Never is seen thy countenance
In the summer-burthened glades
Where no leaf hath power to dance;
In the bosom of the shades
The melancholy heat lies still,
And the one flower that burgeon will
Is a blossom born of bale,
The enchanter’s nightshade pale,
Darkly leaved, and wan of face,
With a grief-begotten grace;
Faint with thirst of the night dew
The leafy branches let not through;
Her aspect says thou art afar,
Where cold and fair retreated are.
When the earth with leaves is strown,
Thou shalt think on the high lane,
And upon these fields, thine own,
And swiftly shalt return again;
Where the loam is fret with moles,
Where the leaden beechen boles
Shine on the steep bank dight with red,
Down upon a hanging bough
Thou shalt lean thy radiant head
Resting on thy folded hands,
While a gentle sun and low
Shows thee all thy misty lands.
I come upon thee suddenly,
Clothed upon with mellow light,
And silence that is melody,
And coldness that is warm delight;
And upon thy kingdom look
Where the quiet woods are hung,
As it were a magic book
Written in a vanished tongue.
When spring first hath power to smile,
And russet twigs are bright with gold,
Half veiling, for a dazzling mile,
The airy distance blue and cold,
Out of the byways dost thou run,
And in the royal path dost rove,
Saying unto a wandering one,
“Go make me songs to praise my love;
Chant and chime, pipe and blow,
Make what sounds shall seem thee good,
As the sea-wave smitten to snow,
Or a fountain in a wood;
But silent shalt thou have no blame,
She requireth not thy singing,
And thou knowest not her name,
Though with her name the ways are ringing;
Yet soothly thou shalt find it graven
On the stones of thy last haven.”
But thou art kindliest and quietest
When it is winter, and the white frost lies
Like heaven’s hand upon the meadow’s breast.
Serene and virginal the taper’d skies;
The naked trees, as sprites unchained of flesh,
Are thy denial of mortality,
With locks adorned of gems in every mesh.
Thou risest from the dark as I pass by,
And through the chaste airs measurest with mine
Thine unheard steps, and nothing sing’st nor sayest.
The galaxy full loftily doth shine:
Would these were all my days! Still mute thou stayest--
Depart not hence; go with me while thou mayest.
1917.