Golden Histories, etc By Wathen Mark Wilks Call |
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My Playmates
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 | Golden Histories, etc |  |
170
My Playmates
I once had a sister: and, loving as fair,
Her face would look out from its soft sunny hair,
Like a lily some tall stately angel may hold,
Half-revealed, half-concealed, in a mist of pure gold.
Her face would look out from its soft sunny hair,
Like a lily some tall stately angel may hold,
Half-revealed, half-concealed, in a mist of pure gold.
I once had a brother, more blithe than the day,
With a temper as sweet as the blossoms in May,
With dark hair, like a cloud; and a face where one rose,
Royal-red, bloom'd half-hid, by his sister of snows.
With a temper as sweet as the blossoms in May,
With dark hair, like a cloud; and a face where one rose,
Royal-red, bloom'd half-hid, by his sister of snows.
We lived in a cottage that stood in a dell.
Were we born there or brought there? I never could tell.
Were we nursed by the angels or clothed by the fays?
Or who led, when we fled, down the dim woodland-ways!
Were we born there or brought there? I never could tell.
Were we nursed by the angels or clothed by the fays?
Or who led, when we fled, down the dim woodland-ways!
In the morn when we rose we cried, Hark! children, hark!
We shall hear, if we listen, the song of the lark;
And we stood with our faces calm, silent, and bright,
While the breeze, in the trees, held his breath with delight.
We shall hear, if we listen, the song of the lark;
And we stood with our faces calm, silent, and bright,
While the breeze, in the trees, held his breath with delight.
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Oh, the stream ran with silver, the leaves dropped with dew,
And we looked up and saw the great Sun in the Blue.
And we praised him and blessed him but said not a word,
For we soared, we adored, with that worshipping bird.
And we looked up and saw the great Sun in the Blue.
And we praised him and blessed him but said not a word,
For we soared, we adored, with that worshipping bird.
Then with hand linked in hand, how we laughed, how we sung,
How we danced in a ring, when the morning was young.
How we wandered where king-cups, were crusted with gold,
With the bee on the lea, and the bird o'er the wold!
How we danced in a ring, when the morning was young.
How we wandered where king-cups, were crusted with gold,
With the bee on the lea, and the bird o'er the wold!
Oh, well I remember the flowers which we found,
With the red and white blossoms that damasked the ground,
And the long lanes of light that, half yellow, half green,
Seemed to fade, down the glade, where the fairies had been!
With the red and white blossoms that damasked the ground,
And the long lanes of light that, half yellow, half green,
Seemed to fade, down the glade, where the fairies had been!
Still I hear, as I heard them, still laughing they sing,
Still they mingle their song with the voices of Spring,
Still I see, as I saw it, the flame-coloured West,
And the spire, where a fire, from the sun, seemed to rest.
Still they mingle their song with the voices of Spring,
Still I see, as I saw it, the flame-coloured West,
And the spire, where a fire, from the sun, seemed to rest.
Oh, I'll never believe but the fairies were there,
Such a joy, such a brightness passed into the air.
Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours;
And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in the flowers.
Such a joy, such a brightness passed into the air.
Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours;
And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in the flowers.
Oh, weep ye, and wail! for that sister, alas!
And that fair gentle brother lie low in the grass,
Perchance the red robins may strew them with leaves,
That still sing, in the spring, near the pale-ivied eaves.
And that fair gentle brother lie low in the grass,
Perchance the red robins may strew them with leaves,
That still sing, in the spring, near the pale-ivied eaves.
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Perchance of their dust the new violets are made,
That bloom by the church that lies hid in the glade;
But one day I shall learn, if I pass where they grow,
For more sweet they will greet their old playmate I know.
That bloom by the church that lies hid in the glade;
But one day I shall learn, if I pass where they grow,
For more sweet they will greet their old playmate I know.
Ah! the Cottage is gone, and no longer I see
The old glade, the old paths, and no lark sings for me;
But I still must believe that the fairies are there,
That the light grows more bright, as they glide thro'the air.
The old glade, the old paths, and no lark sings for me;
But I still must believe that the fairies are there,
That the light grows more bright, as they glide thro'the air.
| Golden Histories, etc | |