My life was woven long ago,
Or ever this our earth was fair,
With mingled threads of love and woe,
Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair.
Yea! it was made ere water was,
Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shone
Upon the tender blades of grass;
It sate and dreamed its life alone.
Ere golden stars swam through the blue
Of heaven, singing as they came,
God wrought into it every hue,
And gave it wings and feet of flame:
A little thing of His own breath,
A word that trembled into song,
To fall through mists of life and death,
A frail thing conquering the strong.
All things that in the heavens are,
The silver-hornéd sailing moon,
The golden fire of every star,
Through seas of time shall slip and swoon,
And be as if they had not been;
But through the darkness of the night,
Through silence of that peace serene,
Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,
Remembering earth's shining streams
And all the heavens' starry grace.
Yea, dreaming once again the dreams,
Which were the beauty of thy face.
A. C. S.
_April 10th, 1909_
Ah! the golden mouth is stopped,
That so sweet was with its song,
Bright, and vehement as fire.
Grieve we, as a star had dropped
Out of Heaven's singing throng,
For the lord of our desire.
Bring we blossoms, lilies bring,
Such frail blooms as lured of old
Proserpina from the Hours:
All this April's lavishing,
Flame of sudden crocus-gold,
Sudden foam of starry flowers.
Spring hath slain the lord of Spring:
He, whose song was fire and dew,
Lieth in her lap, and slain
By her, whom he loved to sing,
As she came, with sandals blue,
Through the shifting rays, and rain.
Ah! the golden mouth is stopped
Whence the whole of April's song,
All her sudden, wilful fire,
All her stores of honey dropped.
Yet about our ways they throng,
Words he winged with his desire.