Nor yet so high the hill.
An awful sense of quietness,
A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
The silent garden rows.
As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
Thrills
vaguely through my brain.
I lean my head upon my arm,
My heart's too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
Doth the morning
stillness sink.
AFTER READING "ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA"
AS when the hunt by holt and field
Drives on with horn and strife,
Hunger of
hopeless things pursues
Our spirits throughout life.
The sea's roar fills us aching full
Of objectless desire -
The sea's roar, and the white moon-shine,
And the reddening of the fire.
Who talks to me of reason now?
It would be more delight
To have died in Cleopatra's arms
Than be alive to-night.
I KNOW NOT HOW, BUT AS I COUNT
I KNOW not how, but as I count
The beads of former years,
Old
laughter catches in my throat
With the very feel of tears.
SPRING SONG
THE air was full of sun and birds,
The fresh air sparkled clearly.
Remembrance wakened in my heart
And I knew I loved her dearly.
The fallows and the leafless trees
And all my spirit tingled.
My earliest thought of love, and Spring's
First puff of
perfume mingled.
In my still heart the thoughts awoke,
Came lone by lone together -
Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love
A mere affair of weather?
THE SUMMER SUN SHONE ROUND ME
THE summer sun shone round me,
The folded
valley lay
In a
stream of sun and odour,
That
sultry summer day.
The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.
The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
"The winter comes apace."
YOU LOOKED SO TEMPTING IN THE PEW
YOU looked so
tempting in the pew,
You looked so sly and calm -
My trembling fingers played with yours
As both looked out the Psalm.
Your heart beat hard against my arm,
My foot to yours was set,
Your loosened ringlet burned my cheek
Whenever they two met.
O little, little we hearkened, dear,
And little, little cared,
Although the
parson sermonised,
The
congregation stared.
LOVE'S VICISSITUDES
AS Love and Hope together
Walk by me for a while,
Link-armed the ways they travel
For many a pleasant mile -
Link-armed and dumb they travel,
They sing not, but they smile.
Hope leaving, Love commences
To
practise on the lute;
And as he sings and travels
With lingering, laggard foot,
Despair plays obligato
The
sentimental flute.
Until in singing garments
Comes royally, at call -
Comes limber-hipped Indiff'rence
Free stepping, straight and tall -
Comes singing and lamenting,
The sweetest pipe of all.
DUDDINGSTONE
WITH caws and chirrupings, the woods
In this thin sun rejoice.
The Psalm seems but the little kirk
That sings with its own voice.
The cloud-rifts share their amber light
With the surface of the mere -
I think the very stones are glad
To feel each other near.
Once more my whole heart leaps and swells
And gushes o'er with glee;
The fingers of the sun and shade
Touch music stops in me.
Now fancy paints that bygone day
When you were here, my fair -
The whole lake rang with rapid skates
In the windless winter air.
You leaned to me, I leaned to you,
Our course was smooth as
flight -
We steered - a heel-touch to the left,
A heel-touch to the right.
We swung our way through flying men,
Your hand lay fast in mine:
We saw the shifting crowd dispart,
The level ice-reach shine.
I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,
By yon calm hill above,
I swear had we been drowned that day
We had been drowned in love.
STOUT MARCHES LEAD TO CERTAIN ENDS
STOUT marches lead to certain ends,
We seek no Holy Grail, my friends -
That dawn should find us every day
Some
fraction farther on our way.
The dumb lands sleep from east to west,
They stretch and turn and take their rest.
The cock has crown in the steading-yard,
But
priest and people
slumber hard.
We two are early forth, and hear
The nations snoring far and near.
So
peacefully their rest they take,
It seems we are the first awake!
- Strong heart! this is no royal way,
A thousand cross-roads seek the day;
And, hid from us, to left and right,
A thousand seekers seek the light.
AWAY WITH FUNERAL MUSIC
AWAY with
funeral music - set
The pipe to powerful lips -
The cup of life's for him that drinks
And not for him that sips.
TO SYDNEY
NOT thine where
marble-still and white
Old statues share the tempered light
And mock the
uneven modern
flight,
But in the
streamOf daily sorrow and delight
To seek a theme.
I too, O friend, have steeled my heart
Boldly to choose the better part,
To leave the
beaten ways of art,
And
wholly free
To dare, beyond the
scanty chart,
The deeper sea.
All vain restrictions left behind,
Frail bark! I loose my anchored mind
And large, before the
prosperous wind
Desert the strand -
A new Columbus sworn to find
The morning land.
Nor too
ambitious, friend. To thee
I own my
weakness. Not for me
To sing the enfranchised nations' glee,
Or count the cost
Of warships foundered far at sea
And battles lost.
High on the far-seen, sunny hills,
Morning-content my bosom fills;
Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills
And learn their birth.
Far off, the clash of
sovereign wills
May shake the earth.
The
nimblecircuit of the wheel,
The
uncertain poise of merchant weal,
Heaven of
famine, fire and steel
When nations fall;
These, heedful, from afar I feel -
I mark them all.
But not, my friend, not these I sing,
My voice shall fill a narrower ring.
Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,
I seek to cheer:
Brave wines to
strengthen hope I bring,
Life's cantineer!
Some song that shall be suppling oil
To weary muscles strained with toil,
Shall hearten for the daily moil,
Or widely read
Make sweet for him that tills the soil
His daily bread.
Such songs in my flushed hours I dream
(High thought) instead of
armour gleam
Or
warrior cantos ream by ream
To load the
shelves -
Songs with a lilt of words, that seem
To sing themselves.
HAD I THE POWER THAT HAVE THE WILL
HAD I the power that have the will,
The enfeebled will - a modern curse -
This book of mine should
blossom still
A perfect garden-ground of verse.
White
placidmarble gods should keep