 | The Comrades |  |
20
The Woodwele
I hear you in the orchard hid in clouds of apple-flower,
I hear you tapping, tapping, busy Woodwele, in my tree;
My heart is glad to hear you in this golden morning hour,
Your tapping is—you cannot know how sweet a sound to me.
The old man hears you, and he lifts his head as white as snow,
And dreams he is the passionate heart of fifty years ago
I hear you tapping, tapping, busy Woodwele, in my tree;
My heart is glad to hear you in this golden morning hour,
Your tapping is—you cannot know how sweet a sound to me.
The old man hears you, and he lifts his head as white as snow,
And dreams he is the passionate heart of fifty years ago
21
The glad church bells were ringing then as they are ringing now;
The orchard was in bloom, and there was Sunday in the air;
My dear love's face was sweeter than the blossom on the bough—
'Twas bluest May-time in her eyelids and her golden hair!
We leaned together, lips to lips; we heard, but could not see,
A Woodwele—'twas not you, friend—tapping in that apple tree!
The orchard was in bloom, and there was Sunday in the air;
My dear love's face was sweeter than the blossom on the bough—
'Twas bluest May-time in her eyelids and her golden hair!
We leaned together, lips to lips; we heard, but could not see,
A Woodwele—'twas not you, friend—tapping in that apple tree!
Although 'twas Sunday, still, I thought, no Sabbath-breaker he;
And though to-day is Sunday too, no Sabbath-breaker you;
You cannot break, but you can make, a holy day for me:
Your tapping crowds my trees with bloom, and fills my skies with blue.
I hear you, and my cheek is flushed; my button-hole is gay;
I stride erect—what need have I of any staff to-day?
And though to-day is Sunday too, no Sabbath-breaker you;
You cannot break, but you can make, a holy day for me:
Your tapping crowds my trees with bloom, and fills my skies with blue.
I hear you, and my cheek is flushed; my button-hole is gay;
I stride erect—what need have I of any staff to-day?
22
Oh, Woodwele, with the laughing note, I feel my heart beat fast,
My eyes are dim, my cheek is wet, my head grows white again;
For I remember, in the light of that long-vanished past,
How kindly Life has dealt with me, how hard with better men.
For those church bells, that orchard bloom, that Woodwele in the tree,
And all that plighted happiness have kept their pledge to me!
My eyes are dim, my cheek is wet, my head grows white again;
For I remember, in the light of that long-vanished past,
How kindly Life has dealt with me, how hard with better men.
For those church bells, that orchard bloom, that Woodwele in the tree,
And all that plighted happiness have kept their pledge to me!
My dear love's eyes are faded and her face is wrinkled now,
And all the golden colour changed to silver in her hair;
But when she smiles—ah, then you see the blossom on the bough;
And when she speaks, you feel a sense of May-time in the air!
Through all disguise, my dear old wife, be sure I see and know
The pretty maid who loved a poet fifty years ago.
And all the golden colour changed to silver in her hair;
But when she smiles—ah, then you see the blossom on the bough;
And when she speaks, you feel a sense of May-time in the air!
Through all disguise, my dear old wife, be sure I see and know
The pretty maid who loved a poet fifty years ago.
| The Comrades | |