 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
112
The Streamlet at the Wray
I.
Here where the stream from ancient Sölva's hill
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
Draws the sweet life and music of the years,
Who wakes at dawn or rests at evening hears
A voice that to his soul doth strength instil.
Sound of the perfect work—the perfect will
That knowing but obedience to the sphere
Moves without present pain or future fear,
To bless all life, all duty to fulfil.
And I who listen in your garden ground
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
Feel like a guilty thing rebuked and blamed,
For I have done so little yet to bless
With gift of life the weary wilderness.
Yet do I rise, tho' humbled now and shamed,
And go forth stronger to the daily round.
II.
Thou wert the darling of our childish hours,
We loved thee for thy wanton restlessness,
We felt thy nature ours in its excess
Of life and song and laughter and sweet flowers:
Grown up to manhood's prime and strenuous powers
We watched thee labouring without weariness,
And knew thy cheer; as old men we could bless
Thy quiet pools in meditative bowers.
We loved thee for thy wanton restlessness,
We felt thy nature ours in its excess
113
Grown up to manhood's prime and strenuous powers
We watched thee labouring without weariness,
And knew thy cheer; as old men we could bless
Thy quiet pools in meditative bowers.
Now sad or glad, alternate hopes and fears
Not knowing whence they came or whither going,
All lovers owned affinity with thee;
But sweetest was thy voice to dying ears
That heard through change and chance thy waters flowing,
Heaven-sent, Heaven-bound, to Life's unfathomed sea.
Not knowing whence they came or whither going,
All lovers owned affinity with thee;
But sweetest was thy voice to dying ears
That heard through change and chance thy waters flowing,
Heaven-sent, Heaven-bound, to Life's unfathomed sea.
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