world and Wonderer sweet!
And, while his dim blue eyes are fixed on thine,
Like a tired pilgrim at the close of day
Who finds some pillow Nature smoothed for him
Of wayside moss and sinks to happy rest,
Unconsciously a dream, shall pass to thee—
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Then, looking up to find that mother's face,
He shall be grey, the pilgrim weighed with years,
Weary with the long harvest of the world. ...
'Tis but a dream wherein the child grows old:
'Tis but a dream makes the old man a child.
132
FROM THE WINDOW OF A GREAT LIBRARY
‘The dead alive and busy’—
HENRY VAUGHAN
HENRY VAUGHAN
Without, wind-lifted, look, a little rose,
(From the great Summer's heart its life-blood flows,)
For some fond spirit to reach and kiss and bless,
Climbs to the casement, brings the lovely wraith
Of the sun's quick-blooded world of joyousness
Into this still world of enchanted breath!
And, far away, behold the dust arise
From streets white-hot into the sunny skies!
The city murmurs: in the sunshine beats,
Through all its giant veins of throbbing streets,
The heart of Business, on whose sweltering brow
The dew shall sleep to-night—forgotten now.
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There swarm the hiving myriads in the sun:
There all the mighty troubled day is loud
(Business the god whose voice is of the crowd):
And, far above the sea-horizon blue,
Like sea-birds, sails are hovering into view.
There move the living: here the dead that move:
(In the still book-world rests the noiseless lever
That moves the noisy throngèd world forever:)
Below the living move: the dead, above.
142
A LOST KINGDOM OF GODS
A FRAGMENT
The vast Olympian Heaven vanishesLike the frail wreck of clouds that travel slow
After a thunder-storm, when eastward far
They sink, forever fainter, lower, down
In evening dusk among dark mountain peaks,
With vague unpurposed thunders, nerveless bolts
Of dull forgetful lightnings; and its King,
Who made an earthquake if he bent his brows,
Goes with his kind in half-forgotten dreams,
Such as we dream, and, waking, find are naught,
But feel their nothing breathe in all the air.
143
TO THE MONTH OF MARCH
WRITTEN ON MY BIRTHDAY
My life's first light thine own did bring,
(Have I not shown myself thy child?)
Month of the blue-bird, nurse of Spring—
Fierce, stormy, gay, capricious, mild!
(Have I not shown myself thy child?)
Month of the blue-bird, nurse of Spring—
Fierce, stormy, gay, capricious, mild!
When thou didst come and bear me, lo!
The lion came in, untamed and strong;
My earliest footprint was in snow;
Cold winds sang my first nursery song.
The lion came in, untamed and strong;
My earliest footprint was in snow;
Cold winds sang my first nursery song.
The lion, come in, goes out the lamb:—
So may I, Mother, when life is past,
In green Spring pastures, sweet and calm,
With thy soft going, go at last.
So may I, Mother, when life is past,
In green Spring pastures, sweet and calm,
With thy soft going, go at last.
144
A DREAM OF CHURCH-WINDOWS
Reddening the woodlands dumb and hoary,
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Lo, at sunset breathes a sudden glory—
Breaks a fire on all the Western panes!
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Lo, at sunset breathes a sudden glory—
Breaks a fire on all the Western panes!
Eastward far I see the restless splendour
Shine through many a window-lattice bright;
Nearer all the farmhouse gables render
Flame for flame, and shiver in breathless light.
Shine through many a window-lattice bright;
Nearer all the farmhouse gables render
Flame for flame, and shiver in breathless light.
Many a mansion, many a cottage lowly,
Lost in radiance, palpitates the same
At the touch of beauty, strange and holy,
All transfigured in the evening flame.
Lost in radiance, palpitates the same
At the touch of beauty, strange and holy,
All transfigured in the evening flame.
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Flutters everything with mystic being,
Rarer life than ever breathed before;
By the alchemy of clearer seeing,
Golden lie the shadows—dark no more. ...
Rarer life than ever breathed before;
By the alchemy of clearer seeing,
Golden lie the shadows—dark no more. ...
Far away beyond the Eastern ocean,
Dreaming here at sunset I behold,
With a restless palpitating motion,
Great cathedral windows burn with gold:
Dreaming here at sunset I behold,
With a restless palpitating motion,
Great cathedral windows burn with gold:
High cathedral windows hushed in glory,
Where the gorgeous priest of Time is Art,—
Blazoned miracles of marvellous story,
Deep in many an olden city's heart.
Where the gorgeous priest of Time is Art,—
Blazoned miracles of marvellous story,
Deep in many an olden city's heart.
And I dream that in their inner splendour
Saints and martyrs shine in ancient fire,
While above, in twilight dusk and tender,
Angels whiten with divine desire.
Saints and martyrs shine in ancient fire,
While above, in twilight dusk and tender,
Angels whiten with divine desire.
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All the air is peopled with a vision:
Seraphs breathe their breath of music there;
Men who made their lives a holy mission
Show their souls in marble everywhere.
Seraphs breathe their breath of music there;
Men who made their lives a holy mission
Show their souls in marble everywhere.
But, within, some stranger's heart is haunted
With the faiths of homelier altars bright,
Saints in dearer window-glow enchanted,
Till his face is dark with saddened light.
With the faiths of homelier altars bright,
Saints in dearer window-glow enchanted,
Till his face is dark with saddened light.
And he sees in dream the woodlands hoary,
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Reddened while the level sunset glory
Floats on all the Western window-panes:
Bleak with long November winds and rains,
Reddened while the level sunset glory
Floats on all the Western window-panes:
See, as I do, while the phantom splendid
Of those gorgeous windows passes bright,
And the radiance, which my dream attended,
Slowly fades and falters into night:
Of those gorgeous windows passes bright,
And the radiance, which my dream attended,
Slowly fades and falters into night:
147
While abroad the bare and dumb November
Ghost-like stands amid the crimson haze,
And the glimmering casements scarce remember,
Ghost-like now in gloom, the sunset blaze:—
Ghost-like stands amid the crimson haze,
And the glimmering casements scarce remember,
Ghost-like now in gloom, the sunset blaze:—
Sees a sudden, newer, dearer splendour
Issue from a thousand windows warm,
Where the children crowd with faces tender,
Guarded by the fireside's sacred charm. ...
Issue from a thousand windows warm,
Where the children crowd with faces tender,
Guarded by the fireside's sacred charm. ...
Shut without the twilight's dusk reflection,
With the ghosts that walk the Autumnal night,—
Wife and mother, with divine affection,
Stand within the Western window-light.
With the ghosts that walk the Autumnal night,—
Wife and mother, with divine affection,
Stand within the Western window-light.
148
A DYING YEAR
As when upon some mighty battle-plainThe King has fallen and all his army knows
One common thrill goes through the myriad heart
For there he lies, breathing last breaths away,
So dear, so dear to all, he seems to lean
His sunken head on every soldier's breast:
So the Year dies; so, dying, seems to leave
His fallen head upon the heart of all.
149
THE FISHERMAN'S LIGHTHOUSE
A picture in my mind I keep,
While all without is shiver of rain;—
Warm firelit shapes, forgotten, creep
Away, and shadows fill my brain.
While all without is shiver of rain;—
Warm firelit shapes, forgotten, creep
Away, and shadows fill my brain.
I see a chill and desolate bay,
That glimmers into a lonely wood,
Till, darkling more and more away,
It glooms an empty solitude.
That glimmers into a lonely wood,
Till, darkling more and more away,
It glooms an empty solitude.
No cheerful sound afar to hear,
No cheerful sight afar to see;—
The stars are shut in heavens drear,
The darkness holds the world and me.
No cheerful sight afar to see;—
The stars are shut in heavens drear,
The darkness holds the world and me.
150
Yet, hark!—I hear a quickening oar,
The burden of a happy song,
That echo keeps along the shore
In faint-repeating chorus long.
The burden of a happy song,
That echo keeps along the shore
In faint-repeating chorus long.
And whither moves he through the night,
The rower of my twilight dream?—
A compass in his heart is bright,
And all his pathway is a gleam!
The rower of my twilight dream?—
A compass in his heart is bright,
And all his pathway is a gleam!
No lighthouse leaning from the rock,
To tell the sea-tossed mariner
Where breakers, fiercely-gathering, shock
A fiery-speaking messenger!
To tell the sea-tossed mariner
Where breakers, fiercely-gathering, shock
A fiery-speaking messenger!
But see, o'er water lighted far,
One steadfast line of splendour come!—
Is it in heaven the evening star?
The fisher knows his light at home!
One steadfast line of splendour come!—
Is it in heaven the evening star?
The fisher knows his light at home!
151
And which is brighter—that which glows
His evening star of faith and rest,
Or that which, sudden-kindled, goes
To meet it from his eager breast?
His evening star of faith and rest,
Or that which, sudden-kindled, goes
To meet it from his eager breast?
152
TWO MOODS OF OCTOBER
A hermit in the woodland (lo,
An empty nest in withered hands!)
Who counts, bead-like, the leaves that fall,
Sometimes October stands;
An empty nest in withered hands!)
Who counts, bead-like, the leaves that fall,
Sometimes October stands;
Sometimes, a joyous harvester
In sun-browned fields of blowing grain,
He laughs and shouts with children blithe,
Who laugh and shout again!
In sun-browned fields of blowing grain,
He laughs and shouts with children blithe,
Who laugh and shout again!
156
MISTRESS OF THE RING
INSCRIBED TO A BRIDE
Ah, little ring of gold!—all one,
Two lives are in its tender power;
Two morning paths together flower,
Two hearts beat toward the westering sun. ...
Two lives are in its tender power;
Two morning paths together flower,
Two hearts beat toward the westering sun. ...
On the sweet band was laid a charm:
Whoe'er its golden orb should wear,
Her years unblighted May should bear,
With Love to guard her close and warm.
Whoe'er its golden orb should wear,
Her years unblighted May should bear,
With Love to guard her close and warm.
The spell-wrought bond should fold within
That circle of the enchanter's might
All gentle spirits of joy and light—
The dawn-touched Eden pure of sin.
That circle of the enchanter's might
All gentle spirits of joy and light—
The dawn-touched Eden pure of sin.
157
Clasped in its sacred round should glow
The gracious atmosphere of Home,
Whose angels each from Heaven should come
And, vanishing, to Heaven should go.
The gracious atmosphere of Home,
Whose angels each from Heaven should come
And, vanishing, to Heaven should go.
Held safe in that enchanted air,
How fair to her and how serene
The storm-dark world should still be seen
Beneath the rainbow lighted there!
How fair to her and how serene
The storm-dark world should still be seen
Beneath the rainbow lighted there!
All fortunes should by her be won:—
Their myrtle and cypress deathless friends,
Years, many as Heaven for blessing sends,
Bright as to earth Heaven gives the sun.
Their myrtle and cypress deathless friends,
Years, many as Heaven for blessing sends,
Bright as to earth Heaven gives the sun.
This was the precious spell. Behold
(So may its working follow true),
I set its charm in words for you—
See on your hand that spell-bound gold!
(So may its working follow true),
I set its charm in words for you—
See on your hand that spell-bound gold!
159
A CANDLE'S LIGHT
ON THE STUDENT'S LIBRARY TABLE
O humble and yet bright!
Making thy sacrifice so noiselessly,—
Burning thy lovely life away, to light
Diviner light for me!
Making thy sacrifice so noiselessly,—
Burning thy lovely life away, to light
Diviner light for me!
In my hushed room around,
In thy wise circle, come the Great and Good:
Masters of men yet servants, without sound
They visit my solitude.
In thy wise circle, come the Great and Good:
Masters of men yet servants, without sound
They visit my solitude.
Holy and high they shine,
Rapt faces, charming me with courage on
To follow steadfast on some path divine
Through darkness into dawn.
Rapt faces, charming me with courage on
To follow steadfast on some path divine
Through darkness into dawn.
160
The scholar's lonely sun,
Thou risest for him, when all the world repose,
O'er golden fields of thought, where, fortunate one
He reaps even while he sows! ...
Thou risest for him, when all the world repose,
O'er golden fields of thought, where, fortunate one
He reaps even while he sows! ...
Within my soul, deep down,
I read a lesson by thy sinking flame:
To wear a humble purpose like a crown
With no regard of fame:
I read a lesson by thy sinking flame:
To wear a humble purpose like a crown
With no regard of fame:
Like frankincense to burn
Unnoted life that man may see to read
Diviner words—though asking no return,
A candle for his need!
Unnoted life that man may see to read
Diviner words—though asking no return,
A candle for his need!
161
THE RING OF FASTRADA
The little ring your hand doth show
Is the same ring Fastrada wore,
Wife of the Great Charles, long ago—
Whose charm could bind him evermore.
Is the same ring Fastrada wore,
Wife of the Great Charles, long ago—
Whose charm could bind him evermore.
O dearest, gentlest, sweetest, best!
Whose eyes of starry tenderness
So many happy years have blessed,
So many more I pray shall bless:
Whose eyes of starry tenderness
So many happy years have blessed,
So many more I pray shall bless:
The world-old Magic-Master brought
You the same ring—if not the same,
The self-same charm in this he wrought
Which gave to that romantic fame.
You the same ring—if not the same,
The self-same charm in this he wrought
Which gave to that romantic fame.
163
TO NIGHT, THE HEALER
Soon as the battle's roar sinks low,
Thy ministers with tender arms
Into the hushing battle steal,
With balms and loving charms.
Thy ministers with tender arms
Into the hushing battle steal,
With balms and loving charms.
The wounded, lying in their pain,
(The dying, soon their wounds are healed!)
They give the enchanted cup, and bear
Far from the fevered field:
(The dying, soon their wounds are healed!)
They give the enchanted cup, and bear
Far from the fevered field:
Where rise the souls of brook and bird,
Where roses clamber to their dreams
From gardens of forgotten dew
In far auroral gleams.
Where roses clamber to their dreams
From gardens of forgotten dew
In far auroral gleams.
164
Thy spirits o'er their couches still
Wear shapes and features treasured fast;
The angels of the Present seem
The angels of the Past!
Wear shapes and features treasured fast;
The angels of the Present seem
The angels of the Past!
The morning finds them on the ground,
They waken in the eager field. ...
They were not wounded! Look, again
They grasp the sword and shield!
They waken in the eager field. ...
They were not wounded! Look, again
They grasp the sword and shield!
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THE COMING-FORTH OF STARS
AT MIDSUMMER EVENING
Hark, out of all the neighbouring forest humThe mingled voices of a myriad things,
A sound that half is silence listening)—
Birds, insects loud with summer, brooks that creep,
How through the dark and flutter into the light,
As if with prisoned wings,) then hurry on;
And the light, lazy turning evermore
Of restless leaves unnumbered, half-asleep
And yet unsleeping. These, while twilight draws
Great dewy veils in silence over all,
Breathe my old indolence a newer spell,
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Winking above a western cloud, the star
Beloved by lovers—hers the lover's friend,—
And, underneath the boughs and far and near,
The fireflies climbing into dusky air,
Lifting their million stars from grass and weed
Wet with the dew; meanwhile, the stars on high
Start, one by one—from cells invisible,—
Visible in the darkness suddenly,
Contemporaries of the dreamy hour.
Oh, dear to me the coming-forth of stars!
After the trivial tumults of the day
They fill the heaven, they hush the earth with awe
And, when my life is fretted overmuch
With transient nothings, it is good, I deem,
From darkling windows to look forth and gaze
At this new blossoming of Eternity
'Twixt each to-morrow and each dead to-day;
Or else, with solemn footsteps modulate
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Their radiant individualities,
And feel their presence newly; hear again
The silence that is God's voice speaking, slow
In starry syllables, forevermore.
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HIS DREAM OF HER
IN ABSENCE
Was it a blissful dream I dreamed,
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief?
She came—oh, was she here or seemed?—
A gentle vision brief:
And, like a rose-tree over me,
She kissed, she clasped me tenderly.
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief?
She came—oh, was she here or seemed?—
A gentle vision brief:
And, like a rose-tree over me,
She kissed, she clasped me tenderly.
Was it a blissful dream I dreamed,
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief?
She came—oh, was she here or seemed?—
A happy vision brief:
And bent, caressing and caressed,
A moment's heaven upon my breast.
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief?
She came—oh, was she here or seemed?—
A happy vision brief:
And bent, caressing and caressed,
A moment's heaven upon my breast.
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It was a blissful dream I dreamed,
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief:
She came—she was not here but seemed—
A flying vision brief.
O soft and vanished dream—despair
Of solitude and empty air!
Or Fancy's sleepless make-belief:
She came—she was not here but seemed—
A flying vision brief.
O soft and vanished dream—despair
Of solitude and empty air!
171
IN FAIR AND FOUL WEATHER
Ah the Beautiful Weather!—within it is done
Whatever shall open a door for the sun:
The deeds of the heroes whose heraldry lies
In the hearts whose warm prayers write them—up in the skies.
What good gifts are given, what kind words are spoken
When the blue, through the cloud, of Fair Weather gives token! ...
Whatever shall open a door for the sun:
The deeds of the heroes whose heraldry lies
In the hearts whose warm prayers write them—up in the skies.
What good gifts are given, what kind words are spoken
When the blue, through the cloud, of Fair Weather gives token! ...
Lo, a black host arises, a gloom closes round,
Like the Pit's darkness visible breathed above ground;—
Fierce homicides, were-wolves, babe-smotherers, (hark,
What sighs, shrieks and groans eddy by in the dark!)
With all doers of deeds without name, all together,
Pell-mell, worthy hell, troop the fiends of Foul Weather!
Like the Pit's darkness visible breathed above ground;—
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What sighs, shrieks and groans eddy by in the dark!)
With all doers of deeds without name, all together,
Pell-mell, worthy hell, troop the fiends of Foul Weather!
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AN ANGEL WITH A BROOM
IN THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL
A Dutch Picture
Asleep, I had a dream:Awake, as it did seem,—
While the gold-breathing dawn
Lit dewy lane and lawn
Without, and on my wall,
Within, rose-light did fall,—
I saw there in my room
An Angel with a Broom.
Careful, from side to side,
Her gentle task she plied;
Motes, risen as slant rays streamed,
A mist of cherubs seemed:
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That Sweeper of my floor.
—Then I awoke in sooth
To know the happy truth
How Love, with holy Duty,
Gives Use its heavenly beauty.
I saw within my room
An Angel with a Broom:
‘Pray, what is it you do?’
‘I keep this House for you.’
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