Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
HAREBELLS
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
129
HAREBELLS
Blue bells, on blue hills, where the sky is blue,
Here's a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you;
Here's a little child would fain, at the vesper time,
Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime.
‘Little hares, little hares,’ softly prayeth she,
‘Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me.’
Here's a little blue-gowned maid come to look at you;
Here's a little child would fain, at the vesper time,
Catch the music of your hearts, hear the harebells chime.
‘Little hares, little hares,’ softly prayeth she,
‘Come, come across the hills, and ring the bells for me.’
When do hares ring the bells, does my lady say?
Is it when the sky is rosed with the coming day?
Is it in the strength of noon, all the earth aglow?
Is it when at eventide sweet dew falleth slow?
Any time the bells may ring, morn, or noon, or even;
Lovebells, joybells, earthbells heard in heaven.
Any time the happy hills may be lightly swept
By the ringers' little feet; any time, except
When, by horse and hound and man chased and frighted sore,
Weak and panting, little hares care to ring no more.
It must be upon the hills where the hunt comes ne'er,
Chimes of bells ring out to greet touch of little hare.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little hares, the joyaunce of the strain.
Is it when the sky is rosed with the coming day?
Is it in the strength of noon, all the earth aglow?
Is it when at eventide sweet dew falleth slow?
Any time the bells may ring, morn, or noon, or even;
Lovebells, joybells, earthbells heard in heaven.
Any time the happy hills may be lightly swept
By the ringers' little feet; any time, except
130
Weak and panting, little hares care to ring no more.
It must be upon the hills where the hunt comes ne'er,
Chimes of bells ring out to greet touch of little hare.
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little hares, the joyaunce of the strain.
Not a hare to ring the bells on the whole hillside?
Could she make the harebells ring, if my darling tried?
Harebells, harebells, a little child blue-gowned
Stands and listens longingly; little hands embrowned
Touch you; rose mouth kisses you: ring out!
Is a little child a thing any flower should flout?
Child's hand on poet's heart makes it bloom in song:
Let her hear your fairy chimes, delicate ding-dong.
Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung:
Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!
Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there,
‘Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!
No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.’
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.
Could she make the harebells ring, if my darling tried?
Harebells, harebells, a little child blue-gowned
Stands and listens longingly; little hands embrowned
Touch you; rose mouth kisses you: ring out!
Is a little child a thing any flower should flout?
Child's hand on poet's heart makes it bloom in song:
Let her hear your fairy chimes, delicate ding-dong.
Let her hear what poet's voice never caught nor sung:
Let a child ring the bells little hares have rung!
Soft she whispers to the flowers, bending o'er them there,
‘Let me ring your bonny bells! I'm a little hare!
No, I'm only a little child, but I love you so!
Let me ring your little bells, just to say, you know.’
Harebells, blue bells, ring, ring again!
Set a-going, little child, the joyaunce of the strain.
131
Oh, the look upon her face for the music heard!
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.
Harebells, joybells, lovebells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.
Is it wind in fairy soughs? Is it far-off bird?
Does the child hear melody grown folk cannot hear?
Is the harebells' music now chiming on her ear?
Father, give this little child, as she goeth on,
Evermore to keep the gift by this music won;
Gift which makes this earth of ours very Paradise
For delight of opened ears, joy of opened eyes.
Harebells, joybells, lovebells, dear and blest,
Ring in the sacredness of her happy breast.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |