Chapter XI: Introduction (4)

But I forsake my niggard leas,
My orchard, too late hoar,
And wander over lands and seas
To find the Father's door.

When I have reached the ancestral farm,
Have clomb the steepy hill,
And round me rests the Father's arm,
Then think me what you will.

VIOLIN SONGS.

_HOPE DEFERRED_.

Summer is come again. The sun is bright,
And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy
Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light
My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ
Shall be to revel in unlikely things,
In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings,
And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk
Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea;
Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk,
Has grown a paradise for you and me.

But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth
Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there--
That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare,
How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!--
The sweetness is but one pined memory flown
Back from our summer, wandering alone!
See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart,
Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow,
Takes in the changing world its changing part,
Return a sigh, an echo sad and low,
To the faint, scarcely audible sound
With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground!
O love, sad winter lieth at the door--
Behind sad winter, age--we know no more.

Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold
Each of us compassed: we are growing old;
And if we be not as a ring enchanted,
Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay,
The young, who claim the joy that haunted
Our visions once, will push us far away
Into the desolate regions, dim and gray,
Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry,
The clouds hang low, and have no tears,
Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years,
And hopes and songs all careless pass us by.
But if all each do keep,
The rising tide of youth will sweep
Around us with its laughter-joyous waves,
As ocean fair some palmy island laves,
To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep;
And our youth hover round us like the breath
Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.

Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves,
The sundered doors into one palace home,
Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go,
Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low,
Willing to part, not willing to deny
The lovely past, where all the futures lie.

Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord,
Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word,
Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth--
Because there is no age, in sooth,
Beyond its passing shows!
A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows;
Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light
That knows not youth nor age,
That fears no darkness nor the rage
Of windy tempests--burning still more bright
Than when glad youth was all about,
And summer winds were out!

1845.

_DEATH_.

When in the bosom of the eldest night
This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest;
When through its shaded windows comes no light,
And its pale hands are folded on its breast--

How shall I fare, who had to wander out,
And of the unknown land the frontier cross,
Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about,
Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss?

Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist,
Over the city murmuring beneath;
Over the trees and fields, where'er I list,
Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath?

Or will a darkness, o'er material shows
Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight;
As from the sun a blotting radiance flows
Athwart the stars all glorious through the night;

And the still spirit hang entranced, alone,
Like one in an exalted opium-dream--
Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown,
With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam,

Thought only waking--thought that may not own
The lapse of ages, or the change of spot;
Its doubt all cast on what it counted known,
Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not?

Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until,
Our life restored by long and dreamless rest,
Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill,
And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest?

I nothing know, and nothing need to know.
God is; I shall be ever in his sight!
Give thou me strength to labour well, and so
Do my day's work ere fall my coming night.

_HARD TIMES_.

I am weary, and very lonely,
And can but think--think.
If there were some water only
That a spirit might drink--drink,
And arise,
With light in the eyes
And a crown of hope on the brow,
To walk abroad in the strength of gladness,
Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness--
As now!

But, Lord, thy child will be sad--
As sad as it pleases thee;
Will sit, not seeking to be glad,
Till thou bid sadness flee,
And, drawing near,
With thy good cheer
Awake thy life in me.

_IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN_.

If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
Pacing it wearily, wearily,
Twixt chapel and cell till day were done--
Wearily, wearily--
How would it fare with these hearts of ours
That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?

To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call,
Morning foul or fair!--
Such prayer as from weary lips might fall--
Words, but hardly prayer--
The chapel's roof, like the law in stone,
Caging the lark that up had flown!

Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,
The God-revealing,
Turning thy face from the boundless boon--
Painfully kneeling;
Or, in brown-shadowy solitude,
Bending thy head o'er the legend rude!

I, in a bare and lonely nook,
Gloomily, gloomily,
Poring over some musty book,
Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;
Or painting pictures of things of old
On parchment-margin in purple and gold!

Perchance in slow procession to meet,
Wearily, wearily,
In antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
Wearily, wearily;
Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then
Heavily sinking to earth again!

Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring!
Merrily, merrily!--
Back to its cell each weary thing,
Wearily, wearily!
Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old,
Most at home in the cloister cold!

Thou slow rising at vespers' call,
Wearily, wearily;
I looking up on the darkening wall,
Wearily, wearily;
The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,
Listless and dead to thee and me!

At length for sleep a weary assay,
On the lone couch wearily!
Rising at midnight again to pray,
Wearily, wearily!
And if through the dark dear eyes looked in,
Sending them far as a thought of sin!

And at last, thy tired soul passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily--
Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay,
Sleepily, sleepily--
Over thee held the crucified Best,
But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed!

And then my passing from cell to clay,
Dreamily, dreamily!
My gray head lying on ashes gray,
Sleepily, sleepily!
But no woman-angel hovering above,
Ready to clasp me in deathless love!

Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine,
Peacefully, peacefully;
My arm round thee, and my lips on thine,
Lovingly, lovingly--
Oh! is not a better thing to us given
Than wearily going alone to heaven?

_MY HEART_.

I.

Night, with her power to silence day,
Filled up my lonely room,
Quenching all sounds but one that lay
Beyond her passing doom,
Where in his shed a workman gay
Went on despite the gloom.

I listened, and I knew the sound,
And the trade that he was plying;
For backwards, forwards, bound on bound,
A shuttle was flying, flying--
Weaving ever--till, all unwound,
The weft go out a sighing.

II.

As hidden in thy chamber lowest
As in the sky the lark,
Thou, mystic thing, on working goest
Without the poorest spark,
And yet light's garment round me throwest,
Who else, as thou, were dark.

With body ever clothing me,
Thou mak'st me child of light;
I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea,
The sky's rejoicing height,
A woven glory, globed by thee,
Unknowing of thy might!

And when thy darkling labours fail,
And thy shuttle moveless lies,
My world will drop, like untied veil
From before a lady's eyes;
Or, all night read, a finished tale
That in the morning dies.

III.

Yet not in vain dost thou unroll
The stars, the world, the seas--
A mighty, wonder-painted scroll
Of Patmos mysteries,
Thou mediator 'twixt my soul
And higher things than these!

Thy holy ephod bound on me,
I pass into a seer;
For still in things thou mak'st me see,
The unseen grows more clear;
Still their indwelling Deity
Speaks plainer in mine ear.

Divinely taught the craftsman is
Who waketh wonderings;
Whose web, the nursing chrysalis
Round Psyche's folded wings,
To them transfers the loveliness
Of its inwoven things.

Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!--
For a greater heart beats on,
Whose better texture follows fleet
On thy last thread outrun,
With a seamless-woven garment, meet
To clothe a death-born son.

_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_.

Of old, with goodwill from the skies--
God's message to them given--
The angels came, a glad surprise,
And went again to heaven.

But now the angels are grown rare,
Needed no more as then;
Far lowlier messengers can bear
God's goodwill unto men.

Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn
Breaks from the earth below;
Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,
The noontide roses glow.

The snowdrops first--the dawning gray;
Then out the roses burn!
They speak their word, grow dim--away
To holy dust return.

Of oracles were little dearth,
Should heaven continue dumb;
From lowliest corners of the earth
God's messages will come.

In thy face his we see, O Lord,
And are no longer blind;
Need not so much his rarer word,
In flowers even read his mind.

_TO MY SISTER_,

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

I.

Old fables are not all a lie
That tell of wondrous birth,
Of Titan children, father Sky,
And mighty mother Earth.

Yea, now are walking on the ground
Sons of the mingled brood;
Yea, now upon the earth are found
Such daughters of the Good.

Earth-born, my sister, thou art still
A daughter of the sky;
Oh, climb for ever up the hill
Of thy divinity!

To thee thy mother Earth is sweet,
Her face to thee is fair;
But thou, a goddess incomplete,
Must climb the starry stair.

II.

Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend,
Wouldst see the Father's face?
To all his other children bend,
And take the lowest place.

Be like a cottage on a moor,
A covert from the wind,
With burning fire and open door,
And welcome free and kind.

Thus humbly doing on the earth
The things the earthly scorn,
Thou shalt declare the lofty birth
Of all the lowly born.

III.

Be then thy sacred womanhood
A sign upon thee set,
A second baptism--understood--
For what thou must be yet.

For, cause and end of all thy strife,
And unrest as thou art,
Still stings thee to a higher life
The Father at thy heart.

_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_!

Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow;
But spring is floating up the southern skies,
And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.

Let me persuade: in dull December's day
We scarce believe there is a month of June;
But up the stairs of April and of May
The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest.
O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou.
He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;--
And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.

_WILD FLOWERS_.

Content Primroses,
With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
Peeping as from his mother's lap the child
Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!--
Hanging Harebell,
Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes,
Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!--
Fluttering-wild
Anemone, so well
Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free,
Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully,
With _Take me or leave me,
Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!--
Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming
Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!--
Fire-winged Pimpernel,
Communing with some hidden well,
And secrets with the sun-god holding,
At fixed hour folding and unfolding!--
How is it with you, children all,
When human children on you fall,
Gather you in eager haste,
Spoil your plenty with their waste--
Fill and fill their dropping hands?
Feel you hurtfully disgraced
By their injurious demands?
Do you know them from afar,
Shuddering at their merry hum,
Growing faint as near they come?
Blind and deaf they think you are--
Is it only ye are dumb?
You alive at least, I think,
Trembling almost on the brink
Of our lonely consciousness:
If it be so,
Take this comfort for your woe,
For the breaking of your rest,
For the tearing in your breast,
For the blotting of the sun,
For the death too soon begun,
For all else beyond redress--
Or what seemeth so to be--
That the children's wonder-springs
Bubble high at sight of you,
Lovely, lowly, common things:
In you more than you they see!
Take this too--that, walking out,
Looking fearlessly about,
Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt,
And our childhood's faith renew;
So that we, with old age nigh,
Seeing you alive and well
Out of winter's crucible,
Hearing you, from graveyard crept,
Tell us that ye only slept--
Think we die not, though we die.

Thus ye die not, though ye die--
Only yield your being up,
Like a nectar-holding cup:
Deaf, ye give to them that hear,
With a greatness lovely-dear;
Blind, ye give to them that see--
Poor, but bounteous royally.
Lowly servants to the higher,
Burning upwards in the fire
Of Nature's endless sacrifice,
In great Life's ascent ye rise,
Leave the lowly earth behind,
Pass into the human mind,
Pass with it up into God,
Whence ye came though through the clod--
Pass, and find yourselves at home
Where but life can go and come;
Where all life is in its nest,
At loving one with holy Best;--
Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense
Of a past, age-long somnolence!

_SPRING SONG_.

Days of old,
Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
Ye are not cold,
But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.

The sun brings back the swallows fast
O'er the sea;
When he cometh at the last,
The days of old come back to me.

_SUMMER SONG_.

"Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan,
Many a tune in a single tone,
For every ear with a secret true--
The sea-shell wants to whisper to you."

"Yes--I hear it--far and faint,
Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint;
Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain;
Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain."

"By smiling lip and fixed eye,
You are hearing a song within the sigh:
The murmurer has many a lovely phrase--
Tell me, darling, the words it says."

"I hear a wind on a boatless main
Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain;
On the dreaming waters dreams the moon--
But I hear no words in the doubtful tune."

"If it tell thee not that I love thee well,
'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell:
If it be not of love, why sigh or sing?
'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!"

"It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice
Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice;
It says not a word of your love to me,
But it tells me I love you eternally."

_AUTUMN SONG_.

Autumn clouds are flying, flying
O'er the waste of blue;
Summer flowers are dying, dying,
Late so lovely new.
Labouring wains are slowly rolling
Home with winter grain;
Holy bells are slowly tolling
Over buried men.

Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
Like an afternoon;
Colder airs come stealing, creeping
From the misty moon;
And the leaves, of old age dying,
Earthy hues put on;
Out on every lone wind sighing
That their day is gone.

Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
Down to winter low;
And our hearts are thinking, thinking
Of the sleet and snow;
For our sun is slowly sliding
Down the hill of might;
And no moon is softly gliding
Up the slope of night.

See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
Heaped in golden glooms!
See, the earth's outworn sunrises
Dream in cloudy tombs!
Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
Of a quickening wind;
And the man, through Death's door going,
Leaves old Death behind.

Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
Let the gold turn gray;
Feet, though feeble, still may falter
Toward the better day!
Brother, let not weak faith linger
O'er a withered thing;
Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
Burns to hues of Spring.

_WINTER SONG_.

They were parted then at last?
Was it duty, or force, or fate?
Or did a worldly blast
Blow-to the meeting-gate?

An old, short story is this!
A glance, a trembling, a sigh,
A gaze in the eyes, a kiss--
Why will it not go by!

PICTURE SONGS.

I.

A pale green sky is gleaming;
The steely stars are few;
The moorland pond is steaming
A mist of gray and blue.

Along the pathway lonely
My horse is walking slow;
Three living creatures only,
He, I, and a home-bound crow!

The moon is hardly shaping
Her circle in the fog;
A dumb stream is escaping
Its prison in the bog.

But in my heart are ringing
Tones of a lofty song;
A voice that I know, is singing,
And my heart all night must long.

II.

Over a shining land--
Once such a land I knew--
Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned,
The sky is all white and blue.

The waves are kissing the shores,
Murmuring love and for ever;
A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars
Flash out of the level river.

Oh to be there with thee
And the sun, on wet sands, my love!
With the shining river, the sparkling sea,
And the radiant sky above!

III.

The autumn winds are sighing
Over land and sea;
The autumn woods are dying
Over hill and lea;
And my heart is sighing, dying,
Maiden, for thee.

The autumn clouds are flying
Homeless over me;
The nestless birds are crying
In the naked tree;
And my heart is flying, crying,
Maiden, to thee.

The autumn sea is crawling
Up the chilly shore;
The thin-voiced firs are calling
Ghostily evermore:
Maiden, maiden! I am falling
Dead at thy door.

IV.

The waters are rising and flowing
Over the weedy stone--
Over it, over it going:
It is never gone.

Waves upon waves of weeping
Went over the ancient pain;
Glad waves go over it leaping--
Still it rises again!

_A DREAM SONG_.

I dreamed of a song--I heard it sung;
In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung.
What were its words I could not tell,
Only the voice I heard right well,
For its tones unearthly my spirit bound
In a calm delirium of mystic sound--
Held me floating, alone and high,
Placeless and silent, drinking my fill
Of dews that from cloudless skies distil
On desert places that thirst and sigh.
'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep,
Rousing old echoes that all day sleep
In cavern and solitude, each apart,
Here and there in the waiting heart;--
A voice with a wild melodious cry
Reaching and longing afar and high.
Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife,
Gainful death, and new-born life,
Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song.
In my heart it said: O Lord, how long
Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray,
Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day!

1842.

_AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET_.

Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
And in their sadness overflow and blend--
Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
Far out amid them my pale soul I send.

For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
An hour draws near when my day too will die;
Already I forecast unheaving breath,
Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.

Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!

Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!

Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before?
Did you fare thus when first ye came this way?
Somewhere there must be yet another door!--
A door in somewhere from this dreary gray!

Come walking over watery hill and glen,
Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext;
Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten,
And bring me patient hoping for the next.

Maker of heaven and earth, father of me,
My words are but a weak, fantastic moan!
Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea,
Thou still wert with me; I were not alone!

I am in thee, O father, lord of sky,
And lord of waves, and lord of human souls!
In thee all precious ones to me more nigh
Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals!

I shall not be alone although I die,
And loved ones should delay their coming long;
Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky,
Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song.

They are thy garments; thou art near within,
Father of fathers, friend-creating friend!
Thou art for ever, therefore I begin;
Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end!

Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child;
I pray thee, father, give me everything;
Give me the joy that makes the children wild;
Give throat and heart an old new song to sing.

Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ,
And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere!
With all the true I keep a hoping tryst;
Eternal love is my eternal prayer.

1890.

_A FATHER TO A MOTHER_.

When God's own child came down to earth,
High heaven was very glad;
The angels sang for holy mirth;
Not God himself was sad!

Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
The little one will not forget;
It's only till to-morrow!

_THE TEMPLE OF GOD_.

In the desert by the bush,
Moses to his heart said _Hush_.

David on his bed did pray;
God all night went not away.

From his heap of ashes foul
Job to God did lift his soul,

God came down to see him there,
And to answer all his prayer.

On a dark hill, in the wind,
Jesus did his father find,

But while he on earth did fare,
Every spot was place of prayer;

And where man is any day,
God can not be far away.

But the place he loveth best,
Place where he himself can rest,

Where alone he prayer doth seek,
Is the spirit of the meek.

To the humble God doth come;
In his heart he makes his home.

_GOING TO SLEEP_.

Little one, you must not fret
That I take your clothes away;
Better sleep you so will get,
And at morning wake more gay--
Saith the children's mother.

You I must unclothe again,
For you need a better dress;
Too much worn are body and brain;
You need everlastingness--
Saith the heavenly father.

I went down death's lonely stair;
Laid my garments in the tomb;
Dressed again one morning fair;
Hastened up, and hied me home--
Saith the elder brother.

Then I will not be afraid
Any ill can come to me;
When 'tis time to go to bed,
I will rise and go with thee--
Saith the little brother.

_TO-MORROW_.

My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
Fancy of the brain;
God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting,
Ready for joy or pain.

My TO-MORROW has no soul,
Dead as yesterdays;
God's--a brimming silver bowl
Of life that gleams and plays.

My TO-MORROW, I mock you away!
Shadowless nothing, thou!
God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day,
For God is in thee now.

_FOOLISH CHILDREN_.

Waking in the night to pray,
Sleeping when the answer comes,
Foolish are we even at play--
Tearfully we beat our drums!
Cast the good dry bread away,
Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

"Evermore," while shines the day,
"Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!"
Soon as evening groweth gray,
Thy fair will we fain would shun!
"Take, oh, take thy hand away!
See the horrid dark begun!"

"Thou hast conquered Death," we say,
"Christ, whom Hades could not keep!"
Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay!
Death it is," we cry, "not sleep!
Grave, take all. Shut out the Day.
Sit we on the ground and weep!"

Gathering potsherds all the day,
Truant children, Lord, we roam;
Fret, and longer want to play,
When at cool thy voice doth come!--
Elder Brother, lead the way;
Make us good as we go home.

_LOVE IS HOME_.

Love is the part, and love is the whole;
Love is the robe, and love is the pall;
Ruler of heart and brain and soul,
Love is the lord and the slave of all!
I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me;
I thank thee more that I love thee.

Love is the rain, and love is the air,
Love is the earth that holdeth fast;
Love is the root that is buried there,
Love is the open flower at last!
I thank thee, Love all round about,
That the eyes of my love are looking out.

Love is the sun, and love is the sea;
Love is the tide that comes and goes;
Flowing and flowing it comes to me;
Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows!
Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide!
My sea, and my shore, and all beside!

Light, oh light that art by showing;
Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion;
Thought, oh thought that art by knowing;
Will, that art born in self-devotion!
Love is you, though not all of you know it;
Ye are not love, yet ye always show it!

Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father,
Home of our heart-infolded brother,
Home to thee all thy glories gather--
All are thy love, and there is no other!
O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam--
Home unto thee, we are coming home!

_FAITH_.

"Earth, if aught should check thy race,
Rushing through unfended space,
Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall
Into yonder glowing ball!"

"Beggar of the universe,
Faithless as an empty purse!
Sent abroad to cool and tame,
Think'st I fear my native flame?"

"If thou never on thy track
Turn thee round and hie thee back,
Thou wilt wander evermore,
Outcast, cold--a comet hoar!"

"While I sweep my ring along
In an air of joyous song,
Thou art drifting, heart awry,
From the sun of liberty!"

_WAITING_.

I waited for the Master
In the darkness dumb;
Light came fast and faster--
My light did not come!

I waited all the daylight,
All through noon's hot flame:
In the evening's gray light,
Lo, the Master came!

_OUR SHIP_.

Had I a great ship coming home,
With big plunge o'er the sea,
What bright things, hid from star and foam,
Lay in her heart for thee!

The stormy billows heave and dip,
The wild winds veer and play;
But, regnant all, God's stately ship
Is steering home this way!

_MY HEART THY LARK_.

Why dost thou want to sing
When thou hast no song, my heart?
If there be in thee a hidden spring,
Wherefore will no word start?

On its way thou hearest no song,
Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
The years of thy life are growing long--
Art still the heart of a boy?--

Father, I am thy child!
My heart is in thy hand!
Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
Of a song in thy high land.

It will answer--but how, my God,
Thou knowest; I cannot say:
It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod--
Thy lark to meet thy day!

_TWO IN ONE_.

Were thou and I the white pinions
On some eager, heaven-born dove,
Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
To our rest of old, my love!

Were thou and I trembling strands
In music's enchanted line,
We would wait and wait for magic hands
To untwist the magic twine.

Were we two sky-tints, thou and I,
Thou the golden, I the red;
We would quiver and glow and darken and die,
And love until we were dead!

Nearer than wings of one dove,
Than tones or colours in chord,
We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love,
Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord.

_BEDTIME_.

"Come, children, put away your toys;
Roll up that kite's long line;
The day is done for girls and boys--
Look, it is almost nine!
Come, weary foot, and sleepy head,
Get up, and come along to bed."

The children, loath, must yet obey;
Up the long stair they creep;
Lie down, and something sing or say
Until they fall asleep,
To steal through caverns of the night
Into the morning's golden light.

We, elder ones, sit up more late,
And tasks unfinished ply,
But, gently busy, watch and wait--
Dear sister, you and I,
To hear the Father, with soft tread,
Coming to carry us to bed.

_A PRAYER_.

Thou who mad'st the mighty clock
Of the great world go;
Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock,
Ceaseless to and fro;
Thou whose will doth push and draw
Every orb in heaven,
Help me move by higher law
In my spirit graven.

Like a planet let me swing--
With intention strong;
In my orbit rushing sing
Jubilant along;
Help me answer in my course
To my seasons due;
Lord of every stayless force,
Make my Willing true.

_A SONG PRAYER_.

Lord Jesus,
Oh, ease us
Of Self that oppresses,
Annoys and distresses
Body and brain
With dull pain!
Thou never,
Since ever,
Save one moment only,
Wast left, or wast lonely:
We are alone,
And make moan.

Far parted,
Dull-hearted,
We wander, sleep-walking,
Mere shadows, dim-stalking:
Orphans we roam,
Far from home.

Oh new man,
Sole human,
God's son, and our brother,
Give each to the other--
No one left out
In cold doubt!

High Father,
Oh gather
Thy sons and thy daughters,
Through fires and through waters,
Home to the nest
Of thy breast!

There under
The wonder
Of great wings of healing,
Of love and revealing,
Teach us anew
To sing true.

SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS.

_SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS_.

I.

A glory on the chamber wall!
A glory in the brain!
Triumphant floods of glory fall
On heath, and wold, and plain.

Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;
She has, and seeks no more;
Forgets that days come after this,
Forgets the days before.

Each ripple waves a flickering fire
Of gladness, as it runs;
They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,
And toss ten thousand suns.

But hark! low, in the world within,
One sad aeolian tone:
"Ah! shall we ever, ever win
A summer of our own?"

II.

A morn of winds and swaying trees--
Earth's jubilance rushing out!
The birds are fighting with the breeze;
The waters heave about.

White clouds are swept across the sky,
Their shadows o'er the graves;
Purpling the green, they float and fly
Athwart the sunny waves.

The long grass--an earth-rooted sea--
Mimics the watery strife.
To boat or horse? Wild motion we
Shall find harmonious life.

But whither? Roll and sweep and bend
Suffice for Nature's part;
But motion to an endless end
Is needful for our heart.

III.

The morn awakes like brooding dove,
With outspread wings of gray;
Her feathery clouds close in above,
And roof a sober day.

No motion in the deeps of air!
No trembling in the leaves!
A still contentment everywhere,
That neither laughs nor grieves!

A film of sheeted silver gray
Shuts in the ocean's hue;
White-winged feluccas cleave their way
In paths of gorgeous blue.

Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day,
Thy very clouds are dreams!
Yon child is dreaming far away--
He is not where he seems.

IV.

The lark is up, his faith is strong,
He mounts the morning air;
Lone voice of all the creature throng,
He sings the morning prayer.

Slow clouds from north and south appear,
Black-based, with shining slope;
In sullen forms their might they rear,
And climb the vaulted cope.

A lightning flash, a thunder boom!--
Nor sun nor clouds are there;
A single, all-pervading gloom
Hangs in the heavy air.

A weeping, wasting afternoon
Weighs down the aspiring corn;
Amber and red, the sunset soon
Leads back to golden morn.

_SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS_.

I.

The dreary wind of night is out,
Homeless and wandering slow;
O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt,
It breathes, but will not blow.

It sighs from out the helpless past,
Where doleful things abide;
Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast
Across its ebbing tide.

O'er marshy pools it faints and flows,
All deaf and dumb and blind;
O'er moor and mountain aimless goes--
The listless woesome wind!

Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night!
The sigh is all in me;
Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might,
Until I wake and see.

II.

The west is broken into bars
Of orange, gold, and gray;
Gone is the sun, fast come the stars,
And night infolds the day.

My boat glides with the gliding stream,
Following adown its breast
One flowing mirrored amber gleam,
The death-smile of the west.

The river moves; the sky is still,
No ceaseless quest it knows:
Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill
At sight of its repose.

The ripples run; all patient sit
The stars above the night.
In shade and gleam the waters flit:
The heavens are changeless bright!

III.

Alone I lie, buried amid
The long luxurious grass;
The bats flit round me, born and hid
In twilight's wavering mass.

The fir-top floats, an airy isle,
High o'er the mossy ground;
Harmonious silence breathes the while
In scent instead of sound.

The flaming rose glooms swarthy red;
The borage gleams more blue;
Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed
Glimmers the rich dusk through.

Hid in the summer grass I lie,
Lost in the great blue cave;
My body gazes at the sky,
And measures out its grave.

IV.

What art thou, gathering dusky cool,
In slow gradation fine?
Death's lovely shadow, flickering full
Of eyes about to shine.

When weary Day goes down below,
Thou leanest o'er his grave,
Revolving all the vanished show
The gracious splendour gave.

Or art thou not she rather--say--
Dark-browed, with luminous eyes,
Of whom is born the mighty Day,
That fights and saves and dies?

For action sleeps with sleeping light;
Calm thought awakes with thee:
The soul is then a summer night,
With stars that shine and see.

_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_.

I.

We bore him through the golden land,
One early harvest morn;
The corn stood ripe on either hand--
He knew all about the corn.

How shall the harvest gathered be
Without him standing by?
Without him walking on the lea,
The sky is scarce a sky.

The year's glad work is almost done;
The land is rich in fruit;
Yellow it floats in air and sun--
Earth holds it by the root.

Why should earth hold it for a day
When harvest-time is come?
Death is triumphant o'er decay,
And leads the ripened home.

II.

And though the sun be not so warm,
His shining is not lost;
Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
Lie hid from coming frost.

The sombre woods are richly sad,
Their leaves are red and gold:
Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad
Signs that we men grow old?

Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain
From fields and days gone by;
And mournful memories again
Are born, are loved, and die.

The mornings clear, the evenings cool
Foretell no wintry wars;
The day of dying leaves is full,
The night of glowing stars.

III.

'Tis late before the sun will rise,
And early he will go;
Gray fringes hang from the gray skies,
And wet the ground below.

Red fruit has followed golden corn;
The leaves are few and sere;
My thoughts are old as soon as born,
And chill with coming fear.

The winds lie sick; no softest breath
Floats through the branches bare;
A silence as of coming death
Is growing in the air.

But what must fade can bear to fade--
Was born to meet the ill:
Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!
We sorrow, and are still.

IV.

There is no longer any heaven
To glorify our clouds;
The rising vapours downward driven
Come home in palls and shrouds.

The sun himself is ill bested
A heavenly sign to show;
His radiance, dimmed to glowing red,
Can hardly further go.

An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom,
Pervade the moveless air;
The year is sinking to its tomb,
And death is everywhere.

But while sad thoughts together creep,
Like bees too cold to sting,
God's children, in their beds asleep,
Are dreaming of the spring.

_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_.

I.

O night, send up the harvest moon
To walk about the fields,
And make of midnight magic noon
On lonely tarns and wealds.

In golden ranks, with golden crowns,
All in the yellow land,
Old solemn kings in rustling gowns,
The shocks moon-charmed stand.

Sky-mirror she, afloat in space,
Beholds our coming morn:
Her heavenly joy hath such a grace,
It ripens earthly corn;

Like some lone saint with upward eyes,
Lost in the deeps of prayer:
The people still their prayers and sighs,
And gazing ripen there.

II.

So, like the corn moon-ripened last,
Would I, weary and gray,
On golden memories ripen fast,
And ripening pass away.

In an old night so let me die;
A slow wind out of doors;
A waning moon low in the sky;
A vapour on the moors;

A fire just dying in the gloom;
Earth haunted all with dreams;
A sound of waters in the room;
A mirror's moony gleams;

And near me, in the sinking night,
More thoughts than move in me--
Forgiving wrong, and loving right,
And waiting till I see.

III.

Across the stubble glooms the wind;
High sails the lated crow;
The west with pallid green is lined;
Fog tracks the river's flow.

My heart is cold and sad; I moan,
Yet care not for my grief;
The summer fervours all are gone;
The roses are but leaf.

Old age is coming, frosty, hoar;
The snows of time will fall;
My jubilance, dream-like, no more
Returns for any call!

O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain
Sends up the blood so spare,
That my poor withering autumn brain
Sees autumn everywhere!

IV.

Lord of my life! if I am blind,
I reck not--thou canst see;
I well may wait my summer mind,
When I am sure of thee!

_I_ made no brave bright suns arise,
Veiled up no sweet gray eves;
_I_ hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes,
Sent out no windy leaves!

I said not "I will cast a charm
These gracious forms around;"
My heart with unwilled love grew warm;
I took but what I found!

When cold winds range my winter-night,
Be thou my summer-door;
Keep for me all my young delight,
Till I am old no more.

_SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS_.

I.

The sky has turned its heart away,
The earth its sorrow found;
The daisies turn from childhood's play,
And creep into the ground.

The earth is black and cold and hard;
Thin films of dry white ice,
Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred,
The children's feet entice.

Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned
The winter in the land;
With idle icicles adorned,
That mill-wheel soon will stand.

But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part,
Is to let in the cold;
We'll make a summer of the heart,
And laugh at winter old.

II.

With vague dead gleam the morning white
Comes through the window-panes;
The clouds have fallen all the night,
Without the noise of rains.

As of departing, unseen ghost,
Footprints go from the door;
The man himself must long be lost
Who left those footprints hoar!

Yet follow thou; tread down the snow;
Leave all the road behind;
Heed not the winds that steely blow,
Heed not the sky unkind;

For though the glittering air grow dark,
The snow will shine till morn;
And long ere then one dear home-spark
Will winter laugh to scorn.

III.

Oh wildly wild the roaring blast
Torments the fallen snow!
The wintry storms are up at last,
And care not how they go!

In foam-like wreaths the water hoar,
Rapt whistling in the air,
Gleams through the dismal twilight frore;
A region in despair,

A spectral ocean lies outside,
Torn by a tempest dark;
Its ghostly billows, dim descried,
Leap on my stranded bark.

Death-sheeted figures, long and white,
Rave driving through the spray;
Or, bosomed in the ghastly night,
Shriek doom-cries far away.

IV.

A morning clear, with frosty light
From sunbeams late and low;
They shine upon the snow so white,
And shine back from the snow.

Down tusks of ice one drop will go,
Nor fall: at sunny noon
'Twill hang a diamond--fade, and grow
An opal for the moon.

And when the bright sad sun is low
Behind the mountain-dome,
A twilight wind will come and blow
Around the children's home,

And puff and waft the powdery snow,
As feet unseen did pass;
While, waiting in its bed below,
Green lies the summer grass.

_SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS_.

I.

Back shining from the pane, the fire
Seems outside in the snow:
So love set free from love's desire
Lights grief of long ago.

The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine,
The earth bedecked with moon;
Out on the worlds we surely shine
More radiant than in June!

In the white garden lies a heap
As brown as deep-dug mould:
A hundred partridges that keep
Each other from the cold.

My father gives them sheaves of corn,
For shelter both and food:
High hope in me was early born,
My father was so good.

II.

The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms
Across my clouded pane;
Weaves melodies of ancient psalms
All through my passive brain.

Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head:
My father is in the room;
The very curtains of my bed
Are from Love's sheltering loom!

The lovely vision melts away;
I am a child no more;
Work rises from the floor of play;
Duty is at the door.

But if I face with courage stout
The labour and the din,
Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out
My heart with thee stay in.

III.

Up to my ear my soul doth run--
Her other door is dark;
There she can see without the sun,
And there she sits to mark.

I hear the dull unheeding wind
Mumble o'er heath and wold;
My fancy leaves my brain behind,
And floats into the cold.

Like a forgotten face that lies
One of the speechless crowd,
The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,
White-folded in her shroud.

O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,
Dead rivers, fireless thorps,
I brood, the heart still throbbing warm
In Nature's wintered corpse.

IV.

To all the world mine eyes are blind:
Their drop serene is--night,
With stores of snow piled up the wind
An awful airy height.

And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye:
The simple faithful stars
Beyond are shining, careless high,
Nor heed our storms and jars.

And when o'er storm and jar I climb--
Beyond life's atmosphere,
I shall behold the lord of time
And space--of world and year.

Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart
Shall ever find its goal!
I turn me home--and there thou art,
My Father, in my soul!

_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_.

I.

A gentle wind, of western birth
On some far summer sea,
Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,
Wakes hopes in wintry me.

The sun is low; the paths are wet,
And dance with frolic hail;
The trees--their spring-time is not yet--
Swing sighing in the gale.

Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;
Clouds shoulder in between;
I scarce believe one coming day
The earth will all be green.

The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,
And flaps his snowy wing:
Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;
Thou canst not bar our spring.

II.

Up comes the primrose, wondering;
The snowdrop droopeth by;
The holy spirit of the spring
Is working silently.

Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile
The later children out;
O'er woods and farms a sunny smile
Is flickering about.

The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull;
To death almost she slept:
Over her, heaven grew beautiful,
And forth her beauty crept.

Showers yet must fall, and waters grow
Dark-wan with furrowing blast;
But suns will shine, and soft winds blow,
Till the year flowers at last.

III.

The sky is smiling over me,
Hath smiled away the frost;
White daisies star the sky-like lea,
With buds the wood's embossed.

Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky
Up through the latticed boughs;
Till comes the green cloud by and by,
It is not time to house.

Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on;
The winter is forgot;
Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone:
Pain that is past, is not.

Joy that was past is yet the same:
If care the summer brings,
'Twill only be another name
For love that broods, not sings.

IV.

Blow on me, wind, from west and south;
Sweet summer-spirit, blow!
Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth,
Who knows not what I know.

The earth's perfection dawneth soon;
Ours lingereth alway;
We have a morning, not a noon;
Spring, but no summer gay.

Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn
Crown soon the swift year's life:
In us a higher hope is born,
And claims a longer strife.

Will heaven be an eternal spring
With summer at the door?
Or shall we one day tell its king
That we desire no more?

_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_.

I.

The flush of green that dyed the day
Hath vanished in the moon;
Flower-scents float stronger out, and play
An unborn, coming tune.

One southern eve like this, the dew
Had cooled and left the ground;
The moon hung half-way from the blue,
No disc, but conglobed round;

Light-leaved acacias, by the door,
Bathed in the balmy air,
Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,
And breathed a perfume rare;

Great gold-flakes from the starry sky
Fell flashing on the deep:
One scent of moist earth floating by,
Almost it made me weep.

II.

Those gorgeous stars were not my own,
They made me alien go!
The mother o'er her head had thrown
A veil I did not know!

The moon-blanched fields that seaward went,
The palm-flung, dusky shades,
Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent,
No slender, spear-like blades.

I longed to see the starry host
Afar in fainter blue;
But plenteous grass I missed the most,
With daisies glimmering through.

The common things were not the same!
I longed across the foam:
From dew-damp earth that odour came--
I knew the world my home.

III.

The stars are glad in gulfy space--
Friendly the dark to them!
From day's deep mine, their hiding-place,
Night wooeth every gem.

A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar,
When up the day is furled,
Shines in the sky a light afar,
Mayhap a home-filled world.

Sometimes upon the inner sky
We catch a doubtful shine:
A mote or star? A flash in the eye
Or jewel of God's mine?

A star to us, all glimmer and glance,
May teem with seraphim:
A fancy to our ignorance
May be a truth to Him.

IV.

The night is damp and warm and still,
And soft with summer dreams;
The buds are bursting at their will,
And shy the half moon gleams.

My soul is cool, as bathed within
By dews that silent weep--
Like child that has confessed his sin,
And now will go to sleep.

My body ages, form and hue;
But when the spring winds blow,
My spirit stirs and buds anew,
Younger than long ago.

Lord, make me more a child, and more,
Till Time his own end bring,
And out of every winter sore
I pass into thy spring.

A BOOK OF DREAMS.