ON the elm tree she was swinging,
Just beyond the hedge of yew;
But she slowly ceased from singing,
From her breast a pink she drew.
Buttoning his coat of satin,
Off he strode towards the woods,
Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin,
That a woman’s made of moods.
Long ago within God’s garden
Both were wrapped in long lone sleep,
Heeding not if hoar frosts harden,
Or the autumn leaves fall deep.
Laugh not at the statue calling
Phyllis with her marble muff,
Nor the marble cupids sprawling
On a cloud of powder puff.
Laugh not at his hermit fashions
Nor the book unwarmed by hope;
Say not that it shows the passions
Of a stony misanthrope.
For they loved while they were living,
Loved with love untold, unheard;
Though they parted unforgiving,
Each too proud to say a word.
XXV
THE OLD FOUNTAIN
ONE gay glint of rose and silver flounces
In a deep green dell,
Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces
From a Triton’s mossy shell.
One more dance ere sunset on the mountain
Laughing says, “Too late”;
One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain
Called two hearts to court their fate.
Some small raindrops, just to tease the Triton,
Mischievously fell;
Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on
Eyes that he had long loved well.
That dark night he cursed the love he brought her,
Though it made his soul;
And she sobbed an echo to the water
Brimming in the fountain bowl.
XXVI
LOVE AND DEATH
ONCE toward a sunlit garden, laden
With the lime trees’ scented breath,
Came to watch a merry youth and maiden,
Love and Death.
At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies,
Tossed them laughing low and blithe,
In the background Death amid the roses
Moved his scythe.
Ere the latest rose the path was strewing,
Her sweet maiden soul was fled;
He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing,
Bent his head.
Sobbing Love then thought to give him pleasure,
Bade his curse on Death attend;
But the youth begged Death who held his treasure
Be his friend.
Death as friend might give the old completeness
Time could give to him no more,
Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness
Might restore.
Love then saw the youth was worthier loving,
Dowered with a stronger grace;
And with downcast eyelids shyly moving,
Kissed Death’s face.
XXVII
VIOLETS
WHERE burning tapers hold
White suppliant hands from arms of gold
Around the Host; there no one sets
Sweet violets.
Fair roses droop and die
In halls of dance and minstrelsy;
But who within those walls has met
The violet?
Where faintly smiles the sun
Through chequered skies on beech groves dun,
There hides in vales sequestered yet
The violet.
Where I shall lie asleep,
Some friend, perhaps, a tear will weep,
And if our love knew no regrets,
Strew violets.
XXVIII
THE GARDENS OF THE SOUL
IN a restless land beside a river
Stands a stone enclosure tall,
Rich the finder is, and rich the giver
Of the key to pierce that wall.
Once within, you drink the clearest pleasures,
And your sorrow change for ease;
Ancient bards enchant you with their measures,
Sweetly sighs the Highland breeze.
Next amid the orange trees and cedars
Bearded Homer deigns to roam,
Musing tales of marching Argive leaders,
And Ulysses welcomed home.
Here where daffodils their crowns are bending
On a lawn of English green,
Milton gravely sits to tell the ending
Of angelic strifes unseen.
Here the almond bloom for ever blushes,
And Italian fountains rise;
While the wine of dawn their dewdrops flushes,
Dante speaks of Paradise.
But beyond where any poet paces,
Grows a gnarled grey olive grove,
Where the furthest stars have veiled their faces,
Weeping for eternal Love.
XXIX
A MAN TO CHILDISH THINGS
WHERE are the domes of pure mysterious gold,
And myriad angel wings in ordered flight
My childish gaze could once at eve behold
Before the mountains melted into night?
Where is the island, shy abode of bliss,
Which seemed through summer haze to rise and float,
The isle which merchant fleets could never kiss,
But once stood still for Brendan’s hermit boat?
Where are my paladins with souls of snow,
Whose swords were fashioned at no mortal forge,
The men who rode where Arthur bade them go
To meet the dragon in his dungeon gorge?
O happy, happy dreams, ye were no lies,
No true apostle made me put away
Such “childish things,” which mirrored to mine eyes
Faith, Hope and Love. I call you back to stay.
XXX
THE KNIGHT
HE was so courteous to the paynim horde,
Men doubted if he served the Lord
Or held the faith of Christ.
They said he proudly scorned life’s sweetest prize,
Who never played with sparkling eyes
Or kept an evening tryst.
Their god of love was but Cupidity,
Their Lord an idol vanity
With mail below his vest:
While he, true knight, believed in Christ alone,
And though they thought his heart a stone,
Made love a hero’s quest.
XXXI
HOPES
TO have lived just like a man
And done what one man can,
Not basking like a dog in summer dust;
Nor like a butterfly
That flaunts and flutters by,
Till showers have dimmed its silver wings with rust.
To have lightened some stiff load
Of men upon the road—
May some remember I am flesh and blood!
To have dried some children’s tears,
And slain some women’s fears
That bid them crouch beneath a brooding flood.
To have known the throbbing stars,
And traced the ancient scars
That streams have ploughed upon the mountain side;
To have sung songs passing sweet,
And sung with lasting heat
As pure as that of stars that burn and bide.
To have said the simply true,
Although to preach the new
Might win me prizes and the world’s caress;
To have been misunderstood,
If so the common good
Might bear more harvest through my loneliness.
To have learnt that love is light
In rain and fog and night,
For eyes that sadly peer and feet that plod:
To have found all life a song
Of rapture calm and strong,
And found the music of the song was God.
XXXII
THE PATH
TO buzzing lecture halls his steps he bent,
Where all the paths to God were well discussed,
Or faith and reason weighed with balance just,
Till he was dizzy with strong argument.
He saw philosophers who shook their fists,
And broke commandment nine;
He saw the Sadducean alchemists
Draw water out of wine;
He saw the knife-eyed Pharisees
Adjusting their phylacteries:
But never found the gate where he could see
The One in Three.
He watched the hills as dawn unlocked the day,
And felt vibrating o’er the low green lea
The breath of lilac and of hawthorn tree,
While gold laburnums rocked each pendent spray.
He saw the sun salute the moon afar,
And felt their common soul;
He heard the song of star to sister star
Around the sky’s deep bowl;
He watched the waves withdraw their foam,
He watched the rivers wending home:
He found the One, and yet he could not see
The One in Three.
Still doubting he beheld a brother man,
Whom he ignored and scorned to think akin;
But now a sudden breath of love within
Drove him to serve, and humbly he began.
His hands that worked in love were torn with red,
He shrank not at the sight,
For he who suffered saw a Heart that bled
Become his beacon-light.
Thus brother to the Son of God
With life from heaven on earth he trod:
The Life, the Light, the Love, he knew to be
The One in Three.
XXXIII
THE CALL TO BETHLEHEM
SHEPHERDS, come to Bethlehem,
Pluck yon bush of Christmas rose,
Weave a dainty diadem.
From my flute with tuneful stem
Music warbles as it flows,
“Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.”
Lo, upon the mountain’s hem
Ruby clouds above the snows
Weave a dainty diadem.
Seek not proud Jerusalem,
Where the empty temple shows;
Shepherds, come to Bethlehem.
Christ without a crown or gem
Lies on straw while winter blows;
Weave a dainty diadem.
Christ will not our gift condemn;
All our poverty He knows.
Shepherds, come to Bethlehem,
Weave a dainty diadem.
XXXIV
A CHRISTMAS LULLABY