 | A Selection from Unpublished Poems |  |
10
EARLY DAYS.
Ay, then, as our days began to shine
At Meldon, we gaily look'd, in mind,
To years coming on in longsome line,
With few that we yet had left behind.
We planted the walnut tree, knee-tall,
That now showers nuts in longsome fall.
The cypress we set, to see it rise
House-high as the years went by.
At Meldon, we gaily look'd, in mind,
To years coming on in longsome line,
With few that we yet had left behind.
We planted the walnut tree, knee-tall,
That now showers nuts in longsome fall.
The cypress we set, to see it rise
House-high as the years went by.
The stream, that from woody slopes onwound,
By willowy meads, or mounds, to wend
Where under some church-bells' Sunday sound
Some house overroof'd an early friend,
The many-miled road, that climb'd the hill,
Or fell by the bridge, or streamside mill,
Reached on by the milestone's mossy face,
The way to some friends yet gay.
By willowy meads, or mounds, to wend
Where under some church-bells' Sunday sound
Some house overroof'd an early friend,
The many-miled road, that climb'd the hill,
Or fell by the bridge, or streamside mill,
Reached on by the milestone's mossy face,
The way to some friends yet gay.
In spring when the Easter wind blew dry,
Or shed a few drops of glittering rain,
Or under the Whitsuntide's blue sky
Lay flowery field or dusty lane;
Or else at the feast, if all might fay,
We took from our work a holiday,
To go and to see how some old friend
Might fare, and his life might wear.
Or shed a few drops of glittering rain,
Or under the Whitsuntide's blue sky
Lay flowery field or dusty lane;
Or else at the feast, if all might fay,
We took from our work a holiday,
To go and to see how some old friend
Might fare, and his life might wear.
Of earlier friends we find, about
The land, only two or three in ten,
But children come in, for elders out,
To fill up the losing world again.
And we, at our death losses, bewail
Lost faces, and not lives' lower tale,
And many must be the souls in bliss
Whose day never wears away.
The land, only two or three in ten,
But children come in, for elders out,
To fill up the losing world again.
11
Lost faces, and not lives' lower tale,
And many must be the souls in bliss
Whose day never wears away.
| A Selection from Unpublished Poems | |