 | The new minnesinger and other poems |  |
vii
TO E. C.
My deep need of thy love, its mast'ring power,I scarce can fathom, thou wilt never know;
My lighter passions into rhythm may glow;
This is for ever voiceless. Could the flower
Open its petall'd thought, and praise the dower
Of sunlight, or the fresh gift of the dew,
The bounteous air that daily round it blew,
Blessing unweariedly in sun and shower,
Methinks would miss its praises: so I drink
My life of thee; and put to poet's use
Whatever crosses it of strange or fair.
Thou hast fore-fashioned all I do and think;
And to my seeming it were words' abuse
To boast a wealth of which I am the heir.
1
THE NEW MINNESINGER.
(‘Think of womanhood; and thou to be a woman.’)
O Woman, all too long by thee
Love's praises have been heard;
But thou to swell the minstrelsy
Hast brought no wealth'ning word.
Thou who its sweetest sweet canst tell
Heart-trainèd to the tongue,
Hast listen'd to its music well
But never led the song!
The world, through countless ages roll'd,
Hath given us but in part,
But in tradition faintly told
The love-lore of thine heart.
Long hath the study been pursued,
Nay, ere his brain began
Its toil and tent solicitude,
It was essayed of man.
And all of it that he can con,
With toil and study true,
He hath deep-mus'd and thought upon,
Mislearnt, and learnt anew;
Till losing through confusèd will
The grace, the touch divine,
His own too worldly-busy skill
Hath wrought his art's decline.
Dear, Eden-dated, heavenly art,
Ne'er doom'd of God to fall,
These woman-lips, so slow to part,
Thy glory shall recall!
Love's praises have been heard;
But thou to swell the minstrelsy
Hast brought no wealth'ning word.
Thou who its sweetest sweet canst tell
Heart-trainèd to the tongue,
Hast listen'd to its music well
But never led the song!
2
Hath given us but in part,
But in tradition faintly told
The love-lore of thine heart.
Long hath the study been pursued,
Nay, ere his brain began
Its toil and tent solicitude,
It was essayed of man.
And all of it that he can con,
With toil and study true,
He hath deep-mus'd and thought upon,
Mislearnt, and learnt anew;
Till losing through confusèd will
The grace, the touch divine,
His own too worldly-busy skill
Hath wrought his art's decline.
Dear, Eden-dated, heavenly art,
Ne'er doom'd of God to fall,
These woman-lips, so slow to part,
Thy glory shall recall!
Yes, Woman, she whose life doth lie
In virgin haunts of poesie,—
How have men woven into creeds
The unrecorded life she leads!
What she hath been to them, oh, well
The whole sweet legend they can tell;
But what she to herself may be
They see not, or but dream they see.
Content with what they touch and feel,
As from a violet we steal
Its sweet heart-odour; thinking so
That we its inmost being know;
And never learn what to the flower
Hath been the springtide's op'ning hour;
What winds have whisper'd, what the dew
Hath spoken, how the heaven's blue
Smil'd promise, when the timid thing,
Leaf-folded, dream'd of blossoming.
In virgin haunts of poesie,—
3
The unrecorded life she leads!
What she hath been to them, oh, well
The whole sweet legend they can tell;
But what she to herself may be
They see not, or but dream they see.
Content with what they touch and feel,
As from a violet we steal
Its sweet heart-odour; thinking so
That we its inmost being know;
And never learn what to the flower
Hath been the springtide's op'ning hour;
What winds have whisper'd, what the dew
Hath spoken, how the heaven's blue
Smil'd promise, when the timid thing,
Leaf-folded, dream'd of blossoming.
Yet it were worth our while to know
How fare the flowers before they blow;
To learn the low-breath'd life that's past
In snowy may-blooms, shut so fast.
Mid soothings of soft shaded light,
Warm creeping through the curtain'd white,
What deep security! what calm!
What fragrance of close-petall'd balm!
But slowly do the leaves unfold,
And chang'd the flower when we behold;
As chang'd as maiden in her prime
From that dim, early-growing time
When, happy with herself at play,
Amid warm nestling hopes she lay—
Such blameless hopes! they did not shoot
Like older hopes from sorrow's root;
No sharpen'd blast of outer breath
Brought to their promise blight or death;
But op'ning in the very air
That wooed their buds, they blossom'd fair.
Ah, would she but to us rehearse
Her first girl-life in April verse—
A fairer spring-tide would be ours
Than e'er across the woodland flowers.
How fare the flowers before they blow;
To learn the low-breath'd life that's past
In snowy may-blooms, shut so fast.
Mid soothings of soft shaded light,
Warm creeping through the curtain'd white,
4
What fragrance of close-petall'd balm!
But slowly do the leaves unfold,
And chang'd the flower when we behold;
As chang'd as maiden in her prime
From that dim, early-growing time
When, happy with herself at play,
Amid warm nestling hopes she lay—
Such blameless hopes! they did not shoot
Like older hopes from sorrow's root;
No sharpen'd blast of outer breath
Brought to their promise blight or death;
But op'ning in the very air
That wooed their buds, they blossom'd fair.
Ah, would she but to us rehearse
Her first girl-life in April verse—
A fairer spring-tide would be ours
Than e'er across the woodland flowers.
And those first dreams of dawning told,
While yet the sky is paly gold,
And she half-slumb'ring—will she then
Tell of that spirit-wakening, when
O'er her soft opal heaven is shed
Love's first faint flush of morning red?
Yes, will she to the world disclose,
Not the fair seeming and the shows,
The pretty masks that still she wears,
The wiles, the Eve-descended airs;
But will she ever give us part
Of the deep workings of her heart,
When suddenly she finds before
Its all unheeded, open door
A stranger, clad in pilgrim weeds,
Whose homeless state and simple needs
Ask courtesy and kindly care,
Which he wins of her unaware,
Meek suppliant! and then reveals
The lofty rank her roof conceals,
And urges secrecy, and lays
Constraint on all her guileless ways?
Her free, frank life she puts aside,
Careful her kingly charge to hide,
And guessing dimly thro' her fear
How the new durance groweth dear;
Tho' angry thoughts hot protest make,
Sore questioning why she should take
In her unquiet heart to rest
This captive, regnant, royal guest,
Who must be homaged, must be hid,
Till, conscience-goaded, conscience-chid,
Almost she wishes him away,
Almost she could her trust betray,
Then closer shuts the house, lest e'en
A peep of treasonous thought be seen.
While yet the sky is paly gold,
And she half-slumb'ring—will she then
Tell of that spirit-wakening, when
5
Love's first faint flush of morning red?
Yes, will she to the world disclose,
Not the fair seeming and the shows,
The pretty masks that still she wears,
The wiles, the Eve-descended airs;
But will she ever give us part
Of the deep workings of her heart,
When suddenly she finds before
Its all unheeded, open door
A stranger, clad in pilgrim weeds,
Whose homeless state and simple needs
Ask courtesy and kindly care,
Which he wins of her unaware,
Meek suppliant! and then reveals
The lofty rank her roof conceals,
And urges secrecy, and lays
Constraint on all her guileless ways?
Her free, frank life she puts aside,
Careful her kingly charge to hide,
And guessing dimly thro' her fear
How the new durance groweth dear;
6
Sore questioning why she should take
In her unquiet heart to rest
This captive, regnant, royal guest,
Who must be homaged, must be hid,
Till, conscience-goaded, conscience-chid,
Almost she wishes him away,
Almost she could her trust betray,
Then closer shuts the house, lest e'en
A peep of treasonous thought be seen.
And may we learn the bliss, the pride,
When she's no longer forc'd to hide
Her secret sovereign, but when he
May in full daylight thronèd be;
When with a very little thing—
The mother's kiss, the troth plight ring—
Her guilty wonderment, her dread
Of secret chamber'd thoughts, is fled.
No longer of her love afraid,
Her narrow prison-cell new made
To sainted chapel, now she ne'er
Need cease from service and from prayer;
Sweet worship there she offers:—praise,
Full pomp of rite on holy days,
And quietly, when none are by,
Pours out her heart's idolatry;
And feeds the lamp, and tends the flower,
Meek vigil keeps at midnight hour,
And joins with matin chimes the throng
She worships openly among.
When she's no longer forc'd to hide
Her secret sovereign, but when he
May in full daylight thronèd be;
When with a very little thing—
The mother's kiss, the troth plight ring—
Her guilty wonderment, her dread
Of secret chamber'd thoughts, is fled.
No longer of her love afraid,
Her narrow prison-cell new made
To sainted chapel, now she ne'er
Need cease from service and from prayer;
7
Full pomp of rite on holy days,
And quietly, when none are by,
Pours out her heart's idolatry;
And feeds the lamp, and tends the flower,
Meek vigil keeps at midnight hour,
And joins with matin chimes the throng
She worships openly among.
And, when soul-summon'd, at the last
She bids farewell to all her past,
Oh, may we stand to see her start
On those strange travels of the heart,
When, growing restless, ill at ease,
In homely Ur of the Chaldees,
She turns, most Abraham-like, to go
To a far country he will show
Who is her Promise, Covenant, Call;
For whom she leaves her girlhood, all
The happy plains and pastures sweet
Fleck'd with the track of childhood's feet,
Fragrant with all the bliss that she
Hath known from earliest infancy;
Her goal, where he directs alone;
She leaves the lov'd, familiar, known,
For rose-lit rims of hills that gleam
On far horizons half in dream.
She bids farewell to all her past,
Oh, may we stand to see her start
On those strange travels of the heart,
When, growing restless, ill at ease,
In homely Ur of the Chaldees,
She turns, most Abraham-like, to go
To a far country he will show
Who is her Promise, Covenant, Call;
For whom she leaves her girlhood, all
The happy plains and pastures sweet
Fleck'd with the track of childhood's feet,
Fragrant with all the bliss that she
Hath known from earliest infancy;
8
She leaves the lov'd, familiar, known,
For rose-lit rims of hills that gleam
On far horizons half in dream.
She goes, and God her path doth bless,
Her faith is counted righteousness.
She goes to pilgrim's fare and pain,
To woe and loss, and endless gain,
To doubt, misgiving, gladsome cheer,
High hope, and sudden blight of fear:
She goes, oh, not to heavenly peace,
Calm settlement, and toil's surcease,
But fierce, strange peoples to withstand
Even within the Promised Land:
She goes a worship high to hold
'Mong brazen bulls and calves of gold,
To break down many an idol show,
To suffer much, and much forego,
Nor haply, e'er her sun decline,
To sit beneath the promised vine.
Yet not for years in sorrow spent
Will she a moment's span repent
That Faith's fair prowess made her dare
Claim that untravers'd country, where
(As she sweet Canaan's conqueror knows)
Alone life's milk and honey flows.
Her faith is counted righteousness.
She goes to pilgrim's fare and pain,
To woe and loss, and endless gain,
To doubt, misgiving, gladsome cheer,
High hope, and sudden blight of fear:
She goes, oh, not to heavenly peace,
Calm settlement, and toil's surcease,
But fierce, strange peoples to withstand
Even within the Promised Land:
She goes a worship high to hold
'Mong brazen bulls and calves of gold,
To break down many an idol show,
To suffer much, and much forego,
Nor haply, e'er her sun decline,
To sit beneath the promised vine.
Yet not for years in sorrow spent
Will she a moment's span repent
9
Claim that untravers'd country, where
(As she sweet Canaan's conqueror knows)
Alone life's milk and honey flows.
Lone songs of girlhood, loftier lays,
Rich-noted, fuller-toned, to praise
The life new-margin'd, flowing wide
With a fresh water's mingling tide,
We ask of her; and then we call
For a new song most sweet of all—
A Song of Songs! but can it be,
O Earth, long list'ning Earth, that she
Hath hushed thy children's cries so long,
Nor given the world one cradle song!
Yea, even thus. All mothers know
Those brooding notes, those wailings low
That our new wearied mother Eve,
Her nursing daughterhood did leave—
Half sighs, and half caresses! still
Their faint, sad music seems to fill
Our childhood's air, as woodland breeze
Melodious with the minstrel trees;
But still poor broken lays, that bring
Scant glory to the love they sing.
That tell how woman's love doth make
Herself a child for children's sake:
Full of vain babblings, murmurings vain,
And snatches of too fond refrain;
But of that vaster love and deep
That lies about a baby's sleep,
That gives the heart prophetic fire,
Deep-passion'd prayers, and high desire—
Of these soul-reachings in no wise
We learn through earth's old lullabies.
Rich-noted, fuller-toned, to praise
The life new-margin'd, flowing wide
With a fresh water's mingling tide,
We ask of her; and then we call
For a new song most sweet of all—
A Song of Songs! but can it be,
O Earth, long list'ning Earth, that she
Hath hushed thy children's cries so long,
Nor given the world one cradle song!
Yea, even thus. All mothers know
Those brooding notes, those wailings low
That our new wearied mother Eve,
Her nursing daughterhood did leave—
Half sighs, and half caresses! still
Their faint, sad music seems to fill
Our childhood's air, as woodland breeze
Melodious with the minstrel trees;
10
Scant glory to the love they sing.
That tell how woman's love doth make
Herself a child for children's sake:
Full of vain babblings, murmurings vain,
And snatches of too fond refrain;
But of that vaster love and deep
That lies about a baby's sleep,
That gives the heart prophetic fire,
Deep-passion'd prayers, and high desire—
Of these soul-reachings in no wise
We learn through earth's old lullabies.
O Woman, can she e'er complain
Of straiten'd lot in song's domain,
Having as dower of highest good
The whole wide realm of motherhood?
Having on human souls a claim
That through all ages is the same:
No newer love can thrust aside,
No sad soul-wand'ring e'er divide.
From the first promise and the pain
Her children ever hers remain;
Most hers, when children's children show
How far the sacred fire can glow,
And lips, new-bath'd in mother's bliss,
Return the primal mother's kiss.
Of straiten'd lot in song's domain,
Having as dower of highest good
The whole wide realm of motherhood?
Having on human souls a claim
That through all ages is the same:
No newer love can thrust aside,
No sad soul-wand'ring e'er divide.
From the first promise and the pain
Her children ever hers remain;
11
How far the sacred fire can glow,
And lips, new-bath'd in mother's bliss,
Return the primal mother's kiss.
Fain would we listen to her song,
Her tender nursling flowers among:
Voice of the turtle would we hear
The fragrant lily-fields anear.
Fresh from the wild woods, with the scent
Of purest life her being's blent;
And yet with all that nature sweet
Blooming, rich scatter'd, at her feet,
Scarcely one flower-bud will she sing
Of all its countless blossoming.
Unchronicled her native bliss,
All spoil of travel she must miss.
The poet learns at home his art,
Woos it and weds, and if he part,
'Tis but, as traveller's wont, to yearn
O'er the lost pleasures and return;
But she, heart-errant, doth not prize
The fair realms where her queendom lies;
Courts empery in higher place,
Asks broader paths, and ampler space;
And seeks among life's busy throng
A swifter cadence to her song
Than e'er can tune itself to lays
Sung by life's bracken-hinder'd ways.
Her tender nursling flowers among:
Voice of the turtle would we hear
The fragrant lily-fields anear.
Fresh from the wild woods, with the scent
Of purest life her being's blent;
And yet with all that nature sweet
Blooming, rich scatter'd, at her feet,
Scarcely one flower-bud will she sing
Of all its countless blossoming.
Unchronicled her native bliss,
All spoil of travel she must miss.
The poet learns at home his art,
Woos it and weds, and if he part,
'Tis but, as traveller's wont, to yearn
O'er the lost pleasures and return;
But she, heart-errant, doth not prize
The fair realms where her queendom lies;
12
Asks broader paths, and ampler space;
And seeks among life's busy throng
A swifter cadence to her song
Than e'er can tune itself to lays
Sung by life's bracken-hinder'd ways.
And if, we ask it with a sigh,
The time, the happy time's gone by
When she, home-homag'd, must be known
By household gift and grace alone;
If she must sing of other theme
Than Love, or waking or in dream,
Yet must she harbour none the less
Care of her ancient blessedness.
Sage-sued, world-beckon'd, she must be
Full woman: lifted to a free
And fellow-life with man. No more
Must she creep dumbly as of yore
Adown the ages; but her word
Must, as man's echo, ne'er be heard.
How high soe'er her thought may reach
Still it must flow through woman's speech
In woman's fashion; only so
Can the twinn'd lives unhind'ring grow.
The woman's way—we count her blame—
Must be her glory-crown, her fame:
And far in after ages, when
She shares life's loftier toil with men,
Oh, never must she cast aside
Her early grace through growing pride,
Nor, foreign-cultur'd, leave behind
The native instincts of her kind!
Chosen by Nature's self to be
A consecrated ministry,
All needful knowledge to impart
In the fair scriptures of the heart,
Aye must she count her priestly name
Outhonours every earthly fame;
And whatsoe'er new gain she reap,
What realm encloseth, ever keep
All things subservient to the good
Of pure, free-growing womanhood.
The time, the happy time's gone by
When she, home-homag'd, must be known
By household gift and grace alone;
If she must sing of other theme
Than Love, or waking or in dream,
Yet must she harbour none the less
Care of her ancient blessedness.
Sage-sued, world-beckon'd, she must be
Full woman: lifted to a free
And fellow-life with man. No more
Must she creep dumbly as of yore
Adown the ages; but her word
Must, as man's echo, ne'er be heard.
How high soe'er her thought may reach
Still it must flow through woman's speech
13
Can the twinn'd lives unhind'ring grow.
The woman's way—we count her blame—
Must be her glory-crown, her fame:
And far in after ages, when
She shares life's loftier toil with men,
Oh, never must she cast aside
Her early grace through growing pride,
Nor, foreign-cultur'd, leave behind
The native instincts of her kind!
Chosen by Nature's self to be
A consecrated ministry,
All needful knowledge to impart
In the fair scriptures of the heart,
Aye must she count her priestly name
Outhonours every earthly fame;
And whatsoe'er new gain she reap,
What realm encloseth, ever keep
All things subservient to the good
Of pure, free-growing womanhood.
14
YOUTH TIME.
Yes, I sing thee my English songs, my Love,
Thou canst listen their music now;
Thou wert born in a far distant land, my Love,
And all dumbly thou woo'dst and didst win me, my Love,
Didst win me I know not how;
For our hearts had but mystic 'trothal, my Love,
And were plighted without a vow.
Thou canst listen their music now;
Thou wert born in a far distant land, my Love,
And all dumbly thou woo'dst and didst win me, my Love,
Didst win me I know not how;
For our hearts had but mystic 'trothal, my Love,
And were plighted without a vow.
Thy mother, she sang English songlets, my Love,
To the boy on her cradling knee;
And now thou art gone to her home above
(As we know but one language to those we love)
She may speak the old tongue to thee:
And the trick of the sweet mother speech, my Love,
It may mind thee in heaven of me.
To the boy on her cradling knee;
And now thou art gone to her home above
(As we know but one language to those we love)
She may speak the old tongue to thee:
And the trick of the sweet mother speech, my Love,
It may mind thee in heaven of me.
15
SONGS.
I.
They lov'd thee dear, they mourn'd thee dead;
Time flies and they forget:
To me no pitying word was said;
I had no right one tear to shed,
And I remember yet!
Time flies and they forget:
To me no pitying word was said;
I had no right one tear to shed,
And I remember yet!
The happy ones thou lov'dst so well
Thy memory have forgot;
But I, brief friend, who scarce can tell,
Or if thou lov'dst, or lov'dst me well,
Lo, I forget thee not.
Thy memory have forgot;
But I, brief friend, who scarce can tell,
Or if thou lov'dst, or lov'dst me well,
Lo, I forget thee not.
16
So sweet the very thought of thee
Illumes my earthly lot,
I care not wheresoe'er I be,
Or rich or poor, or bond or free,
So I forget thee not!
Illumes my earthly lot,
I care not wheresoe'er I be,
Or rich or poor, or bond or free,
So I forget thee not!
17
II.
And how did I know thou lov'dst me?
So tell me how it can be
The bird hath broodings of summer
From the lands beyond the sea?
So tell me how it can be
The bird hath broodings of summer
From the lands beyond the sea?
And how did I know I lov'd thee;
Sweet love, so tell me what brings
The sudden passion, the yearning,
The throb to the folded wings?
Sweet love, so tell me what brings
The sudden passion, the yearning,
The throb to the folded wings?
O the little birds fly blindly
To their home across the sea;
As I to the endless summer
Deep-hid in thy heart for me!
To their home across the sea;
As I to the endless summer
Deep-hid in thy heart for me!
18
III.
The purple violets for me
Their sweetness had outprest,
And with my sweet love's memory
I laid their sweet to rest;
And round my heart I felt it cling,
Till passing, later on,
A bank of bluer blossoming
From which the scent had gone,
The mocking sight so griev'd my sense,
I felt it tear away
The wealth of folded redolence
That in my bosom lay.
Their sweetness had outprest,
And with my sweet love's memory
I laid their sweet to rest;
And round my heart I felt it cling,
Till passing, later on,
A bank of bluer blossoming
From which the scent had gone,
The mocking sight so griev'd my sense,
I felt it tear away
The wealth of folded redolence
That in my bosom lay.
I lov'd thee so, with every scene
In which thy love had part,
Sweet memories of what had been
Were folded to my heart.
I went to gather fresher store
From haunts that used to be
So sweet, so passing sweet, before,
So fragrant full of thee.
I saw, but oh not what I sought,
And now shall see no more
In rapture of memorial thought
The scene so sweet before!
In which thy love had part,
19
Were folded to my heart.
I went to gather fresher store
From haunts that used to be
So sweet, so passing sweet, before,
So fragrant full of thee.
I saw, but oh not what I sought,
And now shall see no more
In rapture of memorial thought
The scene so sweet before!
20
IV.
Could I but give to other eyes
What most hath raptur'd mine,
Then were my life's fair memories
By sweet transition thine.
What most hath raptur'd mine,
Then were my life's fair memories
By sweet transition thine.
For thee from things of outer gain
'Tis not enough to part;
I long to give thee what hath lain
All close about my heart.
'Tis not enough to part;
I long to give thee what hath lain
All close about my heart.
The scenes I travell'd far to see
That in my life have wrought
The dream, the golden fantasy,
The touch of finer thought.
That in my life have wrought
The dream, the golden fantasy,
The touch of finer thought.
21
But though I stripped my sweetest years
Of their full store of bliss,
Oh yet I fear my love appears
But miserly in this—
Of their full store of bliss,
Oh yet I fear my love appears
But miserly in this—
That I, Sapphira-like in stealth,
Should yield not all I prize;
Unwilling to forego the wealth
Won from thy bounteous eyes.
Should yield not all I prize;
Unwilling to forego the wealth
Won from thy bounteous eyes.
And while I keep their sunset kiss,
Their calm of twilight gray,
No other memory I could miss
Though all were stole away!
Their calm of twilight gray,
No other memory I could miss
Though all were stole away!
22
V.
‘Geistern bin ich noch verbunden.’
Spirit, thou wand'rest,
But tell me where?
I go to the graveyard
And weep thee there;
But tell me where?
I go to the graveyard
And weep thee there;
I've sought thee in visions,
But vainly sought;
Thou com'st not in dreams to
My waking thought.
But vainly sought;
Thou com'st not in dreams to
My waking thought.
To memory's solace
I idly flee:
The past is precious,
But past to thee.
I idly flee:
The past is precious,
But past to thee.
23
And mock'd, and scorning
A search so vain,
I look all whither
The way to gain
A search so vain,
I look all whither
The way to gain
(That strangely, darkly
Thou seem'st to hide)
To thee, the living,
The long-denied!
Thou seem'st to hide)
To thee, the living,
The long-denied!
No terrors chill me,
No fleshly dread;
Though thou wert number'd
Among the dead,
No fleshly dread;
Though thou wert number'd
Among the dead,
And now, new-risen,
Wert strangely fair,
My love's confiding
Thou could'st not scare.
Wert strangely fair,
My love's confiding
Thou could'st not scare.
Through heaven's disguises
I still should greet
What made the eyes and
The lips so sweet.
I still should greet
What made the eyes and
The lips so sweet.
24
Spirit, thou wand'rest,
But tell me where?
My thoughts are waiting,
My love is there!
But tell me where?
My thoughts are waiting,
My love is there!
Or, if thou fearest
The veil to break,
Some subtler path to
My spirit take.
The veil to break,
Some subtler path to
My spirit take.
I wander darkling;
But oh the blind
Without the sunlight
No summer find!
But oh the blind
Without the sunlight
No summer find!
My eyes are holden;
But still I ask
In golden warmth of
Thy love to bask.
But still I ask
In golden warmth of
Thy love to bask.
Let me but feel thee
About my heart;
Let us not linger
A life apart!
About my heart;
Let us not linger
A life apart!
25
Spirit, thou wand'rest,
But tell me where?
Lest Faith, heart-broken,
Become Despair!
But tell me where?
Lest Faith, heart-broken,
Become Despair!
26
VI.
I think of thee over and over again;
The words of thy silence, the words thou hast said;
And the memory comes with a throb of pain,
As milk to the bosom, the baby dead.
The words of thy silence, the words thou hast said;
And the memory comes with a throb of pain,
As milk to the bosom, the baby dead.
O 'twas sweet to think of thee over again,
When over again thou could'st think of me;
But now I am lonely, my travel vain,
When tearful I turn to the past for thee.
When over again thou could'st think of me;
But now I am lonely, my travel vain,
When tearful I turn to the past for thee.
Yet ne'er must thou think of me over again,
So lonely, so longing, with heart so sore;
From thine eyes all the shadow, the grief be ta'en,
While mine, let them weep for thee more and more.
So lonely, so longing, with heart so sore;
From thine eyes all the shadow, the grief be ta'en,
While mine, let them weep for thee more and more.
27
But, love, if e'er loverwise over again,
In some dim afartime of life we meet;
If e'er, rich with a myriad-worlded gain,
We find the old lore of our childhood sweet,
In some dim afartime of life we meet;
If e'er, rich with a myriad-worlded gain,
We find the old lore of our childhood sweet,
If the heart's home-memories may still remain,
And the flowers bloom fresh that on earth we grew,
We'll think of it over and over again,
Of the olden love that is chang'd to new.
And the flowers bloom fresh that on earth we grew,
We'll think of it over and over again,
Of the olden love that is chang'd to new.
28
VII.
The sun is down, but the sky
Is thinking about him yet;
The clouds wear the rosy dye
That they wore before he set.
Is thinking about him yet;
The clouds wear the rosy dye
That they wore before he set.
Thou art gone; but a light from thee
To my inmost soul doth shine;
And the end of my life must be
That men should remember thine.
To my inmost soul doth shine;
And the end of my life must be
That men should remember thine.
My songs are the rosy cloud
All bath'd in the sunbeams' glow,
While the sun is wrapp'd in his shroud
By the darksome waves below.
All bath'd in the sunbeams' glow,
While the sun is wrapp'd in his shroud
By the darksome waves below.
29
BITTER-SWEET.
O roses that for her are sweet!
O scent of new-mown hay!
O grand old chestnuts, at whose feet
The happy children play!
O scent of new-mown hay!
O grand old chestnuts, at whose feet
The happy children play!
What bitter memories ye may be,
What memories bitter-sweet;
Again beneath the chestnut tree
The little ones may meet;
What memories bitter-sweet;
Again beneath the chestnut tree
The little ones may meet;
The roses bloom in pinken spray
'Mid briary thickets fair;
But she who made the summer-day
May be no longer there.
'Mid briary thickets fair;
But she who made the summer-day
May be no longer there.
30
O what, an' if the roses red,
The hay about our feet,
Should mind us of the darling dead
For whom they once were sweet!
The hay about our feet,
Should mind us of the darling dead
For whom they once were sweet!
31
THE WIND.
The wind it may roar in the forest,
And stir up the stormy deep,
If it do not cry round the cradle,
Where my little one lies asleep.
And stir up the stormy deep,
If it do not cry round the cradle,
Where my little one lies asleep.
The rain it may beat on the casement,
If it do not grow too wild,
To trouble the angel laughter
From the dreaming brow of my child.
If it do not grow too wild,
To trouble the angel laughter
From the dreaming brow of my child.
The wind it may wail in the woodland,
And sob to the sighing wave,
If it do not scatter the daisies
From their home on my little one's grave.
And sob to the sighing wave,
If it do not scatter the daisies
From their home on my little one's grave.
32
The rain it may trickle down softly
To make green the grassy nest;
So it wake not to weeping the sleeper
So far from her mother's breast.
To make green the grassy nest;
So it wake not to weeping the sleeper
So far from her mother's breast.
33
LOVES NEW AND OLD.
Larch-blooms and violets.
If loving nature us allow
To ask a springtide sign,
Thy tiny cresset lamps, I trow,
Bright shining larch, are mine!
To ask a springtide sign,
Thy tiny cresset lamps, I trow,
Bright shining larch, are mine!
I cannot feel the sun is near,
Nor gladden, till I see
The lustre on thy boughs, thou dear,
Bold-hearted, highland tree!
Nor gladden, till I see
The lustre on thy boughs, thou dear,
Bold-hearted, highland tree!
How fearless thou dost round thee fling
Thy tender sprays! I ween
The very joyaunce of the spring
Lurks in thy laughing green!
Thy tender sprays! I ween
The very joyaunce of the spring
Lurks in thy laughing green!
34
A child I lov'd thee for thy hue,
Tir'd of the winter glooms,
But, city-nurtur'd, never knew
The glory of thy blooms.
Tir'd of the winter glooms,
But, city-nurtur'd, never knew
The glory of thy blooms.
This happy spring, in golden stealth
Of April gleams, didst thou
Reveal the unsuspected wealth
Hung on each glowing bough.
Of April gleams, didst thou
Reveal the unsuspected wealth
Hung on each glowing bough.
I caught the flash of jewell'd light,
I glanced across the stems,
Crown'd to thy turret's topmost height
With tiers of living gems.
I glanced across the stems,
Crown'd to thy turret's topmost height
With tiers of living gems.
O joy of a fresh found delight
In woodland or in field,
That far in seasons out of sight
Its sweet return will yield!
In woodland or in field,
That far in seasons out of sight
Its sweet return will yield!
Not mine to store, nor mine to be
With miser's fear afraid;
To endless happy springs for me
A treasure was uplaid.
With miser's fear afraid;
To endless happy springs for me
A treasure was uplaid.
35
And this new bliss my spirit greets
With glad discovering claim;
Unlike those blind mysterious sweets
That with my childhood came.
With glad discovering claim;
Unlike those blind mysterious sweets
That with my childhood came.
The first blue violets! with their scent
What sudden memories spring;
They bring to me that strange content
Born of remembering.
What sudden memories spring;
They bring to me that strange content
Born of remembering.
To me of other springs they speak,
Of friends that I have known;
Though hand in hand I used to seek
What now I seek alone;
Of friends that I have known;
Though hand in hand I used to seek
What now I seek alone;
I find them in their hiding-place
With a recovered glee;
I love them as I love the face
That I am used to see.
With a recovered glee;
I love them as I love the face
That I am used to see.
I learnt them, like my mother's eyes,
Their sweetness ere their name;
But these a very love surprise
Across my vision came.
Their sweetness ere their name;
But these a very love surprise
Across my vision came.
36
And which the sweeter? to be fed
From springs we cannot see,
Or be ourselves the fountain head
Of our own bliss to be?
From springs we cannot see,
Or be ourselves the fountain head
Of our own bliss to be?
The loves we childish drink, nor heed
From whence the fountains fill;
The loves whose broadest margins lead
Back to the tiny rill?
From whence the fountains fill;
The loves whose broadest margins lead
Back to the tiny rill?
37
THE QUIET LIGHT.
After the sunset,
Before the night,
There comes a season
Of quiet light.
Before the night,
There comes a season
Of quiet light.
After the dying,
Before the death,
There comes a drawing
Of quiet breath.
Before the death,
There comes a drawing
Of quiet breath.
Hush of the daylight,
O whisper why
That childlike breathing
Before we die!
O whisper why
That childlike breathing
Before we die!
38
THE HAYFIELD.
‘The last load is carried,
The meadow is mown;
Then why on the scythe-track
Still wanderest lone?
The meadow is mown;
Then why on the scythe-track
Still wanderest lone?
‘The high-loaded wagon
Has wound round the hill;
But thou in the valley
Art lingering still.
Has wound round the hill;
But thou in the valley
Art lingering still.
‘Dost think of the voices
So cheery, so blithe?
The bloom on the grasses?
The sweep of the scythe?
So cheery, so blithe?
The bloom on the grasses?
The sweep of the scythe?
39
‘The joy of the children
A-rock on the hay?
The wind-wafted fragrance?
The laughter, the play?’
A-rock on the hay?
The wind-wafted fragrance?
The laughter, the play?’
‘The high-loaded wagon
Has wound round the hill;
But I in the valley
Am lingering still,
Has wound round the hill;
But I in the valley
Am lingering still,
‘To think of their sorrow,
Whose day's work is done,
Who are not called homeward
At set of the sun.
Whose day's work is done,
Who are not called homeward
At set of the sun.
‘Whose life's tale is ended,
Or e'er the life close;
To think, for a moment,
How bitter for those
Or e'er the life close;
To think, for a moment,
How bitter for those
‘Who in the bare stubble
Must still linger on;
The burdens all carried,
The comrades all gone.’
Must still linger on;
The burdens all carried,
The comrades all gone.’
40
THE CRESCENT MOON.
How faint a glow the early moon
Gives to the evening skies!
O love, 'tis like the crescent light
I saw within thine eyes,
Gives to the evening skies!
O love, 'tis like the crescent light
I saw within thine eyes,
When first I looked into their depths,
With troubled heart, to know
If from so slight a promise e'er
Love's golden prime could grow.
With troubled heart, to know
If from so slight a promise e'er
Love's golden prime could grow.
But e'en that faintly-gleaming moon,
Across the blue, behold!
Her fair completion unfulfilled
Hath limned in tenderest gold.
Across the blue, behold!
Her fair completion unfulfilled
Hath limned in tenderest gold.
41
And with that little golden ring
A sudden hope doth rise;
I look beyond the crescent light
Of those soft-shining eyes,
A sudden hope doth rise;
I look beyond the crescent light
Of those soft-shining eyes,
And now that I may nearer gaze,
Across their blue I see,
All limned in tenderest lines of love,
My perfect bliss to be.
Across their blue I see,
All limned in tenderest lines of love,
My perfect bliss to be.
42
AFTER THE RAIN.
Whatever haunting care of life
About my spirit cleaves,
If I but walk abroad awhile
Among the breathing leaves,
It seems as it were left behind
Beneath the cottage eaves.
About my spirit cleaves,
If I but walk abroad awhile
Among the breathing leaves,
It seems as it were left behind
Beneath the cottage eaves.
I do not ask for singing birds,
Or floods of golden light;
For if I do but ope the door
On a dull autumn night,
The shining rain-drops on the grass
Will set my spirit right.
Or floods of golden light;
For if I do but ope the door
On a dull autumn night,
The shining rain-drops on the grass
Will set my spirit right.
43
TO AN INFANT DYING WHEN NINE DAYS OLD.
Newly-born, and newly dead,
Of life disinherited;
From its joyaunce and its grief,
In thy sojourn all so brief,
Hath it gather'd germ of good,
Thy scarce conscious babyhood?
Through faint memories canst thou tell
Aught of what on earth befell?
Dimly, darkly, wilt thou miss
Lullaby and mother's kiss?
And a brooding want confess
'Midst the angelic blessedness?
Little lips now shut so fast—
Lips no human word hath past,
Sealèd ears, that never heard
Rush of river, song of bird,
Eyes that were too tired to look
At life's wondrous picture-book;
Senses fine! what have ye found
Sweet in speech, and sight, and sound,
What new earth, and sky, and sea,
Dawns, O baby-soul, to thee?
Of life disinherited;
From its joyaunce and its grief,
In thy sojourn all so brief,
Hath it gather'd germ of good,
Thy scarce conscious babyhood?
Through faint memories canst thou tell
Aught of what on earth befell?
Dimly, darkly, wilt thou miss
Lullaby and mother's kiss?
And a brooding want confess
'Midst the angelic blessedness?
44
Lips no human word hath past,
Sealèd ears, that never heard
Rush of river, song of bird,
Eyes that were too tired to look
At life's wondrous picture-book;
Senses fine! what have ye found
Sweet in speech, and sight, and sound,
What new earth, and sky, and sea,
Dawns, O baby-soul, to thee?
Little ark-freed eager dove,
Loos'd from our fast-prisoning love,
Though thou joy'st thy wings to try
In the summer-breathing sky,
Yet a little space return;
For our hearts with passion burn
For the tidings thou could'st bring
Lightly on thy carrier wing.
Loos'd from our fast-prisoning love,
Though thou joy'st thy wings to try
In the summer-breathing sky,
Yet a little space return;
For our hearts with passion burn
For the tidings thou could'st bring
Lightly on thy carrier wing.
Thou, the child of yesterday,
Hast o'erta'en us on our way;
Thou art nigh to things that we
See far off in mystery.
Clearest light to thee doth shine,
Where we wonder, or divine;
For, a nine day's traveller, thou
Hast o'ertopp'd the mountain's brow,
Whilst we, way-worn wanderers, press
Upward still in weariness.
Hast o'erta'en us on our way;
45
See far off in mystery.
Clearest light to thee doth shine,
Where we wonder, or divine;
For, a nine day's traveller, thou
Hast o'ertopp'd the mountain's brow,
Whilst we, way-worn wanderers, press
Upward still in weariness.
But when all, both first and last,
To the great Beyond have past,
When the many-nation'd band
Touches the all-havening land,
Thou wilt feel that one is there
Known to thee some other where:
One, amid the stranger throng,
Unto whom thou dost belong;
To whose happy owning eyes
Something in thy heart replies—
Something rising to the pain
Of a memory sought in vain,
Of a bliss thou would'st recall
Missing it afresh, till all
The forgotten tale is told,
As the eager arms enfold,
And the lips, with low-breath'd name,
Their brief motherhood reclaim.
To the great Beyond have past,
When the many-nation'd band
Touches the all-havening land,
Thou wilt feel that one is there
Known to thee some other where:
One, amid the stranger throng,
Unto whom thou dost belong;
To whose happy owning eyes
Something in thy heart replies—
Something rising to the pain
Of a memory sought in vain,
Of a bliss thou would'st recall
Missing it afresh, till all
46
As the eager arms enfold,
And the lips, with low-breath'd name,
Their brief motherhood reclaim.
47
A MOTHER.
(AFTER THE BIRTH OF HER STILL-BORN SON.)
They call me a mother, but cold
Are the chrism lips of my child:
On him was the pow'r bestow'd,
The sinless, the undefil'd,
Are the chrism lips of my child:
On him was the pow'r bestow'd,
The sinless, the undefil'd,
To make me that name, whose sound
Is an empty title now:
I sit as a queen uncrown'd;
And yet to this sunless brow,
Is an empty title now:
I sit as a queen uncrown'd;
And yet to this sunless brow,
Bereft of its bridal light,
With sorrow all bowèd down,
He giveth the royal right
To womanhood's glory crown.
With sorrow all bowèd down,
He giveth the royal right
To womanhood's glory crown.
48
I miss him, I know not where
He hath no place to be miss'd;
This one little lock of hair,
From the brow I have not kiss'd,
He hath no place to be miss'd;
This one little lock of hair,
From the brow I have not kiss'd,
But tells me it all is true—
This bliss that hath never been:
Brown hair! did it match the hue
Of those eyes I have not seen?
This bliss that hath never been:
Brown hair! did it match the hue
Of those eyes I have not seen?
In my life he had no part,
Yet now hath left me alone;
The very font of my heart
Baptis'd him my child, my own.
Yet now hath left me alone;
The very font of my heart
Baptis'd him my child, my own.
And I am his chosen still,
For me are the child-like eyes;
His want 'tis my wealth must fill;
To my heart his heart replies.
For me are the child-like eyes;
His want 'tis my wealth must fill;
To my heart his heart replies.
The secret soft-falling touch,
The want-earned pleasure and pain,
Ah we two had learn'd so much
If in my arms he had lain!
The want-earned pleasure and pain,
Ah we two had learn'd so much
If in my arms he had lain!
49
I shall not cradle him so;
These arms will never enfold;
My unspent passion will grow,
Like my baby, dead and cold.
These arms will never enfold;
My unspent passion will grow,
Like my baby, dead and cold.
Nay, both of us now must miss
A love each keepeth in store,
Till God sets us free to kiss
And the precious nard outpour.
A love each keepeth in store,
Till God sets us free to kiss
And the precious nard outpour.
50
UNREGENERATE?
Thou hast not breathed this mortal air,
Whose breathing bringeth sin;
Clean as the heavens thou art, but there
They will not let thee in.
Whose breathing bringeth sin;
Clean as the heavens thou art, but there
They will not let thee in.
Go little pilgrim pure and white,
Seek thou the heavenly gate;
I have not read my God aright,
If long thou there must wait.
Seek thou the heavenly gate;
I have not read my God aright,
If long thou there must wait.
Nay, He and I must strangers be,
If, for His pity's sake,
My little orphan'd Purity
He will not stoop to take,
If, for His pity's sake,
My little orphan'd Purity
He will not stoop to take,
51
THE THRUSH'S NEST.
‘As snow in summer.’
—Prov.
'Twas in those fairest vernal days
That come before the time,
And sudden reckless hopes will raise
Of summer's golden prime,—
That come before the time,
And sudden reckless hopes will raise
Of summer's golden prime,—
The wind that wander'd from the west
With blossom-scent was fill'd,
When the too eager thrush her nest
Impetuous 'gan to build.
With blossom-scent was fill'd,
When the too eager thrush her nest
Impetuous 'gan to build.
The open sky, the soften'd air
All frosty fear belied;
She saw the greening bough prepare
Her treasur'd home to hide.
All frosty fear belied;
She saw the greening bough prepare
Her treasur'd home to hide.
52
To her glad eyes for love's fair feast
All things were ready made:
With each new sun her faith increast,
And four blue eggs were laid.
All things were ready made:
With each new sun her faith increast,
And four blue eggs were laid.
And when her hardy bliss to spy
With noiseless step we came,
The brightness of her patient eye
Put all our fears to shame;
With noiseless step we came,
The brightness of her patient eye
Put all our fears to shame;
But yet we feared. The sky grew gray,
And, ere we turned to go,
Lo, on a budding twig there lay
The first flake of the snow!
And, ere we turned to go,
Lo, on a budding twig there lay
The first flake of the snow!
Full soon that fragile house was beat
With gusts of snowy rain:
Through weary days of blinding sleet
We thought of it in pain.
With gusts of snowy rain:
Through weary days of blinding sleet
We thought of it in pain.
The air was clear'd; we found the nest
A shelterless abode,
Where for the mother's brooding breast
The snowy flakes were strowed.
A shelterless abode,
Where for the mother's brooding breast
The snowy flakes were strowed.
53
For cradle-bed such coverlet
'Twas piteous to see!
That sight I never can forget
Of orphan misery.
'Twas piteous to see!
That sight I never can forget
Of orphan misery.
And she, ah she who thought to make
A home of happy cheer,
'Twas for a dearer sorrow's sake
Her grief to me was dear.
A home of happy cheer,
'Twas for a dearer sorrow's sake
Her grief to me was dear.
Who hath not felt her bitter smart,
And like the mother-bird
With too improvident a heart
Love's holy prompting heard?
And like the mother-bird
With too improvident a heart
Love's holy prompting heard?
Who when the clouds begin to break
Forbears bright hopes to weave?
From which, 'neath darken'd heavens, he'll take
A broken-hearted leave.
Forbears bright hopes to weave?
From which, 'neath darken'd heavens, he'll take
A broken-hearted leave.
How many promises of spring
To summer joys would grow,
If life but brought the warming wing
And not the winter snow!
To summer joys would grow,
If life but brought the warming wing
And not the winter snow!
54
APPLE-BLOOM.
‘Bloom on the apple,
How cam'st thou there?’
Because the sunshine
Did not despair;
But play'd and beamed on
My sullen green,
Threw golden kisses
As long as seen;
And rose the morrow
A monarch still,
With pride in patience
To work his will;
And greeted and glanc'd with
A subtler grace,
That yester touches
Had left no trace.
With fuller hope on
Each morning came,
Uprose in splendour
And sank in flame:
Shot burning arrows
Of tropic heat;
Or fell in sun showers
All mellow sweet.
Anon would threaten,
Anon beguile,
Drop down a mist-wreath
A sudden smile;
The black'ning veil of
The clouds burst through,
And hang in jewels
My drops of dew;
Nor through the summer
Forbore to seek,
But left unrosy
My pale-hued cheek.
The softer fruitage
In crimson shone;
But its rubied glory
Had come and gone,
Ere a warmer tincture,
A softer grain,
Gave tender hope of
The scarlet stain;
To bring that hope to
Its golden prime
The sunlight tarried:
And won, what time
The southern grape takes
Its purple flush,
The first faint sign of
A promis'd blush.
How cam'st thou there?’
Because the sunshine
Did not despair;
But play'd and beamed on
My sullen green,
Threw golden kisses
As long as seen;
And rose the morrow
A monarch still,
With pride in patience
To work his will;
And greeted and glanc'd with
A subtler grace,
That yester touches
Had left no trace.
55
Each morning came,
Uprose in splendour
And sank in flame:
Shot burning arrows
Of tropic heat;
Or fell in sun showers
All mellow sweet.
Anon would threaten,
Anon beguile,
Drop down a mist-wreath
A sudden smile;
The black'ning veil of
The clouds burst through,
And hang in jewels
My drops of dew;
Nor through the summer
Forbore to seek,
But left unrosy
My pale-hued cheek.
The softer fruitage
In crimson shone;
56
Had come and gone,
Ere a warmer tincture,
A softer grain,
Gave tender hope of
The scarlet stain;
To bring that hope to
Its golden prime
The sunlight tarried:
And won, what time
The southern grape takes
Its purple flush,
The first faint sign of
A promis'd blush.
‘Song of the poet,
How cam'st thou there?’
Because his spirit
Did not despair.
The thought was golden,
But O the doom
In words to picture
That inmost bloom!
The thought was sunshine,
But could it reach
The thick-ribbed core of
Resisting speech?
The happy lover
When first he knows
To his lady's cheek he
Can bring the rose,
Will bid the colour
Responsive rise
To own the power of
His passion's sighs.
But O the poet
His bliss to earn,
With deeper fervour
Of heart must burn;
Must wait and linger,
And labour still,
With toil recurrent
To work his will:
Must bear in patience
The blinding screen,
The earthborn curtain
That comes between
His own bright thought and
Its outer form,
In mist of stupor
Or cloud of storm:
With quicken'd ardour
Of hope assail,
More slow to falter
The more he fail:
Inured by hindrance
To brook delays,
Must watch the flowing
Of fruitless days
With fever'd heart-throb,
Yet keep the same
Foremeasur'd calmness
Of master-aim;
Till, fully tempted,
And train'd to bear
All subtle guises
Of spirit-care,
As frosty touches
Begin to steal
On his waning life, he
Perchance may feel
The piercing power of
His brain burst through,
To clothe dull word with
His passion's hue:
Till 'mong the fibres
Of speech be wrought
The rosy blush of
His vision'd thought.
How cam'st thou there?’
Because his spirit
Did not despair.
The thought was golden,
But O the doom
In words to picture
That inmost bloom!
57
But could it reach
The thick-ribbed core of
Resisting speech?
The happy lover
When first he knows
To his lady's cheek he
Can bring the rose,
Will bid the colour
Responsive rise
To own the power of
His passion's sighs.
But O the poet
His bliss to earn,
With deeper fervour
Of heart must burn;
Must wait and linger,
And labour still,
With toil recurrent
To work his will:
Must bear in patience
The blinding screen,
58
That comes between
His own bright thought and
Its outer form,
In mist of stupor
Or cloud of storm:
With quicken'd ardour
Of hope assail,
More slow to falter
The more he fail:
Inured by hindrance
To brook delays,
Must watch the flowing
Of fruitless days
With fever'd heart-throb,
Yet keep the same
Foremeasur'd calmness
Of master-aim;
Till, fully tempted,
And train'd to bear
All subtle guises
Of spirit-care,
59
Begin to steal
On his waning life, he
Perchance may feel
The piercing power of
His brain burst through,
To clothe dull word with
His passion's hue:
Till 'mong the fibres
Of speech be wrought
The rosy blush of
His vision'd thought.
60
THE EVENING PRIMROSE.
The day had been hot, and all weary
I turn'd down the shady walk;
I paused by the blooming flower-bed,
But not with the flowers to talk;
I turn'd down the shady walk;
I paused by the blooming flower-bed,
But not with the flowers to talk;
I look'd not for word or welcome;
The dews had begun to fall;
And I knew that to simple flowerets
The dew is a curfew call.
The dews had begun to fall;
And I knew that to simple flowerets
The dew is a curfew call.
So lone down the shady border
I turn'd away from the heat,
Nor knew that the evening primrose
Was waiting my steps to greet.
I turn'd away from the heat,
Nor knew that the evening primrose
Was waiting my steps to greet.
61
The full June flowers were sleeping
As sick of the summer glare;
But she of the smile new-lighted,
And the morning face was there.
As sick of the summer glare;
But she of the smile new-lighted,
And the morning face was there.
And joyous I sat beside her,
Around her in love I leant,
For I felt she was sister-hearted
To the lonely life I spent.
Around her in love I leant,
For I felt she was sister-hearted
To the lonely life I spent.
From the garish world close-petall'd,
And sheltering from the sun,
She opens to skiey converse
When the weary day is done.
And sheltering from the sun,
She opens to skiey converse
When the weary day is done.
She parteth her golden petals,
For joy of the first lone star;
And a blest communion seeketh
With the silent and the far.
For joy of the first lone star;
And a blest communion seeketh
With the silent and the far.
Oh, like to the evening primrose
Is this quiet muse of mine!
She keeps close-shut from the sunlight,
But lo, with the day's decline,
Is this quiet muse of mine!
She keeps close-shut from the sunlight,
But lo, with the day's decline,
62
She opens her paly blossoms
To the solemn evening skies;
And glad, as 'neath lover's glances,
'Neath the deep'ning heaven lies.
To the solemn evening skies;
And glad, as 'neath lover's glances,
'Neath the deep'ning heaven lies.
Aye loving the folding shadows,
And the lonesome starry shine,
Most like to the evening primrose
Is this quiet muse of mine.
And the lonesome starry shine,
Most like to the evening primrose
Is this quiet muse of mine.
63
THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.
Oh, the sweet green grass is dear to me,
I lie in it all day long;
I love it better than flower or tree,
And tell my love in a song.
I lie in it all day long;
I love it better than flower or tree,
And tell my love in a song.
I love it better than all the flowers;
It doth not wither nor fade,
But patiently waits through wintry hours
The joy of the springing blade.
It doth not wither nor fade,
But patiently waits through wintry hours
The joy of the springing blade.
The hard-bred grass doth not fear to brave
The roughest storms that may blow:
It keeps a warm covert round the grave,
Far under the chilling snow.
The roughest storms that may blow:
It keeps a warm covert round the grave,
Far under the chilling snow.
64
And therefore 'tis grown so dear to me,
It seems a half-human thing:
By hillock and hedgerow, moor and lea,
It greets me, where'er it spring;—
It seems a half-human thing:
By hillock and hedgerow, moor and lea,
It greets me, where'er it spring;—
The mountain grass so mossy and fine,
The crimson meads, ere the mowing,
The pastures sprinkled with buttercup shine,
The wheat in the early growing.
The crimson meads, ere the mowing,
The pastures sprinkled with buttercup shine,
The wheat in the early growing.
The long reed-bed that borders the streams,
The half-bleach'd blades by the sea;
The glow of the orchard turf—its gleams
Of snowy bloom from the tree.
The half-bleach'd blades by the sea;
The glow of the orchard turf—its gleams
Of snowy bloom from the tree.
The wind-swept sheaf all rich with the rain,
Or jewell'd in shining dew,
The meadow-blooms that the scythe hath ta'en,
And the sun hath sweeten'd anew.
Or jewell'd in shining dew,
The meadow-blooms that the scythe hath ta'en,
And the sun hath sweeten'd anew.
O grass of the hayfield! O clover breath!
O fragrance they did not know
In Eden, or e'er there was toil or death,
Or scythe that should lay thee low!
O fragrance they did not know
In Eden, or e'er there was toil or death,
Or scythe that should lay thee low!
65
There is a fragrance that comes with the fall;
Though the bread be labour-born,
The joy of the harvest outgladdens all
The pain of thistle or thorn.
Though the bread be labour-born,
The joy of the harvest outgladdens all
The pain of thistle or thorn.
What makes the sunset so golden sweet
Is the toil it bids us leave:
The workday fields for the noontide heat!
The cool green hills for the eve!
Is the toil it bids us leave:
The workday fields for the noontide heat!
The cool green hills for the eve!
The roadside grass to sweeten the way
That our weary feet must tread;
And oh, the dear earthy turf to lay
At last round the restful head!
That our weary feet must tread;
And oh, the dear earthy turf to lay
At last round the restful head!
66
EYES
Thine eyes are like new-open'd flowers,
So fresh, so dewy-bright,
Their very darkness but embowers
The secret of the light.
So fresh, so dewy-bright,
Their very darkness but embowers
The secret of the light.
No restless fire is theirs, no doubt
Of some sweet heart to win;
Enough for them the world without,
The fairer world within.
Of some sweet heart to win;
Enough for them the world without,
The fairer world within.
They do not ask for human gaze,
For tears, for passion's sighs;
No tender doubtful hopes they raise,
Those clear, deep-blossom'd eyes.
For tears, for passion's sighs;
No tender doubtful hopes they raise,
Those clear, deep-blossom'd eyes.
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But O they wear the springtide's smile,
And must for ever keep!
They may be shadow'd for a while,
A little while in sleep:
And must for ever keep!
They may be shadow'd for a while,
A little while in sleep:
But other shadow must not e'er
Their morn-like beauty cloud;
And death—it must not ever dare
Their lovely lights to shroud.
Their morn-like beauty cloud;
And death—it must not ever dare
Their lovely lights to shroud.
Oh, if I were the golden sun
Whose warmth around them glows,
I could not set when day was done
For fear my flowers should close!
Whose warmth around them glows,
I could not set when day was done
For fear my flowers should close!
68
MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS OF MORNING.
When I wake not to moon or stars,
Or soft-cheek'd pallor of night;
When my weary and baffled eyes
Feel after the restful light
Or soft-cheek'd pallor of night;
When my weary and baffled eyes
Feel after the restful light
And can find no relic of day,
No promise of morning beam;
When the raven robe of the night
Is woven without a seam,
No promise of morning beam;
When the raven robe of the night
Is woven without a seam,
Then I close up my dark-fill'd eyes
In their dark, and tears, and tire,
And paint them, on spirit skies,
The dawning of their desire.
In their dark, and tears, and tire,
And paint them, on spirit skies,
The dawning of their desire.
69
Though the light of the eyes be gone,
The heart in the East may be;
For faith looketh further on
Into immortality.
The heart in the East may be;
For faith looketh further on
Into immortality.
70
THE LILY.
In rudest season frailest things
All timidly creep forth;
The very sweetest flower that springs
Is nurtur'd by the north.
All timidly creep forth;
The very sweetest flower that springs
Is nurtur'd by the north.
The rough north wind with tender heart
His pretty nurslings rears;
The poor affrighted buds to part
He shakes away their fears.
His pretty nurslings rears;
The poor affrighted buds to part
He shakes away their fears.
I am, O lily-shrinking flower,
The wilding wind that blows,
Intent, although my blossom cower,
Its petals to unclose.
The wilding wind that blows,
Intent, although my blossom cower,
Its petals to unclose.
71
SUNBREAK.
Ah, what hast thou given me, what hast thou done?
Thou'st wrought the sweet task of the life-giving sun.
Thou'st wrought the sweet task of the life-giving sun.
Before thine outbreaking, how long had I lain
All coweringly closed from the sleet and the rain.
All coweringly closed from the sleet and the rain.
But thou, with thy sun-breath, art come, and I lie
Wide petall'd and warm to the full glowing sky!
Wide petall'd and warm to the full glowing sky!
72
TO-MORROW.
What is to-morrow?
To morrow's a day
When one will be near
Who is far away.
To morrow's a day
When one will be near
Who is far away.
When a face will look young
That was looking old;
When a heart will beat high
That was growing cold.
That was looking old;
When a heart will beat high
That was growing cold.
When quicken'd memories
With hopes will meet,
And the past of the future
Foretell all sweet.
With hopes will meet,
And the past of the future
Foretell all sweet.
73
What is to-morrow?
To-morrow's best
Lies folded already
Within my breast.
To-morrow's best
Lies folded already
Within my breast.
The feast in the vigil
We fitliest keep;
For joy of the waking
I scarce can sleep.
We fitliest keep;
For joy of the waking
I scarce can sleep.
To waken and wonder
What joy is born,
Then find that To-morrow
Is come with the morn.
What joy is born,
Then find that To-morrow
Is come with the morn.
To-morrow, to-morrow!
So sweet to say!
To think it will ever
Be yesterday!
So sweet to say!
To think it will ever
Be yesterday!
74
LOVE AND WINE.
I knew that first love was a new-graped wine
That best in the dark would keep;
I had a safe-hiding heart, and mine
I buried there, oh so deep!
That best in the dark would keep;
I had a safe-hiding heart, and mine
I buried there, oh so deep!
I said: From the light it must needs escape,
And remain untasted so,
Till the sun-warm bloom of the rounding grape
Through its inner fruitage glow.
And remain untasted so,
Till the sun-warm bloom of the rounding grape
Through its inner fruitage glow.
It was not press'd for a passing thirst;
A short-lived want to allay;
For a life-long passion of need it was nurst,
For a far-off festal day.
A short-lived want to allay;
For a life-long passion of need it was nurst,
For a far-off festal day.
75
I bade it in darkness grow bright and strong,
Through memory, and loss, and dearth:
Change, ferment, transition, it suffered long,
Then pass'd, through a second birth,
Through memory, and loss, and dearth:
Change, ferment, transition, it suffered long,
Then pass'd, through a second birth,
Into fixèd sunshine, and odour fine
Its fuller life to express:
Oh, I ne'er had hoarded the new-made wine,
My love, had I lov'd thee less!
Its fuller life to express:
Oh, I ne'er had hoarded the new-made wine,
My love, had I lov'd thee less!
But now it is bloom-flush'd, and fragrant, and sweet,
And I, from this heart of mine,
Can draw for thy lips a drink-offering meet:
Ah, now thou canst ask for wine!
And I, from this heart of mine,
Can draw for thy lips a drink-offering meet:
Ah, now thou canst ask for wine!
76
THE NEW YEAR.
New sources for our weeping,
New well-springs for our bliss;
New faces in their fairness,
New fading ones to miss.
New well-springs for our bliss;
New faces in their fairness,
New fading ones to miss.
New whispers from the violet,
Fresh song-breaths from the bird;
Fair sunsets, ne'er beholden,
Far soul-depths never stirr'd.
Fresh song-breaths from the bird;
Fair sunsets, ne'er beholden,
Far soul-depths never stirr'd.
New foot-tracks for our treading,
Ne'er travell'd spirit ways,
Oh, joy of the untraversed
Fresh story-bringing days!
Ne'er travell'd spirit ways,
Oh, joy of the untraversed
Fresh story-bringing days!
77
LIFE AND LOVE.
We were to be born, and we are to die,
And a little life between;
The past doth open and hazy lie,
The future a chinkless screen.
And a little life between;
The past doth open and hazy lie,
The future a chinkless screen.
We were to be born, and we are to die,
And a little love between;
And we feel all dimly, we know not why,
A light on the great Unseen.
And a little love between;
And we feel all dimly, we know not why,
A light on the great Unseen.
78
THE CLIFF.
‘Worlds not realised.’
Fair is the sea at fullest tide,
And beautiful the mountain side;
But outward happiness to me
Is best assur'd, when I can see
The light upon the sea-bird's wing
From banks where heath and harebells spring;
And turn from blowing flowers to hail
The glory on the flitting sail.
And beautiful the mountain side;
But outward happiness to me
Is best assur'd, when I can see
The light upon the sea-bird's wing
From banks where heath and harebells spring;
And turn from blowing flowers to hail
The glory on the flitting sail.
This happy autumn-tide to me
Such mingled joy of earth and sea
Was richly given; for I found
A slope of heaving, grassy ground,
As rich in bloom as inland dell,
Though at its feet the surges fell,
And temper'd with the rising tide
The stillness of the mountain side.
A cliff rough-shod with tangled weed,
Whose top was strewn with clover seed,
From whose high, sea-encircled brink
No meadow-nurtured flower would shrink;
But where all creatures inland-born
Were ocean-cherished—Yellow Corn,
The lidless ox-eye, and the small
Close mountain flowers that sweeten all
The turfy coverts 'twixt the brake,
With those dim earthy scents that make
More glorious the treasure-tide
From belts of purpling heather wide,
And lightly balm the wind that stirs
The heavy fragrance of the furze.
Such mingled joy of earth and sea
Was richly given; for I found
A slope of heaving, grassy ground,
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Though at its feet the surges fell,
And temper'd with the rising tide
The stillness of the mountain side.
A cliff rough-shod with tangled weed,
Whose top was strewn with clover seed,
From whose high, sea-encircled brink
No meadow-nurtured flower would shrink;
But where all creatures inland-born
Were ocean-cherished—Yellow Corn,
The lidless ox-eye, and the small
Close mountain flowers that sweeten all
The turfy coverts 'twixt the brake,
With those dim earthy scents that make
More glorious the treasure-tide
From belts of purpling heather wide,
And lightly balm the wind that stirs
The heavy fragrance of the furze.
'Mid such sweet pasture 'twas not strange
The culling butterfly should range;
Brown, mottled moths were there, that bore
Deep mysteries of fairy-lore
On their strange-pictur'd wings, that none
Howe'er keen-eyed could muse upon,
So swift the runic page was turn'd,
As some fresh beauty was discern'd
'Mong beckoning blossom-crowds, that prest
With treasure their bewilder'd guest.
With idle sport, in idlest mood,
The boldest traveller I pursued,
Beyond the neighbouring vetch's rim
Across the crowding flower-tops dim,
Past the thick fern, to where upon
The mountain's utmost verge there shone
A great moon-daisy, on whose wide
White leaves it rested satisfied
An instant, then as eager fled
To the vast ocean's foaming bed.
The culling butterfly should range;
Brown, mottled moths were there, that bore
Deep mysteries of fairy-lore
80
Howe'er keen-eyed could muse upon,
So swift the runic page was turn'd,
As some fresh beauty was discern'd
'Mong beckoning blossom-crowds, that prest
With treasure their bewilder'd guest.
With idle sport, in idlest mood,
The boldest traveller I pursued,
Beyond the neighbouring vetch's rim
Across the crowding flower-tops dim,
Past the thick fern, to where upon
The mountain's utmost verge there shone
A great moon-daisy, on whose wide
White leaves it rested satisfied
An instant, then as eager fled
To the vast ocean's foaming bed.
I watch'd the blossom-busied thing
To that dim wilderness take wing,
Each changeful solace left behind,
The restful leaves, the flowery wind;
And on, around it and before,
A boundless life, to which it bore
No sweet affiance such as lies
'Twixt springing lark and summer skies;
But where each influence seem'd to press
On the slight creature's nothingness:
And watching, following so, a shade
Fell o'er my spirit, half-afraid,
Half-questioning, if she were not
As ignorantly bound; her lot
As perilous; and must she break
From life's bright mountain side to take
Her way into a world to be
As desolate as that lone sea?
To that dim wilderness take wing,
Each changeful solace left behind,
The restful leaves, the flowery wind;
And on, around it and before,
A boundless life, to which it bore
81
'Twixt springing lark and summer skies;
But where each influence seem'd to press
On the slight creature's nothingness:
And watching, following so, a shade
Fell o'er my spirit, half-afraid,
Half-questioning, if she were not
As ignorantly bound; her lot
As perilous; and must she break
From life's bright mountain side to take
Her way into a world to be
As desolate as that lone sea?
Fair are the waves at fullest tide,
And beautiful the mountain-side,
But dear the ocean cliff, for there
We touch the flowers, yet feel an air
That nurtures other life, and know
That a great world doth overblow
Our soft land-breezes; and if some
Sad musings to our pleasure come,
We cannot neighbour the unknown,
Or let our thoughts stray from their own
Self-chosen boundaries, without
A sense of homelessness, of doubt,—
A sense swift-master'd by the strange
Unconquerable need of range
That gives us pilot thoughts, and wise
Far reaching hope to colonise
New spirit realms; oh, but for these,
What joy were on the widening seas?
For even in outward forms to see
Athwart the solemn mystery
Of those twin-breathing lives—the Here,
And the Here-hidden, bringeth cheer
To the close-housèd soul, that tho'
Home-keeping in her use, must grow
To God's own issues, and is yet
On myriad-worlded travel set.
And beautiful the mountain-side,
But dear the ocean cliff, for there
We touch the flowers, yet feel an air
That nurtures other life, and know
That a great world doth overblow
Our soft land-breezes; and if some
Sad musings to our pleasure come,
We cannot neighbour the unknown,
Or let our thoughts stray from their own
82
A sense of homelessness, of doubt,—
A sense swift-master'd by the strange
Unconquerable need of range
That gives us pilot thoughts, and wise
Far reaching hope to colonise
New spirit realms; oh, but for these,
What joy were on the widening seas?
For even in outward forms to see
Athwart the solemn mystery
Of those twin-breathing lives—the Here,
And the Here-hidden, bringeth cheer
To the close-housèd soul, that tho'
Home-keeping in her use, must grow
To God's own issues, and is yet
On myriad-worlded travel set.
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