Yea! even such as creep
With eyes bent earthward, in the little space
Between the dawn and waning of the day,
Between a sleep and sleep:
Even these, without a fixed abiding-place,
Travel, though tardily, upon the way
Labouring; while your lighter, swifter sail
Soars, rising over sudden hills of foam,
Exultant, through the storm; and, eager, flies
Like a fleet swallow up to meet the gale,
That drives with anger, through the heaven's dome,
Clouds, like great silver galleons in a sea of skies.
For every man, and each,
Is like a venture putting forth to sea,
Voyaging into unknown ways to find
Kindlier lands; and urges on to reach
Kingdoms which there may be
Hidden the grey gloom of the sea behind:
Fabulous kingdoms piled with golden toil
And the slow garnering of mortal dreams:
Such as lured forth the splendid sails of Spain.
So, journeying, we, in hope of that great spoil,
Steer hardily through all conflicting streams
Of Ocean, and count all the exultant battling gain.
AFTER NIGHT
TO LILLIE
Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
As a maiden, who wakes,
Opening eyes on a world
Filled with wonder and light,
After a sleep of dreams.
Issuing, clad in a robe
Of blue, and silver, and green.
From the tents of God in the east
Comest thou; as a thought
Slippeth into the mind
Of a maid, awakened from sleep,
By the swallows, under the eaves,
Twittering to their young;
As a flower awakens in Spring,
After the sweet warm rains
Pass away, and the sun
Nourishes it; and slow
The curving petals unclose.
And a presence escapes from its heart,
An odour remote, and vague,
Trembling upon the air,
A frail, mysterious ghost,
That comes and goes on the wind,
Like the inspiration of God.
Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
Coming shy as a maid,
At nightfall, to meet her love
By the ricks of clover and hay.
They speak not, but hands
Meet hands, mouth mouth, and desire
Broods like a God in the night,
Under the yellow moon:
They speak not, having all things.
Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
Healing comes in thine hands,
The wide sea laughs at thy birth,
The multitudinous waves
Ripple about thy feet,
For joy at thy coming; the birds
Shake the dew from the leaves,
Shake the song from their throats;
The full ewes call to the lambs;
Lowing, the cattle come
To drink at the reed-fringed pool,
Bending, they drink, and lift
Dripping muzzles, to gaze
With patient, satisfied eyes
Over the plenteous earth.
While slowly out of the fens,
And heavy plough-lands the mist
Rises to greet thee, and spires
Of thin blue smoke, that ascend
Trembling into the calm
Windless air, and float
From the habitations of man.
Man, too, cometh forth; but he
Scarcely regards thee: with eyes
Bent to the earth he comes,
Busy with cares of toil,
Plotting to gain him ease,
Meat, drink, and warmth for his age:
Plotting in vain! He goes
Out of the ways of life,
Utterly frustrate, and spent.
Gone, who was king of thy fields!
Gone, who was lord of thy flocks!
Like a dream. And his children forget,
Even they, too, that he was.
They turn to their toil, and eat,
Sleep, drink, as of old he did,
Spinning the woof and the warp
Of life, on the Looms of Stone
Which the Fates rule, and God.
Yea, we are labourers all;
Even as bees for man
Gather the honey from flowers,
So do we labour for God
Unwittingly. Yea, and the days
Bringeth to each his reward,
A final sleep and a peace.
Swiftly they pass, the days,
Winged with flame are their feet,
Devouring us and our kin,
As flame the stubble consumes.
But the grain is garnered, perchance,
In the great, wide barns of God,
Laid up in a golden heap,
As a wise king's treasury is
Heaped with the yellow gold.
Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
Creating, out of the dark,
This bright, and beautiful world
Again: and leading each day
As a bride to man, whence he
Begets him wonderful deeds.
And, surely, because thine hands
Lead us at last to peace,
Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
APRIL DANCE-SONG
TO MISS DORA CURTIS
April with her fleet, sweet,
Silver rain, and sun-rays,
Cometh, and her feet beat
Lightly, on the lawn.
Softly, for her sake, break
Flowering the wet boughs;
By the brimming lake, wake
Lilies every dawn.
Broken on the stream, gleam
Rays, to drown where weeds wave;
Shining with her dream, seem
April's eyes bedewed.
Shakes a silver chain, rain
Chiming with her music;
Life, that long hath lain slain
Riseth up renewed.
Softly as a dove, Love
Croons beneath the twilight;
While the winds above move
Softly through the night.
Out of all the skies, dies
Light, and only stars shine:
Stars to me her wise eyes,
And her face a light.