The Poetical Works of John Payne Definitive Edition in Two Volumes |
 |
| I. |
|
|
| I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
MAY MEMORIES. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
MAY MEMORIES.
THE Spring was very glad upon the hills;
The sweet pale wind-flowers waited in the grass;
And the white lilies, in the river's glass,
Floated and fell, with the delight that fills
The May-time. So I stood upon the sills
Of Faërie (for such to me the wood
And all the glamours folded in its flood
Of greenery were) thinking the joy, that kills
March-sadness in the flowers, might make me whole.
But, as I went, the crocus-flames did borrow
White lights and sad, as sombre as my soul:
Ah me! (the linnet sang) sweet love, sweet sorrow!
A golden evening and a sad to-morrow!
Spring could not hold from mocking at my dole.
The sweet pale wind-flowers waited in the grass;
And the white lilies, in the river's glass,
Floated and fell, with the delight that fills
The May-time. So I stood upon the sills
Of Faërie (for such to me the wood
And all the glamours folded in its flood
Of greenery were) thinking the joy, that kills
March-sadness in the flowers, might make me whole.
But, as I went, the crocus-flames did borrow
White lights and sad, as sombre as my soul:
Ah me! (the linnet sang) sweet love, sweet sorrow!
A golden evening and a sad to-morrow!
Spring could not hold from mocking at my dole.
Life unfulfilled! The windy scents tha shook
The pink-blown glory of the apple-trees,
The surge of song that hung upon the breeze,
The pale eyes of the primrose-stars, that took
Faint heart to peer into the painted book
Flower-writ by Spring upon the wide-waved leas;
These all made moan to me of my unease:
And as I pulled the cresses in the brook,
The thin slow water lapsed against my hand,
With some faint cadence of blithe murmuring
Broken to sadness. Over all the land,
As I drew near, the linnets ceased their song,
Saying (meseemed), “What wight goes thus in Spring,
Songless and sad, the dreamy day along?”
The pink-blown glory of the apple-trees,
The surge of song that hung upon the breeze,
The pale eyes of the primrose-stars, that took
Faint heart to peer into the painted book
Flower-writ by Spring upon the wide-waved leas;
These all made moan to me of my unease:
And as I pulled the cresses in the brook,
170
With some faint cadence of blithe murmuring
Broken to sadness. Over all the land,
As I drew near, the linnets ceased their song,
Saying (meseemed), “What wight goes thus in Spring,
Songless and sad, the dreamy day along?”
My feet turned back into the well-worn ways,
Hollowed between the tree-marge and the rill;
And as I went, old memories did fill
My soul with longing for the bygone days.
The lush scents from the grey-pearled hawthorn maze,
The birds' and breezes' babble and the stream's
Brought back to me the songs I made in dreams,
In the old days long dead; the bright sweet lays,
Hymning high valour in the world's despite;
The long untroubled lapses of swift song,
Brimming with ecstasy the luminous night,
As a thrush, piping, fills it; sweet and strong
And pure as ripples of the fresh sun's light,
Falling the glad wide ways and aisles along.
Hollowed between the tree-marge and the rill;
And as I went, old memories did fill
My soul with longing for the bygone days.
The lush scents from the grey-pearled hawthorn maze,
The birds' and breezes' babble and the stream's
Brought back to me the songs I made in dreams,
In the old days long dead; the bright sweet lays,
Hymning high valour in the world's despite;
The long untroubled lapses of swift song,
Brimming with ecstasy the luminous night,
As a thrush, piping, fills it; sweet and strong
And pure as ripples of the fresh sun's light,
Falling the glad wide ways and aisles along.
There walked for me along the flower-hung glades
The shadowy figures of the world of song
Of my pure youth, a white and rosy throng
Of fair tall queens and lily-drooping maids,
Shadowing pink cheeks with hyacinthine braids
And feathered gold of many-glancing locks.
The mailed knights clash'd together in the shocks
Of clamorous war and through the spangled shades,
The mystic echoes of old questing went.
There was no thing in all that dream untold
For me, upon the woods with hawthorn sprent,
Of the old life; and in the primrose-gold,
The new came back to me with dreariment,
In memories of the love that long lies cold.
The shadowy figures of the world of song
Of my pure youth, a white and rosy throng
Of fair tall queens and lily-drooping maids,
Shadowing pink cheeks with hyacinthine braids
And feathered gold of many-glancing locks.
The mailed knights clash'd together in the shocks
Of clamorous war and through the spangled shades,
The mystic echoes of old questing went.
There was no thing in all that dream untold
For me, upon the woods with hawthorn sprent,
Of the old life; and in the primrose-gold,
The new came back to me with dreariment,
In memories of the love that long lies cold.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |