 | Songs and Poems by George Sigerson |  |
THE HOME RILL
Welcome, O little Rill!
Bright be thou ever,
Green be thy border still,
Twinkling thy quiver.
Thee I can never pass
All unrejoiceful,
Where, thro' the meadow-grass,
Making it voiceful,
Thou comest, by thyself, dancing and dimpling,
Down by the meadow's edge,
Domed by the drooping sedge,
Over a lichened ledge,
Under a whispering hedge
Winding and wimpling!
Bright be thou ever,
Green be thy border still,
Twinkling thy quiver.
Thee I can never pass
All unrejoiceful,
Where, thro' the meadow-grass,
Making it voiceful,
Thou comest, by thyself, dancing and dimpling,
Down by the meadow's edge,
Domed by the drooping sedge,
Over a lichened ledge,
Under a whispering hedge
Winding and wimpling!
43
Where, through the little arch,
Mossy and olden,
Close by a taper larch,
Under a golden
Bough of sweet-scented furze,
Softly out-flowing,
Out in clear amber stirs
Pulsing and glowing,
Thou comest, by thyself, from the mead welling;
Out of the dusty way,
Edging its margin gray,
With a green broidery,
And a low melody
Liquidly knelling!
Mossy and olden,
Close by a taper larch,
Under a golden
Bough of sweet-scented furze,
Softly out-flowing,
Out in clear amber stirs
Pulsing and glowing,
Thou comest, by thyself, from the mead welling;
Out of the dusty way,
Edging its margin gray,
With a green broidery,
And a low melody
Liquidly knelling!
There, in the mossy brink,
Warding thy entry,
Sits a wee white and pink
Daisy-bud, sentry;
There, in a shady nook,
Sunned by their lustre,
Laugh in a cluster,
Primroses, summer-sweet, radiant and yellow:
While in the linden-grove,
Cooeth the brooding dove,
While from the sky above
Showereth a shower of love
Tinklingly mellow!
Warding thy entry,
Sits a wee white and pink
Daisy-bud, sentry;
There, in a shady nook,
Sunned by their lustre,
Laugh in a cluster,
Primroses, summer-sweet, radiant and yellow:
While in the linden-grove,
Cooeth the brooding dove,
While from the sky above
Showereth a shower of love
Tinklingly mellow!
44
Years ago—years ago—
Far in the old days,
When things on high and low
Beamed through a gold haze,
Thee, as a child, I met,
Large-eyed in wonder,
Traced thee, with small feet wet,
Up-hill and under,
Lured by thy peaceful voice child-like and lonely—
Nay, I can pass thee not,
Memories haunt the spot,
Shadows come, long forgot,
Shades of Some who are not
Shades, alas, only.
Far in the old days,
When things on high and low
Beamed through a gold haze,
Thee, as a child, I met,
Large-eyed in wonder,
Traced thee, with small feet wet,
Up-hill and under,
Lured by thy peaceful voice child-like and lonely—
Nay, I can pass thee not,
Memories haunt the spot,
Shadows come, long forgot,
Shades of Some who are not
Shades, alas, only.
Still grows the iris here,
Shall I not take one?
Leaf-shallops launched we here,
Shall I not make one?
Float away, plaited prow,
'Mong the cress islets,
Now in mid-stream, and now
Coasting the violets;
Gone are the soft hands that clasped mine to guide me,
Gone the sweet silver shout—
Gone the laugh ringing out—
Gone the half-smiling pout—
Gone all the merry rout
Running beside thee!
Shall I not take one?
Leaf-shallops launched we here,
Shall I not make one?
Float away, plaited prow,
'Mong the cress islets,
Now in mid-stream, and now
Coasting the violets;
Gone are the soft hands that clasped mine to guide me,
Gone the sweet silver shout—
Gone the laugh ringing out—
Gone the half-smiling pout—
Gone all the merry rout
Running beside thee!
45
In my heart, lonely Brook,
Yearns a vague sadness,
Canst not one little nook
Fill with old gladness?
While the chill grass that forms
Thy floating fringes,
Thrilled by thy ripple warms
Into rose tinges.
Share me, lone wanderer, share me thy quiet;
O'er thee the bough that bore
Snows but a month before,
Buds in green stars all o'er,
Shakes to its gladdened core
With the birds riot!
Yearns a vague sadness,
Canst not one little nook
Fill with old gladness?
While the chill grass that forms
Thy floating fringes,
Thrilled by thy ripple warms
Into rose tinges.
Share me, lone wanderer, share me thy quiet;
O'er thee the bough that bore
Snows but a month before,
Buds in green stars all o'er,
Shakes to its gladdened core
With the birds riot!
Whispering thyself unto
Peaceful communings,
Through my soul, gently too
Flow thy sweet croonings.
Fare thee well, little Rill!
Singing through even,
While all other sounds grow still
'Neath the starred heaven.
Thou goest, by thyself, all thy tones blending,
Far by the dusty way,
Far in the farness gray,
In a soft harmony,
And a low melody
Till the last ending.
Peaceful communings,
Through my soul, gently too
Flow thy sweet croonings.
Fare thee well, little Rill!
Singing through even,
While all other sounds grow still
'Neath the starred heaven.
Thou goest, by thyself, all thy tones blending,
Far by the dusty way,
Far in the farness gray,
In a soft harmony,
And a low melody
Till the last ending.
| Songs and Poems by George Sigerson | |