New poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The stars began to peep,
Gone was the bitter day.
She heard the milky ewes
Bleat to their lambs astray.
Her heart cried for her lamb
Lapped cold in the churchyard sod;
She could not think on the happy children
At play with the Lamb of God.

She heard the calling ewes
And the lambs' answer, alas!
She heard her heart's blood drip in the night
As the ewes' milk on the grass.
Her tears that burnt like fire
So bitter and slow ran down;
She could not think on the new-washed children
Playing by Mary's gown.

Oh, who is this comes in
Over her threshold stone?
And why is the old dog wild with joy
That all day long made moan?
This fair little radiant ghost,
Her one little son of seven,
New 'scaped from the band of merry children
In the nurseries of heaven.

He was all clad in white
Without a speck or stain;
His curls had a ring of light
That rose and fell again.
Now come with me, my own mother,
And you shall have great ease,
For you shall see the lost children
Gathered to Mary's knees.

Oh, lightly sprang she up,
Nor waked her sleeping man,
And hand in hand with the little ghost
Through the dark night she ran.
She is gone swift as a fawn,
As a bird homes to its nest,
She has seen them lie, the sleepy children,
'Twixt Mary's arm and breast.

At morning she came back;
Her eyes were strange to see;
She will not fear the long journey,
However long it be.
As she goes in and out
She sings unto hersel';
For she has seen the mothers' children
And knows that it is well.

THE QUIET NIGHTS.

Unmindful of my low desert
Who turn e'en blessings to my hurt,
God sends me graces o'er and o'er,
More than the sands on the seashore.

Among the blessings He doth give
My starveling soul that she may live,
I praise Him for my nights He kept
And all the quiet sleep I slept,

Since I was young, who now grow old;
For all those nights of heat, of cold,
I slept the sweet hours through, nor heard
Even the call of the first bird.

Nights when the darkness covered me
In a great peace like a great sea,
With waves of sweetness, who should lie
Wakeful for mine iniquity.

Cool nights of fragrance, dripping sweet,
After the sultriness of heat,
Amid grey meadows drenched with dew;
Sweet was the sleep my eyelids knew.

Surely some angel kept my bed
After I had knelt down and prayed.
Like a young child I slept, until
The day stood at the window-sill.

I thank Him for the nights of stars,
Bright Saturn with his rings, and Mars,
And overhead the Milky Way—
Nights when the summer lightnings play.

How many a Milky Way I trod,
And through the mercy of my God
Drank milk and honey, wrapped in ease
Of darkness and sweet heaviness!

I thank Him for the wakening bird,
And the struck hours I have not heard,
And for the morns so cool, so kind,
That found me fresh in heart and mind.

Among the gifts of His mercy,
More than the leaves upon the tree,
The sands upon the shore, I keep
And name my lovely nights of sleep.

COWSLIPS.

The children run and leap
By a most heavenly hill.
And I will give you the Keys of Heaven
To use as you will.

The keys are small and sweet;
Gold keys from a girdle swung;
The cowslip opens the Gates of Heaven
To the pure and the young.

The children are gold and white—
Gold heads the mothers have kissed;
The children carry the Keys of Heaven
Swung at the wrist.

Children, why would ye go?
Here is a heavenly land.
The children swinging the Keys of Heaven
Slip from your hand.

Is it not heaven enough
Here for a little while?
The children kissing the Keys of Heaven
Listen and smile.

The children are white as snow;
They walk in gold to their knees.
The children who hold the Keys of Heaven
Go where they please.

MATERNITY.

There is no height, no depth, my own, could set us apart,
Body of mine and soul of mine: heart of my heart!

There is no sea so deep, my own, no mountain so high,
That I should not come to you if I heard you cry.

There is no hell so sunken, no heaven so steep,
Where I should not seek my own, find you and keep.

Now you are round and soft to see, sweet as a rose,
Not a stain on my spotless one, white as the snows.

If some day you came to me heavy with sin,
I, your mother, would run to the door and let you in.

I would wash you white again with my tears and grief,
Body of mine and soul of mine, till you found relief.

Though you had sinned all sins there are 'twixt east and west,
You should find my arms wide for you, your head on my breast.

Child, if I were in heaven one day and you were in hell—
Angels white as my spotless one stumbled and fell—

I would leave for you the fields of God and Queen Mary's feet,
Straight to the heart of hell would go, seeking my sweet.

God mayhap would turn Him around at sound of the door:
Who is it goes out from Me to come back no more?

Then the blessed Mother of God would say from her throne:
Son, 'tis a mother goes to hell, seeking her own.

Body of mine, and soul of mine, born of me,
Thou who wert once little Jesus beside my knee.

It is like to that all mothers are made: Thou madest them so.
Body of mine and soul of mine, do I not know?

THE THRUSH AND THE MAN.

Time to get up! Time to get up! says the Thrush,
Shouting the golden hours of morning through.
Every bird is merry in bower and bush:
Love's in flower and a thousand things to do.
Time to get up! Time to get up! he calls.
Slug-a-bed! slug-a-bed! mocking and calling yet.
O thrush, be still! For day has a yoke that galls,
A grief, a weariness: let me sleep and forget.

You'll be late! You'll be late! says the Thrush: too late for feast.
Winter's over: rise and be joyful now.
The wind in the south forgets that once it was east;
There's snow on the thorn and rose on the applebough.
O thrush, be silent! Let me rest from my cares,
From grief that irks, and age that comes and the night.
You'll be late! says the Thrush. See the sun!
You'll be late for prayers.
We've sung our Prime and Matins and None's in sight.

Share it!—share it!—share it! says the Thrush,
Changing his note to suit unhappy me.
When love shares the burden, what is it? Tush!
Heavy for one is light for two, for three.
Share it!—share it! calls again and flies.
Comfort, counsel for a hapless ear.
Sure, Minerva's fowl was not so wise!
Time to get up! O thrush, I rise—I hear!

LAMBS.

I saw the ewes lying,
Their lambs bleating and crying,
Poor lambs, weary of travel, on the green sod—
Sore-foot, crying and bleating,
Each sweet to its sweeting,
And thought of another Lamb, the Lamb of God.

In the sweet May so tender,
With trees in their new splendour,
I heard a lamb cry for its milky dam,
With a low bleat and weary,
As one dear to its dearie—
And thought on another Lamb—dear Mary's Lamb.

Each lamb beside its mother,
Its own, not any other,
Comforted with her milk lay sweetly at rest—
Full fed and safe from harm,
As a child in the mother's arm—
I thought of a downy head at Mary's breast.

I saw the lambs playing,
No darling lost or straying,
About their mothers on the dewy heath,
Amid the daisies and clover,
Each small love by its lover.—
I thought of Mary's boy in Nazareth.

A lamb so soft and curled.
Oh, sweetest Name in the world!
The Child, the Son, the Lamb; oh heavenly Name!
That holds in its completeness
All lovely things and sweetness—
The Holy Spirit's thought for the Son,—God's Lamb!

THE MAKING OF BIRDS.

God made Him birds in a pleasant humour;
Tired of planets and suns was He.
He said: I will add a glory to summer,
Gifts for my creature banished from Me!

He had a thought and it set Him smiling
Of the shape of a bird and its glancing head,
Its dainty air and its grace beguiling:
“I will make feathers,” the Lord God said.

He made the robin; He made the swallow;
His deft hands moulding the shape to His mood,
The thrush and lark and the finch to follow,
And laughed to see that His work was good.

He who has given men gift of laughter—
Made in His image; He fashioned fit
The blink of the owl and the stork thereafter,
The little wren and the long-tailed tit.

He spent in the making His wit and fancies;
The wing-feathers He fashioned them strong;
Deft and dear as daisies and pansies,
He crowned His work with the gift of song.

Dearlings, He said, make songs for My praises!
He tossed them loose to the sun and wind,
Airily sweet as pansies and daisies;
He taught them to build a nest to their mind.

The dear Lord God of His glories weary—
Christ our Lord had the heart of a boy—
Made Him birds in a moment merry,
Bade them soar and sing for His joy

MALVERN.

At Malvern under the greenest hill
The Spirit of Place in the evening still
Whispers and passes and what she saith
The wind knoweth, the water knoweth.

There are drifts of bluest blue in the grass,
The green grass where the white feet pass.
It is still and holy; the bean-field blows,
The apple-tree's the ghost of a rose.

The hour is gentle, gentle the night;
The night-jar whirrs from the wooded height;
The Spirit of Place, she goeth in white;
Like the feet of the wind is her soundless flight.

Her tale is gentle, the Spirit of Place.
There is neither terror nor bitterness.
Was there War? Long since it was turned to Peace;
Her voice is low as the hum of bees.

They were born, they played, they were lass and lad;
They loved like the birds, they built and were glad.
They saw their children; grew old and died:
Under the grasses lie side by side.

They ploughed, they sowed, they reaped. If they sinned
They were sorry; their Father in heaven was kind.
His Mother, the Saints; they had friends enough
To help poor Everyman's burden off.

Softly she's counting as on her beads
The white heads and the golden heads
Laid low in this garden under the hill,
Till the Angel blows on his trumpet shrill.

Then they shall wake, they shall rise and go,
They shall run and leap—they are white as snow.
The Spirit of Place she has tales to tell
Of the holy house and the sacring-bell.

In the dim fields 'neath the greenest hill,
The Spirit of Place she is never still.
Her eyes are gentle, her speech sayeth:
All passes! All passes! God stayeth!

VOCATION.

For this, for this was I foreseen,
For this was born and made,
To make a home mid leaves green
All in a tender shade,

To build a home both warm and kind
Amid the sad world's dearth.
God had the children in His mind
The hour He gave me birth.

For this He tempered wind and storm,
Kept me in heat and chill,
To build a house both bright and warm
Against the powers of ill.

To build a house on a clear height,
Nor see its light grow dim,
That draws the children home by night
And keeps a thought of Him.

I set a light on a high hill
And from their heavenly place
The children's angels, grave and still,
They say: God give you grace!

For this, for this was I fashioned,
To give them back again,
Someday—come kiss me, Golden-Head!—
Without a speck or stain.

I am the servant of the Lord.
If one day He should tell:
Now name thine own fee and reward
Who kept My trust so well.

Lord: I would say: Thou hast repaid
Yea more than seven times seven,
Who in a home in a green shade
Made me the children's heaven.

THE TRAIN THAT GOES TO IRELAND

The train that goes to Ireland: it often passes by.
'Tis comin' like a long, white snake wid smoke upon the sky.
The people do be in it, 'tis little that they know
The sorrow that is on me as I see them go.

The flyin' train for Ireland, it screeches fast and far;
And it might be for Tirnan-oge where gentle people are;
Troth, it might be for heaven where the blessed walk in white,
So bitter is my longin' as it flies out o' sight.

Maybe if I went wid it 'tis little joy I'd find.
The grass is growin' over them that's never from my mind.
There's lonesome, empty places; and people seein' me
Would say: The stranger woman, an' who may she be?

But och, the green of Ireland and the silver, shinin' bay!
The mountains don't be changin' though the people pass away.

An' still her streams are singin' an' still her larks will rise.
'Tis she that's under golden mist to my achin' eyes.

The people do be in the train they never know their luck.
The half of them is yawnin' or dozin' wid a book:
Them that'll be in Ireland before the night is come,
That'll see the Dublin mountains an' the skies of home!

The people do be in the train: they don't know at all
They take a wee, wild passenger, och, very sad and small!
An' that's the heart that laves me an' goes flyin' fast an' free,
An' travellin' home to Ireland by the dim, grey sea.

CANTERBURY BELLS

Now let's away to Canterbury!
The bells ring out both blithe and merry—
A ring of bells of blue and white
And rosy pink doth us invite
To fare to Canterbury!

Now come, good pilgrims, as ye use,
Nor wear the peasen in your shoes,
For here's a merry pilgrimage
For young and old and fool and sage—
A-foot to Canterbury!

Now o'er the Pilgrim's way doth swing
The moon of Mary in a ring
Of stars; and every hill and vale
Is throbbing to the nightingale.
Come, let's to Canterbury!

The may-thorn makes a moon in shade
For many a lover, many a maid;
The wild thyme now the foot doth press;
The nests have a wild business
On the road to Canterbury!

There's lilac in the garden-bower,
The gold chain shakes a golden shower,
The honeysuckle's honeyed now,
Syringa's out on the high bough—
The way to Canterbury!

Yet in this hour with joy at flood
Let's think upon the Saint whose blood
Sowed martyr's seed, that so he keep
Us harmless while we wake and sleep—
Pilgrims to Canterbury!

Was ever a kinder Saint than this,
Who hath his bells of fine lilies,
That, ringing in the sweet o' the year,
Bid all good Christian folk give ear—
And who's for Canterbury?

THE LITTLE HILL.

There's a little hill, a round green hill, in my own country;
And shaped like a little breast it is, so round to see;
O, shaped like a little breast it is, so smooth, so mild.
The milky breast of the earth it is, warm for the child.

There's a little hill and a hundred streams flow down its side.
And I would that I might creep there now, creep there and hide,
And drink my fill of the honeyed milk, drink and be full,
And the thirst of the heart be quenched in me in the shadows cool!

There's never a day of the hottest days but you'd find there yet
The plash of the water under your feet and a fragrance wet;
And the water-weeds they stand to their knees in the emerald flow;
And the silver fin of a trout'll be in the pool below.

There's a blackbird, too, in the dusk and dew and he sings a strain
Must draw the ache from the weary heart and the fever pain.
Sure he'll sing his song all the evening long full of trouble and joy—
The honeyed note and the golden throat and the heart of a boy.

To that little hill in my own country if I might come
And lie at rest on that milky breast in the fields at home!
There's dust in my heart and dust in my throat, and I crying still
For the song I knew in the dusk and dew and the little green hill.

GOOD FRIDAY.

Good Friday is a heavenly day,
So bright, so fair, so still,
They slay the King of all the world
On a high hill,

The birds sing sweet and low,
With a most quiet mirth.
They scoop a hollow grave for Him,
The holiest head on earth.

Good Friday is a heavenly day,
New lights on earth and sky:
The day the Saviour of us all
Went forth to die.

Sweetly it rose and fell,
So calm, so light, so grave.
Christ Jesus, sacrificed for men,
Died—and forgave.

LAVENDER.

There's a clump of lavender
In the convent garden old,
Alive with the pilferer
Who wears a coat of gold.

He swings and he sways
As he sucks his sweet.
All through a honeyed haze
His wings cling and his feet.

By the grey-blue lavender
Fra Placid comes and goes—
Sets on the grass-plot there
His linen all in rows.

The Lord God's altar-cloth
Whereon is laid white bread
For starving souls and both
The white wine and the red.

The marble Mother and Child
Look down from a green space;
Holy and undefiled,
They give the garden grace.

There, when the dews began
And the sun ripened the peach,
Fra Placid, sacristan,
Laid his fair cloths to bleach.

In the fresh morning time,
May Christ all souls assoil!
The bell ringing for Prime
Summoned him to new toil.

For hours he dusted and swept,
Yea, he had little ease,
At the noontide he slept,
His head drooped to his knees.

About the vesper hour
He woke and slept again,
Forgetting the sudden shower,
The thieving, wandering men.

Until, wide-waked at last,
The linen came to mind;
He ran with anxious haste,
Fearing no cloths to find.

There by the lavender
He spied a wondrous sight:
The pedestal was bare,
Queen Mary walked in white.

She walked with a still air
Over the shining grass,
The spikes of lavender
Bent low as she did pass.

No more in her embrace
She clasped her sweetest Son.
He leapt on the grassy space
As a lamb might leap and run.

He skipped like a white lamb
Upon the daisied sod.
Played many a merry game,
The little Lamb of God.

He gathered with delight
The lavender, leaf and flower,
And on the linen white
He shook it in a shower.

Placid, the sacristan,
Fell on his face afraid,
Tears down his old cheeks ran—
Dear God, dear God! he said.

Dear God, dear God! he wept;
See how thy table-cloth
Was well guarded and kept
While I gave way to sloth.

The bell called him to prayer,
He went obediently:
'Twere well that all my care
Had such sweet strewings, said he.

HERSELF.

She hath it in her keeping, the house quietly sleeping—
When all the world is fast asleep she's keeping guard;
Her hands stretched in blessing have heaven for possessing.
She and her Baby hold the house in watch and ward.

Withouten fear and harm the folk sleep and lie warm,
Since there are Two that watch the house the whole night long;
Against fire and danger and the storm's wild anger,
The pestilence that flies by night, Herself is strong.

Her Son she is holding like a flower unfolding
'Twixt the sleepers and the evil that walks abroad;
She draws a line round them and her light to bound them
Under the shelter of her hands and the eyes of God.

The children quietly dreaming of woods and waters gleaming
Wander all night in Paradise amid the flowers;
And wake up still smiling for the dream's beguiling.
To her leading and tending through the daylight's hours.

There is love and no chiding in the house of her abiding;
There's a light that glows, none knoweth whence, in the air serene.
She who is Queen and Lady of her Son and Heaven already,
Herself is Lady of the House, its Mother and Queen.

GREEN FIELDS.

The old tune of Green Fields keeps buzzing in my head,
The fine tune of Green Fields that Tom the piper played
The night that I was married. 'Tis long I've sat my lone,
And the very life and heart of me hidden under a stone.
Green Fields!

'Tis strange the young are taken and the old left in grief.
I'm like a fly in the winter that shelters under a leaf.
And still in the old cracked heart of me a fiddle will play
The dancing-tune that I'm troubled with the livelong day—
Green Fields!

I can hear the feet of the boys and girls to the tune that tells
Of the grass-green silk and the daisies white and the honied smells.

'Twas the tune they played at my christening, my mother often said,
And they'd play it for my wake-tune and I to be lying dead!
Green Fields!

I think when I have travelled that journey sad and lone,
And me to be come to the last wall that keeps me from my own,
I'll hear them playing so soft and low beyond the opening door
And the dancers gathering thick as bees on the starry floor—
Green Fields!

Now, pipers, play up smartly the tune of tunes the best,
For I'm tired of being old and sick and the ache in my breast.
'Tis queer they'd go and leave me, the wife and children young,
And I to be sitting old and dark, crooning my lonesome song—
Green Fields!

THE RETURN.

I took the road to Mary's house
By some strange, sad mischance,
Not the loved road whereon long syne
My heart was used to dance.

What film was on my eyes, my heart?
Why was my sense a-drowse?
Suddenly round a turn o' the road
There was her very house.

There was the very door whereat
I used not knock nor ring,
But turn the handle and come in
Like a familiar thing.

Where was her welcome, warm and kind,
That never failed me yet?
There by her door in the wet wind
Fluttered a bill “To Let.”

The house that sheltered me of old,
The warm and kindly place,
Turned on me sightless eyes and cold,
An unremembering face.

I took the road to Mary's house
By sad mischance indeed.
The tattered bill shook in the wind
For all the world to read.

Then as I turned me round about
My sad road to re-tread,
For the first time and the last time
I knew that she was dead.

THE MOTHER.

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun.
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof.
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow.
Thou Whom a woman laid in manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

THE COUNTRY CHILD.

The Country Child has fragrances
He breathes about him as he goes;
Clear eyes that look at distances,
And in his cheeks the wilding rose.

The sun, the sun himself will stain
The country face to his own red,
The red-gold of the ripening grain,
And bleach to white the curly head.

He rises to the morning lark,
Sleeps with the evening primroses,
Before the curtain of the dark
Lets down its splendour, starred with bees.

He sleeps so sweet without a dream
Under brown cottage eaves and deep,
His window holds one stray moonbeam
As though an angel kept his sleep.

He feeds on honest country fare,
Drinks the clear water of the spring;
Green carpets wait him everywhere,
Where he may run, where he may sing.

He hath his country lore by heart,
And what is friend and what is foe;
Hath conned Dame Nature's book apart—
Her child since he began to grow.

When he is old, when he goes sad,
Hobbling upon a twisted knee,
He keeps somewhat of joys he had,
Since an old countryman is he.

He keeps his childhood's innocencies,
Though his old head be bleached to snow.
Forget-me-nots still hold his eyes,
And in his cheeks old roses blow.

A MALVERN GARDEN.

I sit beneath pink apple boughs;
By me the blackbird has a house;
There are five little speckled eggs in the nest
And over them a brooding breast.

I look on two tall poplar-trees.
This is the Garden of Heart's Ease;
Beyond the poplars and the pine
The hills make a long, lovely line.

There's a small cottage, ivy-clad,
The soul within it, old and glad,
Looks from the windows and is wise,
The windows are its quiet eyes.

A bean-field breathes its sweetest sweets
Into these hidden, green retreats.
Lilac, laburnum, wallflowers, all,
Close gathered by the privet wall.

The bee, the butterfly invade
This maze of flowers in a green shade.
Under the gnarlèd trees there grow
Green peas and cabbage in a row.

A stone's-throw off the plovers cry,
The small streams tinkle silverly;
All day the sheep and lambs lament,
The cuckoo calls his deep content.

Sweetly the cottage eaves invite
To rest by day, to sleep by night,
Like an old nurse who rocks to rest
Tired children on her tender breast.

Oh, sweet and hidden place of peace!
This is the Garden of Much Ease;
And over it the heavenly skies,
And round it deepest silences.

HOLY COMMUNION.

My soul, that's house-mate with my body,
And finds the tenement too small,
Frets at her vesture, white and ruddy,
Would break the windows, scale the wall;

Would spread her useless wings and flying
Leave all her dull estate behind.
To-day, with angels touching, vieing,
She finds her prison to her mind.

See now the prisoner's manumission!
And yet she hugs her prison still,
Where shining heads and wings elysian
Are crowding by her window-sill.

She sweeps her room and makes it festal,
Flings a white cloth upon the board,
And with a bridal heart and vestal
Awaits the coming of her Lord.

This is her hour. Enrapt with Mary
She breaks her box of ointment rare,
Kneels in her heaven, Love's sanctuary,
And feels His touch upon her hair.

Meanwhile her house-mate who shall perish
One hour is glorified likewise;
Envied of angels, she doth cherish
The Darling of the earth and skies.

One hour, poor wench, her honour's over;
She, destined only for the earth,
Fashioned for no immortal lover,
Gives praise for crowns beyond her worth.

No longer now the soul's in prison,
Nor tethered by her useless wings,
Slips bonds; follows her Lord arisen,
And ere she falls by heaven's gate sings.

CHAFFINCH

Wet! wet! Hear Chaffinch! He cries and calls,
Cries and calls from the snowy cherry-bough,—
Chaffinch sighing and crying for water-falls,
For the feel of the rain and her delicate freshness now.

Wet! wet! Oh, Chaffinch, will you not tire?
After the drought and dust the rain is sweet.
The sap runs in the trees to the heart's desire,
The grass hears, the little hearts are a-beat.

White's the cherry orchard from head to foot.
This is the golden moment of all the year.
Over the song of the thrush and the blackbird's flute
Wet! wet! the Chaffinch calls to his dear.

Down where the amber evening stretches for miles
There's a golden-bosomed cloud on the sky serene,
A little cloud afloat from the Golden Isles
Grows and grows in the amber sea and the green.

Wet! wet! Hear Chaffinch! and Chaffinch knows.
Chaffinch calls to his dear in the heavenly gloam.
Wet! wet! The rain as sweet as a rose
Will drench the orchard to-night and the cherry-bloom.

THE GREEN LADY.

Grey Spring twilight, the mild light, the shy light,
Larks, finches, linnets, all wild with glee.
The blackbird's shouting, without fear or doubting:
Nothing's dead and nothing's lost: Look up and see!

Thrushes are spilling their gold rain, filling
The yet bare arches of the wood with wild delight.
But who is this Lady bids the world make ready
For love-feasts and lovers and the scented night?

Oh, who is this Lady? By covert shady,
By orchard and garden her foot will steal:
A sweet, sweet shadow, by hill and meadow,
Tells her tale to the hid vale, the listening hill.

She comes all unbidden, with wild eyes hidden;
Veils of mist cover her with a green dress.
Where her foot passes the dead under the grasses
Ask: Is it time? And she answers: Yes.

I have not seen her, but the grass is greener
For the white feet of her that glide and float.
I but divine her by a something finer,
Wilder and gayer in the blackbird's note.

She's a heavenly presence by park and pleasance,
In the grey twilight a presence dear.
Half apprehended, by the choir attended,
Her gown of the green silk laps at my ear.

To my highest chamber her white feet clamber.
Oh, the Spring, Spring's in my house and joys I lost.
In the grey twilight, the soft light, the shy light,
Comes and goes like a mist of green, a gentle ghost.

ALLELUIA!

With windflower now and daffodil,
That bird they call cuckoo
Goes shouting now o'er vale and hill
His Allelu—
Alleluia!

He feasts him on the cuckoo's meat,
The wood-sorrel so new,
And shouts his grace ere he doth eat—
His Allelu—
Alleluia!

Sith Christ hath left the wormy grave
The world's in green and blue,
This clerk sings piously his stave,
His Allelu—
Alleluia!

Up hearts! for Jesus Christ, His sake,
Who by His dying slew
Both death and sin. Here's one awake
Calls Allelu—
Alleluia!

CHRISTMAS EVE IN IRELAND

Not a cabin in the Glen shuts its door to-night,
Lest the travellers abroad knock in vain and pass,
Just a humble gentleman and a lady bright
And she to be riding on an ass.

Grief is on her goodman, that the inns deny
Shelter to his dearest Dear in her hour of need;
That her Babe of royal birth, starriest, most high,
Has not where to lay His head.

Must they turn in sadness to the cattle byre
And the kind beasts once again shake the bed for Him?
Not a cabin in the Glen but heaps wood on the fire
And keeps its lamps a-trim.

Now the woman makes the bed, smoothes the linen sheet,
Spreads the blanket, soft and white, that her own hands spun.
Whisht! is that the ass that comes, on his four little feet,
Carrying the Holy One?

Nay, 'twas but the wind and rain, the sand on the floor.
A bitter night, yea, cruel, for folk to be abroad.
And she, not fit for hardship, outside a fast-closed door,
And her Son the Son of God!

Is it the moon that's turning the dark world to bright?
Is it some wonderful dawning in the night and cold?
Whisht! Did you see a shining One and Him to be clad in light
And the wings and head of Him gold?

Who are then those people, hurrying, hasting, those,
And they all looking up in the sky this night of wondrous things?
Oh, those I think be shepherdmen, and they that follow close,
I think, by their look, be kings.

Not a cabin in the Glen shuts the door till day,
Lest the heavenly travellers come, knock again in vain.
All the night the dulcimers, flutes, and hautboys play,
And the angels walk with men.

THE OAK AND THE MAN.

The oak said to the forest trees:
We are nigh as old as the eagle is,
As old as the carp that takes his ease
In the pond under the terraces.

Beech and lime, it is long in truth
Since I was an acorn round and smooth.
God knows, and yet I am still a youth:
I shall live a thousand years in sooth.

Brothers, he said, lean down by me.
See, a man walketh, so small to see!
His head is not as high as my knee,
But his pride soars high as the highest tree.

He who must die! His day is brief.
He swings on the bough like a painted leaf
That the wind of autumn layeth in grief.
Friends, of us, trees, he is Lord and Chief!

He is but a babe and yet he is old.
A word, a song, and his tale is told.
He would soar to the sun but his heart grows cold,
His pride has neither stay nor hold.

Brothers, many men have we seen
By the lawns and the pond and the bowling-green
Of the ancient house that's wise and serene,
Nigh as old as myself, I ween.

We see man tottering, daisy high.
A breath, he loves, he is high as the sky.
He sees his children and he must die;
Brief as the moth and the butterfly.

Hear, ash and elm! He laughed in his beard.
The whole forest rocked as it heard—
We are his, we whom the ages reared,
Whom nor storm nor lightning could make afeard!

Hear his pride. He is weak and slight,
Yet straddles earth like a god in his might.
We are his. We have seen the ages' flight
And this world's glory fade in a night!

The oak shook through his mighty girth.
Leagues of forest rocked to his mirth.
The man like a twig that has fallen to earth
Said: In my woods the wind stirreth.

THE LITTLE BRETHREN.

Brendan went to the greenwood
On the Eve of good St. John.
He prayed for all God's creatures
Before his prayers were done.

The birds, the fish in the sea,
And all the wild wood-folk.
He was their friend, their father,
Sheltered beneath his cloak.

The wood was full of whispers,
Magic and mystery;
He mused on the Love of God
Below a white-thorn tree.

The leaves stirred in the shadows.
The wind sank to its rest.
The little birds in branches
Dreamed sweetly, breast to breast.

He had laid his breviary by,
His vespers were all said.
But who may be these little folk,
All in the white and red?

Oh, who are these small people,
Those flowers all come alive,
Dancing the gayest measure,
As busy as a hive?

One like a sweet-pea rosy
Upon his shoulder lit.
His hand gathered another
And softly cradled it.

Oh, little ones like roses
And poppies and heartsease,
Good luck to your gay dances
Beneath the forest trees!

They have turned about and heard him,
They rustle in soft flight,
Their wings are brushing his forehead
Soft as the moths and light.

Like a pale flight of rose-leaves
They settle airily down;
As golden bees in a swarm
They cling to his hair, his gown.

Oh who are ye, small brethren,
Sweeter than birds or flowers?
He heard a little laughter,
Footsteps of summer showers.

There is one like humming-bird
Perched on his thinning curls.
Oh who are ye, small people,
As milky white as pearls?

Like pearls and the opal's sheen
The little bodies show.
Ye are sweet as the girl-children
That light earth's shades below.

Then spoke the fairest one—
And all were still to hear:
I am the Queen of Faery,
I live a thousand year.

We are glad, we faery folk,
Unfretted by a soul.
We dance till the Day of Judgment
Shrivels us as a scroll,

We envy not folk human.
We know nor cark nor care.
The cheek of a woman withers,
The dust is on her hair.

But there is trouble in Faery,
For some of us desire
A soul like the human people;
Desire burns as a fire.

There's blight on our fairy laughter—
I know not why nor whence.
In the centuries gone over
We had but innocence.

But since a whisper reached us
Of a strange, heavenly birth,
A King that died in torment
To save the folk of earth,

We are troubled, we folk of Faery.
And wherefore who shall know?—
That a King for love's sake perished
Hundreds of years ago.

There is grief on the Faery people,
The joy has canker and fret.
How can I get them souls, say,
Souls to be saved them yet?

Puck and Peas-blossom, hasten,
Bring water from the spring!
And say the words, thou wise one,
The words of Christening.

Now like a myriad rose-leaves
Softly the children press,
Kissing his hands, his habit,
With many a shy caress.

Upon his palm he held her,
Soft as a golden bee:
Answer me, little sister,
Before I answer thee.

Answer me, little sister:
Do these small flowers o' the air
Love Him who lay all bloody
Upon the Cross and bare?

Not love, she answered, sighing.
How should we love this King,
Who love but youth and beauty—
Not any dreadful thing?

We are neither sick nor sorry,
We have neither hate nor scorn.
We fear the sickly body,
The soul of man forlorn.

Alack, then, sweetest sister.
His voice was kind and fine.
By that sign ye are soulless,
Yea, by that sign, that sign.

Only by tears and pity,
And by the blood-stained road,
We come to the heavenly City
And Jesus Christ our God.

He stretched his hands in blessing.
The forest sighed and sighed.
They are gone like moths of Faery,
Gold-winged and peacock-eyed.

The forest rustled and murmured:
Their voices at his ears
As ghosts of the unborn children
Wept: and he heard their tears.

THE IRISH HARP.

The Irish harp has three strings.

Angus the Druid, lover of birds,
Crooned at its making strange runes and words.

He made the frame of a Druid tree,
Laid it with silver and ivory.

All the bells of the wood rang clear.
Angus paused at his task to hear.

He heard light footfalls and fairy laughter
And the pacing steed of the queen thereafter.

Its strings he made of silver and gold,
Like the hair of a woman, silken and cold:

Shaped them after a man's heart-strings.
The harp was Druid: a thing of wings.

He gave it gifts of laughter and weeping.
And the third gift was a gift of sleeping.

The first string sang in its flying
Of love and laughter and youth undying.

The second string, that failed in its flight,
Wept for love and the lost delight.

Love and death and the tale is told:
But the third string has a voice of gold.

After the laughter, after the fretting,
The third string has a song of forgetting.

The tired head on the softest breast
And the mother singing a song of rest.

Husheen lo! and the drowsing eyes.
The mother singing her lullabies.

Sweet was the first string, sweeter than honey.
Love is lovesome and youth is bonny.

Sweet was the song of loving and grieving,
The string that broke its heart for the living.

I would rather, O Angus, nor do thee wrong,
Hear the third with its slumber-song.

As drone of bees in the lily's blossom
The song of sleep on the mother's bosom.

Sweeter than songs of silver and gold
The song of sleep in her tender hold.

The Irish Harp has three strings.

VALE.

Now may deep country beckon and ope and fields of God receive him!
For an old rosy countryman be dewy meadows spread!
Under the shadow of great hills, by singing waters leave him.
Be sure he will be well content where flocks and herds are fed.

Talk not of city gates of a pearl—for pity's sake no cities!
How could he bear the city though its pavement was of gold?
But bid him take his country walks, with the birds singing their ditties,
The sheep and lambs all bleating still as in his fields of old.

Oh, I can see him as of old, blue-eyed, benign and smiling,
And he would lean upon a gate and count his herds again.

The pleasant country on his heart had laid her soft beguiling,
His fields called to him night and day and never called in vain.

Let him awake of a bright morn to growing time and mowing.
The songs of reapers reach his ears, the singing of the scythe.
Give him no stars beneath his feet, but scented clover showing
The cocks-foot and the sorrel and the sainfoin blithe.

Thou Who art Shepherd of the flock, Thy flock knows no repining,
Give him not mansions ivory-white nor splendid palaces,
Give him instead the happy fields, the mountains still and shining,
And let him walk with Thee about Thy Shepherd's business.