 | Le Cahier Jaune |  |
55
A JUNE EVENING.
Over the red-tiled roofs and under the elm-trees high
Making a sudden clatter the pigeons wheel in the air:
The marigold stares in the pool and the blown sedge whistles dry,
And the elder is starred with bloom and breathes her soul on the air.
Making a sudden clatter the pigeons wheel in the air:
The marigold stares in the pool and the blown sedge whistles dry,
And the elder is starred with bloom and breathes her soul on the air.
Out of the heart of the thicket the bird's song breaks like a star,
Thrilling the soul with a passion as pure as the driven snow;
And the roses drink of the blood of life and glow from afar,
But what they say to my spirit is more than the roses know.
Thrilling the soul with a passion as pure as the driven snow;
And the roses drink of the blood of life and glow from afar,
But what they say to my spirit is more than the roses know.
Cedar and oak and plane that shadow my garden glade,
I know your greenness and gloom and love you each the best,
You with your slender fans, and you with your knotted shade,
And you with your lively grace and the scars of spring on your breast.
I know your greenness and gloom and love you each the best,
You with your slender fans, and you with your knotted shade,
And you with your lively grace and the scars of spring on your breast.
Deep in the winding lane where the hazels screen the nest,
The high-heaped waggons come with the music of tinkling teams,
And the trailing sprays fly back, and catch at the load deep-prest,
And laughter floats on the twilight as fair as the laughter of dreams.
The high-heaped waggons come with the music of tinkling teams,
And the trailing sprays fly back, and catch at the load deep-prest,
And laughter floats on the twilight as fair as the laughter of dreams.
56
Yet down in the hamlet below sick hearts are sorry to-night,
And children moan in their beds at the sounds of the hateful strife,
And dull eyes strain to the dawn and sigh at the chilly light,
And pant for the bliss unknown and know the burden of life.
And children moan in their beds at the sounds of the hateful strife,
And dull eyes strain to the dawn and sigh at the chilly light,
And pant for the bliss unknown and know the burden of life.
Saint and martyr and sage, that die for the weal of your race,
Penned in the din of the city or mured in the cloistered gloom,
Say have you felt in your hearts the glory of earth, and the grace
Of the spring, the flush of summer—the roses that twine the tomb?
Penned in the din of the city or mured in the cloistered gloom,
Say have you felt in your hearts the glory of earth, and the grace
Of the spring, the flush of summer—the roses that twine the tomb?
Oh joy that is knit with pain, oh shadows born of the grave,
Oh ache of the weary brow and throb of the labouring breath;—
Yet this is the world I want, and these are the joys I crave,
And not the passionless gloom on the other shore of death.
Oh ache of the weary brow and throb of the labouring breath;—
Yet this is the world I want, and these are the joys I crave,
And not the passionless gloom on the other shore of death.
Eton, 1891.
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