 | Le Cahier Jaune |  |
59
NORTHWARDS.
An orb of fire behind the grove
The sun speeds on;
The sliding streams that seaward move
Are chill and wan:
The mire is ridged with icy crust,
The tufted meads
Are specked with hoary flakes, where thrust
The frozen reeds.
The mellow light begins to pale,
The moon on high,
Too dim, too cloudlike to prevail,
Hangs in the sky.
The sun speeds on;
The sliding streams that seaward move
Are chill and wan:
The mire is ridged with icy crust,
The tufted meads
Are specked with hoary flakes, where thrust
The frozen reeds.
The mellow light begins to pale,
The moon on high,
Too dim, too cloudlike to prevail,
Hangs in the sky.
Through this bleak hour that brings the dark,
Ere daylight fade,
We fly on iron wheels, and mark
The changing glade.
Northwards the shuddering axles reel,
With merry din;
Like moving spokes on some slow wheel
The furrows spin.
The copse, the farmstead shifts; and both
Fly like the wind.
Swift runs the distant spire, as loth
To lag behind.
Ere daylight fade,
We fly on iron wheels, and mark
The changing glade.
Northwards the shuddering axles reel,
With merry din;
Like moving spokes on some slow wheel
The furrows spin.
The copse, the farmstead shifts; and both
Fly like the wind.
Swift runs the distant spire, as loth
To lag behind.
What means the transient glimpse, the sight
Of waste and home?
What stirs the roving heart so light
To choose and come?
They wave a welcome back, Oh stay
Thy course severe,
A truce to wandering! Here, they say,
Lies peace, and here.
Rest, rest, they call, unquiet mind,
Here learn to dream,
To love, and wander unconfined
As breeze or stream.
Of waste and home?
64
To choose and come?
They wave a welcome back, Oh stay
Thy course severe,
A truce to wandering! Here, they say,
Lies peace, and here.
Rest, rest, they call, unquiet mind,
Here learn to dream,
To love, and wander unconfined
As breeze or stream.
Ah no, I answer, night is near;
Not mine to set
The bourn I crave: what most I fear
Runs with me yet.
I hurry, hurry through the night,
I hasten on
To see what lands the Northern light
Next shines upon,
When I have learnt what longings are,
What means regret,
Something,—beyond the furthest star—
Shall call me yet.
Not mine to set
The bourn I crave: what most I fear
Runs with me yet.
I hurry, hurry through the night,
I hasten on
To see what lands the Northern light
Next shines upon,
When I have learnt what longings are,
What means regret,
Something,—beyond the furthest star—
Shall call me yet.
Ripon, 1892.
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