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THE WIND 
 ON THE HEATH 
 
THE WIND 
 ON THE HEATH 
 
 BALLADS AND LYRICS 
 
 BY 
 
 MAY BYRON 
 
 " There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could 
 only feel that, I would gladly live for ever I " 
 
 Lavengro 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN C0:MPANY 
 
^'H^ 
 
 Copyright, 1912, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 £C!.A314006 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Ballad of London River 1 
 
 The Dulcimer 7 
 
 At Bay 9 
 
 Winds of God 11 
 
 The Wood-Song IS 
 
 The Pageant of Seamen 15 
 
 Tiger Lily 20 
 
 'J^ie Turret . ' 22 
 
 Aldebaran 24 
 
 Reincarnation 26 
 
 The Fold 28 
 
 -Mother Night 30 
 
 Nocturne 32 
 
 The Fairy Exodus 34 
 
 Two Against Fate 35 
 
 Hungarian Folk Song 40 
 
 Crocus 41 
 
 The Friend by Night 43 
 
 The Song of the Tinker 45 
 
 Poppies 47 
 
 Grass 48 
 
 Gypsy Mother-Songs I 50 
 
 Gypsy Mother-Songs II 51 
 
 The Sraock-Faaced Shepherd .... 53 
 
 Columbines 56 
 
 The Last 58 
 
 Sea-Ghosts 60 
 
 Childless 68 
 
 The Combatant 65 
 
 The Quest 66 
 
 The Gifts 68 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 tAQK 
 
 Shut In 71 
 
 The Distaff ] 73 
 
 Oblation 74 
 
 Poplars 76 
 
 Ballad of Foulweather Jack . . . . 73 
 
 The Gypsy Taint 8S 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen gg 
 
 The Sword Between ..... 87 
 
 Trio 88 
 
 The Little Gardens gO 
 
 A Song of Lights 94 
 
 The Widower qq 
 
 In Henry the Seventh's Chapel ... 98 
 
 Of Sleepshire 100 
 
 The Brown Maid's Defence .... 101 
 
 A Ballad of Famous Ships .... lOS 
 
 The Shepherd of Dreanas . . ■ . . 107 
 
 The Stewardship 109 
 
 The Pilgrim's Way 110 
 
 TheCaU 113 
 
 A House of Dreams 115 
 
 The Conqueror 117 
 
 A Flight of Nestlings 120 
 
 TheSeaLuUaby 122 
 
 Fool's Paradise 124 
 
 The Household 127 
 
 All Saints' Day 129 
 
 Vita Nuova I 183 
 
 Vita Nuova II 134 
 
 Vita Nuova III. (Cradle Song) ... 136 
 Vita Nuova IV. (The Storm-Child) .137 
 
 Vita Nuova V. (The Return) . 180 
 
THE WIND 
 ON THE HEATH 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 My thanks are due to the Editors of 
 ** Blackwood's Magazine,'* the "Cornhill 
 Magazine," the "Spectator," the "Pall Mall 
 Gazette," the "Treasury," the "Evening 
 Standard," and others, for kind permission 
 to reprint certain of the following poems. 
 
 M. B. 
 
THE BALLAD OF LONDON RIVER 
 
 From the Cotswolds, from the Chilterns, from 
 
 your fountains and your springs, 
 Flow down, O London River, to the sea 
 gull's silver wings: 
 
 Isis or Ock or Thame, 
 Forget your olden name. 
 And the lilies and the willows and the weirs 
 from which you came. 
 
 Forgo your crystal shallows and your limpid, 
 
 lucid wave, 
 When the swallows dart and glisten, where 
 the purple blooms are brave. 
 For the city's dust and din, 
 For the city's slime and sin, 
 For the toil and sweat of Englishmen with 
 all the world to win. 
 
 The stately towers and turrets are the chil- 
 dren of a day: 
 
 You see them lift and vanish by your im- 
 memorial way: 
 
 1 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 The Saxon and the Dane, 
 They dared your deeps in vain — 
 The Roman and the Norman — they are past, 
 but you remain. 
 
 Your Water -Gate stands open o'er your 
 
 turbid tide's unrest, 
 To welcome home your children from the 
 East and from the West, 
 O'er every ocean hurl'd. 
 Till the tattered sails are furl'd, 
 In the avenue of Empire, in the highway of 
 the world. 
 
 The argosies of Egypt, the golden fleets of 
 
 Ind, 
 In streaming flocks and coveys they beat 
 adown the wind: 
 
 Heavy with priceless stores, 
 They hover to your doors, 
 They lay their lordly merchandise on your 
 insatiate shores. 
 
 The gallant boy you beckon: to his eager 
 
 eyes a-gleam 
 You vaunt your ancient glory, and you haunt 
 
 his wakincj dream: 
 
THE BALLAD OF LONDON RIVER 
 
 His leaping veins you fire, 
 His valiant hopes inspire, 
 And he woos you for the pathway to his 
 utmost heart's desire. 
 
 You draw him to his destiny, you lure him 
 
 to his fate: 
 With tales of old adventure his soul you 
 subjugate, 
 
 With sounds of quay and creek, 
 And the ripple gray and sleek. 
 And the rough winds in the rat-lines where 
 they pipe their summons bleak. 
 
 He sees the wharf and shipyard, the mooring- 
 
 post and crane. 
 The dock-bridge swinging open, the bollard 
 and the chain : 
 
 All day the hammers ring, 
 All night the flare-lights fling 
 Their tremulous arms of welcome to the 
 pilgrims that you bring. 
 
 Long magic hours he gazes from the Bridge's 
 
 middle arch, 
 At the masts in thronging medley, at the sea 
 
 hosts on the march. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Whether crowding side by side, 
 Comes the pageant of your pride, 
 Or you turn your traffic seaward at the faUing 
 of the tide. 
 
 The red-sailed barges stagger where the 
 
 seething vapours crawl, 
 The towering clippers pierce the fog beyond 
 the dim dock wall, 
 
 And the steamers each to each 
 Cry out in strident speech, 
 And the liners hoot and bellow through the 
 murk of Limehouse Reach. 
 
 He sees forgotten navies in their triumphs 
 
 and despairs — 
 King George's ships. King Charles's ships, 
 are moored by Black wall Stairs: 
 The men whose boisterous breath 
 Acclaimed Elizabeth, 
 Their gusty cheering rings to him from out 
 the doors of death. 
 
 So you drag him out and onward, so you cast 
 him from the shore, 
 
 Till he lose the last wan glimmer of the light- 
 ship oflF the Nore: 
 
THE BALLAD OF LONDON RIVER 
 
 To him, to him alone, 
 'Neath empty skies unknown, 
 The sea shall show her sorrows, and her joy 
 shall be his own. 
 
 Then you call him, call him, call him, from the 
 
 ultimate ends of earth. 
 You wrench his heart with hunger for the 
 citj^ of his birth: 
 
 And his senses you befool, 
 Till in Rio or Stamboul 
 He hears the roar of London and the shoutings 
 in the Pool. 
 
 And the vessel hurries homeward under sun 
 
 and under stars, 
 She flies, all canvas crowded, or she drifts 
 beneath bare spars, 
 
 Till the rattling cordage creak. 
 And the whistling block shall speak. 
 And the groaning yards make answer, Lo, 
 the haven that we seek! 
 
 The squalors and the splendours that have 
 
 girt you as you go. 
 The majesty and meanness, your sons again 
 
 shall know. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 While the grinding hawser slips, 
 And the falling anchor grips, 
 And they haul the huddled foresail down in 
 London of the Ships. 
 
 From the Cotswolds, from the Chilterns, from 
 
 your fountains and your springs. 
 Flow down, O royal river, unpollute of earthly 
 things : 
 
 Through the city's dust and din, 
 Through the city's slime and sin. 
 Hail us for fighting Englishmen, with all the 
 world to win! 
 
 Then swing us to the surges, through the 
 
 hurricane to grope. 
 With iron ills to grapple, with crushing odds 
 to cope; 
 
 One with your flood are we. 
 Blood of your blood we be. 
 Beating eternal measure still to the pulses 
 of the sea. 
 
TEE DULCIMER 
 
 The leaves were blowing red and brown 
 Beneath the beech trees bare, 
 
 When the Dark Maid came to our town 
 With gold pins in her hair. 
 
 Her eyes were like a forest pool. 
 Her lips they were so sweet, 
 
 Every man put aside his tool. 
 
 To watch her down the street. 
 
 The leaves were blowing yellow and gray. 
 
 In the waning of the moon, 
 When the Dark Maid came along the way 
 
 With silver-buckled shoon. 
 
 Her mantle fell like folds of mist, 
 
 That rift and shift and change: 
 
 Was never wandering lutanist 
 
 That played a tune so strange. 
 
 The leaves were blowing crimson and gold. 
 
 The wind was like a sigh 
 That sobs across a ferny wold 
 
 Before the raindrops fly. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 And none beheld her whence she came. 
 
 Or knew the way she went, 
 Our hearts being stirred to smouldering flame 
 
 Of tenderest discontent. 
 
 The leaves were blowing ash and dun 
 
 Athwart the edge of night, 
 When the Dark Maid toward the setting sun 
 
 Sang herself out of sight. 
 
 And every man, from marvel roused, 
 
 Took up his toil again; 
 How should that fairy joy be housed 
 
 In homes of mortal men.'' 
 
 But still against a singing wind 
 In dreams we follow her — 
 
 The Dark Maid never looks behind, 
 That plays the dulcimer. 
 
AT BAY 
 
 My child is mine. 
 
 Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh is he, 
 Rocked on my breast and nurtured at my 
 
 knee, 
 Fed with sweet thoughts ere ever he drew 
 
 breath, 
 Wrested in battle through the gates of death. 
 With passionate patience is my treasure 
 
 hoarded, 
 And all my pain with priceless joy re- 
 warded. 
 
 My child is mine. 
 
 Nay, but a thousand thousand powers of ill 
 Dispute him with me: lurking wolf-like still 
 In every covert of the ambushed years. 
 Disease and danger dog him : foes and fears 
 Bestride his path, with menace fierce 
 
 and stormy. 
 Help me, O God! these are too mighty 
 for me! 
 
 My child is mine. 
 
 But pomp and glitter of the garish world 
 May wean him hence; while, tenderly 
 unfurled 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Like a spring leaf, his delicate, spotless days 
 
 Open in blinding sunlight. And the blaze 
 
 Of blue and blossom, scents and songs 
 
 at riot, 
 May woo him from my wardenship of 
 quiet. 
 
 My child is mine. 
 
 Yet all his gray forefathers of the past 
 Challenge the dear possession: they o'ercast 
 His soul's clear purity with dregs and lees 
 Of vile unknown ancestral impulses: 
 And viewless hands, from shadowy 
 
 regions groping, 
 With dim negation frustrate all my 
 hoping. 
 
 My child is mine. 
 By what black fate, what ultimate doom 
 
 accurs'd, 
 Shall be that radiant certainty revers'd.'' 
 Though hell should thrust its fiery gulfs 
 
 between. 
 Though all the heaven of heavens should 
 intervene, 
 Bound with a bond not God himself 
 
 will sever, 
 The babe I bore is mine for ever and ever. 
 My child is mine. 
 
 10 
 
WINDS OF GOD 
 
 With the north-east wind the soul is fain to 
 
 fight as an armed man — 
 The joy of combat is ours at least, and let 
 
 him conquer who can: 
 Let the strenuous warfare be swift and brief 
 
 or weary and long to win. 
 Who meetly wrestles with foe so fell, may 
 
 surely rejoice therein. 
 
 In the north-west wind there is colour and 
 
 light — from over the hills it comes, 
 With blare of horns and blazon of clouds, with 
 
 music of fifes and drums: 
 Cold and sweet from the morning blue, and 
 
 keen from the purple height. 
 It lifts aloft the triumphing soul on the sweep 
 
 of its pinions bright. 
 
 But oh, the whispering south-west wind, all 
 
 dewy with latent rains, 
 From the heather lands and the forest boughs 
 
 enmeshed with gossamer chains — 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 That laughs and sighs from the sunset-red, 
 that blows from the wild gTay sea. 
 
 The south-west wind with its dreams of the 
 dead is breaking the heart in me. 
 
THE WOOD'SONQ 
 
 Always there is a tiny song 
 That trickles down the trees — 
 
 Small dropping notes, not loud nor long. 
 Like other melodies; 
 
 But soft, reluctant sounds, half heard, 
 
 That utterance of some unknown bird. 
 
 And I have hunted in and out, 
 
 And searched, all times and tides. 
 
 And lurked the woodland ways about, 
 That simple singer hides, 
 
 Nor stirs a feather: nought shall scare 
 
 Him from his secret sojourn there. 
 
 And there is one in every wood 
 Who sings there day by day: 
 
 It almost might be understood 
 The thing he strives to say, 
 
 As though some child were at one's gate, 
 
 Sw^eet, plaintive, inarticulate. 
 
 Whereby I know, in leafy tents. 
 
 Awhile invisible, 
 A flight of Holy Innocents 
 
 On this green earth do dwell. 
 IS 
 
THE WIND ON TEE HEATH 
 
 That bird-babe with those notes divine. 
 He may be yours — he may be mine. 
 
 Hark! where the topmost branches soar. 
 
 It drips Hke x\pril rain, 
 The httle voice that never more 
 
 You thought to hear again, 
 Until you catch the trick of tone. 
 And know the singer for your own. 
 
 Yet speak not, lest you break the charm — 
 
 Stand silent in the dew. 
 And reach not out your empty arm 
 
 To clasp him unto you. 
 Patience! Perhaps, if you keep still, 
 He will come down ... I think he will. 
 
 14 
 
TEE PAGEANT OF SEAMEN 
 
 The song of the sea-adventurers, that never 
 
 were known to fame, 
 The roving, roistering mariners that builded 
 our England's name: 
 
 Foolhardy, reckless, undaunted, 
 Death they courted and taunted: 
 In the jaws of hell their flag they flaunted, 
 answering flame with flame. 
 
 An endless pageant of power and pride, they 
 
 steer from the long-ago. 
 From quays that moulder beneath the tide, 
 from cities whose walls lie low: 
 Carrack and sloop and galley, 
 Out of the dark they rally. 
 As homing birds over hill and valley, back to 
 the land they know. 
 
 The crews of the Bristol Guinea-men, that 
 traded to Old Calabar, 
 
 Fading for years out of English ken in swel- 
 tering seas afar; 
 
 li 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATE 
 
 The Danes and the Dutch they raced 
 
 there, 
 The Brandenburgers they chased there. 
 They bid the Portingale cargoes waste there, 
 under an evil star. 
 
 Their ships came back from the Cameroons, 
 
 ragged and patched and old, 
 With decks roof-thatched from the Accra 
 noons — but down in their sultry hold. 
 Battened from wind and weather. 
 Were coral and ostrich feather, 
 Jasper and ivory heaped together, amber 
 and dust of gold. 
 
 The Greenland skippers that speared the 
 
 whale at the edge of the grinding floe, 
 Icicles fringing sheet and sail, and deckj in 
 a smother of snow: 
 
 Men of Clyde and of Humber, 
 Cold is their Arctic slumber. 
 But their deeds of daring that none may 
 number shall live while the north winds 
 blow. 
 
 The stately captains of barque and brig, 
 in the days of the good Queen Anne; 
 
 Under each powdered periwig was the brain 
 of a sea-bred man. 
 16 
 
TEE PAGEANT OF SEAMEN 
 
 Was there work to be done? thejr 
 
 did it: 
 Was there danger? they pressed amid 
 it: 
 Wounded to death, with a smile they hid it, 
 and perished as sailors can. 
 
 The fiUbusters of Tudor years, that held the 
 
 ocean in fee, 
 The buccaneers and the privateers, the out- 
 lawed sons of the sea: 
 
 Terrible, swift, unsleeping, 
 Like bolts from the azure leaping. 
 Like birds of prey on their quarry sweeping, 
 foraging far and free. 
 
 The pigtailed bo's'ns of Anson and Cook, and 
 
 the seafaring men they led — 
 Who has counted in song or book the roll 
 of those glorious dead? 
 
 On the desolate isles uncharted 
 Their valorous souls departed: 
 They fought — they fell — and in death, 
 blithe-hearted, cheered as the foeman fled. 
 
 The men that talked with a Devon twang, as 
 they hoisted the sails of Drake — 
 
 All through the West their rumour rang, the 
 pride of the Dons to break, 
 17 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Fierce to seize and to sunder 
 The golden argosies' plunder, 
 The New World's dread and the Old World's 
 wonder, splendid for England's sake. 
 
 The coasting-craft and the fishing-craft, 
 
 lugger and ketch and hoy. 
 With a duck-gun fore and a blunderbuss alt, 
 served by a man and a boy; 
 Their tiny armaments flinging 
 On frigate and gun-boat — bringing 
 Prizes and prisoners home with singing, fired 
 with a desperate joy. 
 
 Ruffed to the chin, or laced to the knee, or 
 
 stripped to the waist for fight. 
 Herding the alien hordes of the sea to fields 
 of defeat and flight, 
 
 Or, lit by the lightning's flashing, 
 Close-hauled through the hurricane 
 thrashing. 
 With decks a-wash and with spars a-crashing, 
 they swoop on the reeling sight. 
 
 The sea-dogs sturdy, the sea-hawks bold, 
 that were never known to fame — 
 
 The grim adventurers, young and old, that 
 builded our England's name — 
 18 
 
THE PAGEANT OF SEAMEN 
 
 Over the waters of dreaming, 
 Their bows are rocking and gleaming, 
 To the sun unsetting their flag is streaming, 
 answering, flame with flame. 
 
 10 
 
TIGER LILY 
 
 When the twihght of the sunset meets the 
 
 ^twihght of the dawn. 
 And a trail of subtle fragrance through the 
 
 cloudy night is drawn, 
 Tiger-lily, 
 Do you go a-hunting, hunting, in the sombre 
 
 boskage black. 
 Are there rent and mangled blossoms here and 
 
 there upon your track, 
 Tiger-lily? 
 
 Do your stamens turn to eyes then, and ycur 
 anthers into claws. 
 
 And your flaming orange petals into fiercely- 
 foaming jaws. 
 Tiger-lily? 
 
 Are your leaves transformed to splendours of 
 a fur bestriped with gold, 
 
 Crouching deadly in the shadows, lurking 
 dreadful round the fold, 
 Tiger-Hly? 
 
 The white Madonna lily, she has tears upon 
 
 her face; 
 Does she tremble with the terror of the mid- 
 night and the chase, 
 Tiger-lily? 
 
 SO 
 
TIGER-LILY 
 
 The fragile amber lilies, dainty children of a 
 
 day, 
 Do you hunt their flying blossoms with a 
 
 thirst to seize and slay, 
 Tiger-lily? 
 
 When the delicate morning breezes call the 
 
 lilies from their sleep, 
 Through the furtive leafy by^vays, swift and 
 
 stealthv, home vou creep. 
 Tiger-lily; 
 You are poised alert, barbaric, spreading 
 
 petals one by one — 
 Ii it dew that drips and drops there, shining 
 
 •carlet in the sun, 
 Tiger-Hly? 
 
THE TURRET 
 
 There is a little turret roofed with gold, 
 
 A corner of my castle in the air; 
 And often, when the wintry world's a-cold, 
 
 I climb and taste eternal summer there: 
 For roses thro' the lattice laugh and lean, 
 
 And all the ceiling is of tender blue — 
 The walls are leaves, the floor is mossy- 
 green — 
 
 And in the happy twilight, there are you ! 
 
 There is a little turret veiled in mist. 
 
 And tapestried with dreams of days 
 gone by. 
 Where in the silence we have clasped and 
 kissed, 
 And none might blame, nor hinder, nor 
 deny. 
 How did you find the hidden postern gate, 
 That lets you through upon the secret 
 stair? 
 For never yet have I had need to wait — 
 
 Before the door is opened, you are there. 
 
 There is a little turret lapt in fire. 
 
 And wrapt about with red of living flame, 
 Where, at the pinnacle of heart's desire, 
 
 3S 
 
THE TURRET 
 
 Breathless we two have named each 
 other's name. 
 And then it crashes, crumbling — then the 
 dust 
 And smoke are dim above its ruins 
 bare: . 
 I build it up again — I can — I must! — 
 Come back unto our castle in the air! 
 
ALDEBARAN 
 
 Like a fire in the field of night, 
 
 I saw the Red Star shine. 
 The Red Star, the gypsy star, 
 
 And I claimed its light for mine: 
 The watcher by the flame. 
 
 The guide o'er moor and fen, 
 That beckoning waves his rosy torch 
 
 For wild and wandering men. 
 
 Like a disc of the ruddy gold, 
 
 I saw the Red Star gleam, 
 The Red Star, the gypsy star, 
 
 That roves in the roads of dream: 
 Across the empty years 
 
 He flung his spendthrift store, 
 As a Romany plays with handfuls bright. 
 
 In the shade of the low tent door. 
 
 Like a horseshoe in the forge, 
 I saw the Red Star glow. 
 
 The Red Star, the gypsy star, 
 
 Whose trail the vagabonds know: 
 24 
 
ALDEBARAN 
 
 Beating the bounds of earth. 
 
 Beneath the aHen skies, 
 They wend with joy in their homeless hearts 
 
 Who have seen the Red Star rise. 
 
 ts 
 
REINCARNATION 
 
 In lonely ways of dim, forgotten lands, 
 
 Ah, do you not recall liovv onee we went? 
 
 Did we not gaze, and liold each other's hands. 
 In utter ecstasy of sheer content? 
 
 And as for what we said — we said but nothing: 
 
 The naked truth was ours, that needs no 
 clothing. 
 
 Strange flowers were near us — nameless to 
 me now — 
 And strange old cities — were they quick 
 or dead? 
 We met — we two — the when or why or how 
 Matters no more. That golden hour is 
 fled. 
 But ineffaceable its glory lingers, 
 As melodies survive their primal singers. 
 
 And you? The moment eyes encountered eyes. 
 Yours were alight with memories and 
 with dreams. 
 You are mine, all mine: you know it. Oh, 
 be wise! 
 Ere over all our past the present streams, 
 And snaps our secret chains of joy and wonder, 
 And whelms and whirls us, impotent, asunder. 
 2C 
 
REINCARNATION 
 
 Listen. In visions 1 will come to-night 
 
 And seek with you those old mysterious 
 hinds. 
 And we shall see, in the gray, uncertain 
 light — 
 Do you remember? — where the temple 
 stands. 
 The desolate temple of some faith unknown, 
 The sunset fading on its solemn stone. 
 
 And we will never leave those lands again, 
 But all that should have been for us, 
 shall be: 
 Reality foregone, dreams shall remain. 
 
 And sweet oblivion cover you and me. 
 Dare all, renounce all — come! . . . 1 
 
 do not doubt you — 
 I who have waited centuries without you. 
 
 ^7 
 
THE FOLD 
 
 When God shall ope the gates of gold, 
 The portals of the heavenly fold. 
 And bid His flock find pasture wide 
 Upon a new earth's green hill-side — 
 
 What poor strayed sheep shall thither fare. 
 Black-smirched beneath the sunny air, 
 To wash away in living springs 
 The mud and mire of earthly things! 
 
 What lonely ewes with eyes forlorn. 
 With weary feet and fleeces torn, 
 To whose shorn back no wind was stayed. 
 Nor any rough ways smooth were made ! 
 
 What happy Httle lambs shall leap 
 To those sad ewes and spattered sheep, 
 With gamesome feet and joyful eyes. 
 From years of play in Paradise ! 
 
 The wind is chill, the hour is late; 
 Haste thee, dear Lord, undo the gate; 
 For grim wolf-sorrows prowling range 
 These bitter hills of chance and change: 
 «8 
 
THE FOLD 
 
 And from the barren wilderness 
 With homeward face Thy flocks do press : 
 Their worn bells ring a jangled chime — 
 Shepherd, come forth, 'tis even time! 
 
 SO 
 
MOTHER NIGHT 
 
 Unloose the cloudy mantle 
 
 That wraps thy sweetness round, 
 And in its folds of shadow 
 
 Let me be softly wound: 
 And clasp me to thy bosom, 
 
 That so thine eyes' deep light 
 May stream unseen above me, 
 
 Mother Night! 
 
 Thine arms about my shoulders. 
 
 Thy fingers in my hair. 
 Dismiss the gaudy pageant. 
 
 The day's dull noise and glare: 
 For thou alone art real, 
 
 And thou alone canst right 
 The wrongs of all the weary, 
 
 Mother Night! 
 
 And here from every trouble 
 Abides the restin^'-place, 
 
 The ever-ready solace, 
 The ever-true embrace: 
 
MOTHER NIGHT 
 
 With keys of dream, O dearest, 
 Unlock the world's delight. 
 
 Hide me in heavenly secrets, 
 Mother Night! 
 
 tl 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 When leaf -sweet silence held the moonlit vale, 
 
 The nightingale 
 
 Suddenly spoke 
 
 Out of the heart of his accustomed oak. 
 
 The garrulous bird-chorus of the day 
 
 Had sunk away: 
 
 None called, or cooed, 
 
 Or carolled to his brown wide-throated brood. 
 
 Alone the ring-dove on her scanty nest, 
 
 Taking no rest. 
 
 Felt the eggs stir, 
 
 And little thrills of life move under her. 
 
 Also the long grass, drinking deep of dew, 
 
 Slept not, but grew. 
 
 Clean, tall, and straight. 
 
 Ready to topple with its own lush weight. 
 
 These three were ware, none other waking 
 
 nigh. 
 When down the sky, 
 A golden boat, 
 The moon dropped anchor into deeps remote. 
 
NOCTURNE 
 
 These three, the singer and the listeners, felt 
 The shadows melt. 
 The darkness turn 
 
 Toward the dim dawning: when the great 
 king-fern 
 
 That rules the shallows by the brown wood- 
 pond 
 
 Lifted each frond 
 
 To its full height, 
 
 To gain the first faint glimpse of new-made 
 light. 
 
 8S 
 
TEE FAIRY EXODUS 
 
 Under the light of the waning moon, 
 
 Where the alder and elder lean. 
 The fairies trampled with soundless shoon. 
 
 And cloaks as the ash-leaf green. 
 
 Like quicken-berries their caps were red; 
 
 They splashed through the dewdrops cold, 
 With lithe arms waving o'er elfin head, 
 
 And glitter of gleaming gold. 
 
 I lay in the mosses to see them go — 
 They lured me with music wild; 
 
 But the heart that is smitten with mortal woe 
 Was never by fays beguiled. 
 
 Yet the last of them whispered "Awake! 
 Rejoice! 
 
 Come follow our steps — be wise!" 
 And oh! she spoke in my true love's voice, 
 
 And looked from my lost love's eyes. 
 
 u 
 
TWO AGAINST FATE 
 
 ("When a child is born among the Thracians, all its 
 kindred sit round about it in a circle, and weep for the 
 woes it will have to undergo, now that it has come into 
 the world, making mention of every ill that falls to the 
 lot of man." — "Terpsichore." 4.] 
 
 They all came round thy cradle, little brown 
 head, 
 Bringing their shrill forebodings of dis- 
 aster; 
 Bent crone and barren beldame, how they 
 sped, 
 Each with the dreariest tale her tongue 
 could master! 
 
 But thou and I 
 Cared not: they would be silent by and by. 
 
 The heroes of thy kindred, little brown head, 
 
 Bearing a burden deep of lamentation. 
 Wept as they spoke: the maidens newly-wed, 
 35 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Trembling, declared thy dark predesti- 
 nation : 
 
 But I and thou 
 
 Lay hushed, close, close together, even 
 as now. 
 
 Ah me! but when they had left us, little 
 brown head, 
 The Ills that they had summoned lin- 
 gered after; 
 On every side I heard the stealthy tread, 
 The wailing voices and the mocking laugh- 
 ter; 
 
 I saw them creep 
 And lay malignant looks upon thy sleep. 
 
 For Care stopped low above thee, little brown 
 head. 
 And Pain caressed thee on the hands and 
 feet, 
 And Fear's black shadow filled the dusk with 
 dread. 
 And Famine breathed on thee — my sweet, 
 my sweet ! 
 
 And Grief, who knelt 
 Against thy side — her very tears I felt. 
 And False Love smiling faintly, little brown 
 head, 
 
 36 
 
TWO AGAINST FATE 
 
 And Broken Hope that turns the world 
 to gall. 
 And Sickness, and Despair — I saw them 
 spread 
 Their malison o'er thee that art my all ; 
 
 Impotent, still, 
 I lay and listened : they must have their will. 
 
 Last of all, Death — not fearful, little brown 
 head, 
 But like a hooded mother, soft and dim, 
 Drew near with rustling garments, and did 
 shed 
 Clear drops of blessing o'er thine every 
 limb — 
 
 Death, at whose sight 
 Those other phantoms dwindled and took 
 flight. 
 
 Alas, for thee and me, my little brown head! 
 Have I then lured thee into snares of 
 sorrow.'' 
 Was it for this, for this, the long days led 
 My weary steps to that divinest morrow. 
 
 That golden hour, 
 When the sealed bud broke to the perfect 
 flow'r.^ 
 How may I foil those Evils, Httle brown head? 
 37 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 How may I blunt the weapons they are 
 shaping 
 To wound thee sore? Mine eyes uncomforted 
 Can see no crevice for our joy's escaping. 
 
 What! shall we two 
 Quail and surrender, then, as others do? 
 
 No! let us fight and face them, little brown 
 head, 
 Through desperate battle waxing ever bolder, 
 Selhng our life-blood dear. Yea, I being 
 dead, 
 Should I forego the conflict? At thy 
 shoulder, 
 
 Yet will I wield 
 A broken sword in the unequal field. 
 
 Thus upon Fate we trample, little brown head; 
 
 Her promises and threats, alike unstable, 
 Shall rift and shift before us: in her stead 
 Stands Love unconqucred and uncon- 
 querable. 
 
 Clad all in fire, 
 Opening the doorways of the heart's desire. 
 So to the end. . . . What foe shall 
 make or mar 
 That plenitude of peace, when, warfare 
 ended, 
 
 38 
 
TWO AGAINST FATE 
 
 Wild thyme and clover and the evening star 
 Keep watch above us, in one dreaming 
 blended? 
 
 When I and thou 
 Lie hushed, close, close together, even 
 as now. 
 
 so 
 
HUNGARIAN FOLK SONG 
 
 The white rose-petals in the dust 
 
 Are falling, falling. 
 I weep, I weep, because I must; 
 Another weds my rose to-day. 
 And in the wood the violins are calling. 
 Haste, fiddler, haste! 
 Play, fiddler, play ! 
 A wedding should be blithe and gay ! 
 And in the wood the violins are calling. 
 
 The shepherds' reed-pipes o'er the plain 
 
 Are calling, calling. 
 My star is quenched in bitter pain, 
 
 Yet in my heart I hide its ray. 
 And through the night the lonely stars are 
 falling. 
 
 Haste, fiddler, haste! 
 Play, fiddler, play! 
 A wedding should be bhthe and gay! 
 And through the night the lonely stars are 
 falling. 
 
 40 
 
CROCUS 
 
 Gold flame and silver flame. 
 
 Burning through the mould, 
 In the east wind's scornful breath, 
 
 When the world's a-cold: 
 Fiery from the earth's red heart, 
 
 Leap they to the light, 
 Gold flame and silver flame. 
 
 Crocus yellow and white. 
 
 Look, you starveling wayfarers. 
 
 Shivering as you go, 
 Watching lest the leaden sky 
 
 Break in blinding snow: 
 See the gray, the iron soil. 
 
 Cleft by sudden heat! 
 Gold flame and silver flame 
 
 Fhcker at your feet. 
 
 Torches of the tiny year, 
 
 Cressets put to mark 
 Pathways where the spring may tread. 
 
 Groping through the dark: 
 Fires to warm the frozen heart, 
 
 Candles rare and small, 
 Gold flame and silver flame 
 
 Glow beside the wall. 
 41 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Shall they smoulder into dust. 
 
 Sink in embers gray? 
 Shall their gleam, in ashes lost, 
 
 Wither all away? 
 Oh, they mount, some night of stari, 
 
 From the prisoning sod — 
 Gold flame and silver flame 
 
 Light the halls of God! 
 
WM FRIEND BY NIGHT 
 
 Solace of earth is all too rare to seek, 
 
 Celestial pity all too far to find. 
 But thou, stroking the tear-wet cheek, 
 
 Thou vast and solitary wind. 
 Over waste land and wide unvoyaged sea, 
 Come, fold me round — come, clasp and com- 
 fort me! 
 
 The secret ways wherein thou roam'st, 1 
 know. 
 By ruined fortress and forgotten grange. 
 Amongst whose echoes thou dost go, 
 
 Wakening old voices sad and strange, 
 Or with faint pipe dost climb the pastui-e 
 
 steep, 
 Shepherd invisible of cloudy sheep. 
 
 In thee the martial melodies elate 
 
 Of battleward troops that tramp the 
 trembling earth : 
 
 The tragedy of human fate. 
 The irony of human mirth : 
 
 The songs the mother, and the lover, sings: 
 
 The child's immortal joy in mortal thing*. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 The tiniest shell upon the widest shore. 
 By desolate quays where none shall dis- 
 embark, 
 
 Thou hast kissed to-night: thy wings explore 
 The ultiniaU^ reaehcs of the dark: 
 
 Yet thou to-night, thou lordly wayfarer, 
 
 Shalt be my coim-ade and my comforter! 
 
THE SONG OF THE TINKER 
 
 1 am the man of pot and pan, 
 
 I am a lad of mottle; 
 My tent I piteli by the wayside ditch 
 
 To mend your ean and kettle; 
 While town-bred folk bear a year-Ion^ yoke 
 
 Amon^ their feeble fellows, 
 I elink and clank on the hedt>erow bank, 
 
 And blow my snoring bellows. 
 
 1 loved a lass with hair like brass, 
 
 And eyes like a brazier glowing; 
 But the female crew, what they will do, 
 
 I swear is past all knowing! 
 She flung her cap at a ploughman chap, 
 
 And a fool I ncnxls nmst think her. 
 Who left for an oaf the mug and loaf. 
 
 And the snug little tent of a tinker. 
 
 But clank and clang, let women go hang, 
 
 And who shall care a farden? 
 With the solder strong of a laugh and a song 
 
 My mind I'll heal and harden. 
 45 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 My ways I'll wend, and the pots I'll mend, 
 
 For gaffer and for gammer, 
 And drive my cart with a careless heart. 
 
 And sit by the road and hammer! 
 
POPFIES 
 
 Scarlet and crimson, purple, rose, and gold, 
 What hues are these that mock the 
 
 morning skies? 
 What squandered rainbow wealth of 
 Tyrian dyes, 
 What dazzling raiment, wrought in regal 
 
 mould, 
 Do these luxurious prodigals unfold? 
 "In me magnificent," each blossom cries, 
 "The pride of life, the lusting of the eyes, 
 The pomp and glory of Day thou shalt be- 
 hold!" 
 
 But one white poppy in her cup doth keep 
 More spells than all her splendid sister* 
 know — 
 And mystery distils upon her breath. 
 And drowsy spells she murmurs long and 
 low — 
 The sentinel that guards the gates of sleep, 
 The mistress of the Night, and dreams, 
 and death. 
 
 47 
 
0RAS3 
 
 The grasses swiftly growing, growing by 
 
 night and day. 
 Ripe for the mid-June mowing, filled with 
 
 green lights and gray, 
 Sang in the morning splendour, sang in the 
 
 moonlight dew 
 A little song of tender prediction as they grew. 
 
 Some: "'Neath the great barn gable, where 
 
 the white owl doth fly 
 When granary and stable in fragrant stillness 
 
 lie — 
 Where elder-boughs lean over, white on the 
 
 rickyard wall, 
 In the city of wheat and clover shall stand 
 
 our castles tall." 
 
 Some: "To the wood -recesses where toil 
 
 and longing cease, 
 The green wood- wildernesses, roofed in and 
 
 paved with peace, 
 The happy birds shall take us — soft leaves 
 
 below, above — 
 And with sweet haste shall make us the very 
 
 house of Love.'* 
 
 48 
 
ORASS 
 
 And some: "For our possessing shall be a 
 
 fairer fate: 
 Though ye be blest and blessing, a dearer 
 
 doom we wait: 
 The wandering gypsy mother, w eary and way- 
 
 distrest. 
 On us, and on none other, shall lay her child 
 
 to rest." 
 
 49 
 
^YPSr MOTHER-SONGS 
 
 Gold aglow on the gorse, 
 
 And kingly purple over the heather; 
 And lihes on the river's course 
 
 Lifting their silver cups together. 
 Lullaby and hushaby ! 
 
 The wayfaring day is o'er; 
 Thou and I, together we He 
 
 In the House of the Open Door: 
 But for thee and for me, my child, 
 Wandering folk and poor, 
 There is treasure untold on meadow 
 and moor, 
 When the wind blows wild. 
 
 Gold aflame on the corn, 
 
 And queenly crimson deep in the heather; 
 And diamonds of the dew^ at morn, 
 Flashing their rainbow drops together. 
 Lullaby and hushaby! 
 
 The wayfaring day is o'er; 
 Thou and I, together we lie 
 In the house of the Open Door: 
 But for thee and for me, my child. 
 
GYPSY MOTHER-SONGS 
 
 Wandering folk and poor, 
 There are jewels of price on meadow 
 and moor, 
 When the wind blows wild. 
 
 Gold alight in the sky, 
 
 And royal red in the heart of the heather; 
 And all the night the stars go by, 
 Waving their silver swords together. 
 Lullaby and hushaby! 
 
 The wayfaring day is o'er; 
 Thou and I, together we lie 
 
 In the House of the Open Door: 
 But for thee and for me, my child, 
 Wandering folk and poor, 
 There are dreams of delight on 
 meadow and moor. 
 When the wind blows wild. 
 
 n 
 
 The Romany baby lies in a rcd-ros© cup. 
 Where all the mice on the moor could not 
 creep up, 
 For my kirtle red 
 For his cradle is spread. 
 Slung in the tent by the fire where the gypsiei 
 sup. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 The Romany baby lies in a lily white, 
 To the song of the wind by day and the wind 
 by night: 
 
 For his swaddling clothes 
 
 Arc fair as the snows 
 That cover the circling hills with a rim of light. 
 
 The Romany baby lies in a russet leaf, 
 Slnit in for ever and ever from joy or grief, 
 
 Whom the earth receives 
 
 With the other dead leaves. 
 Whose stay on the desolate branches was — 
 ah, so brief! 
 
 JI9 
 
THE SMOCK-IAACED SHEPHERD 
 
 [Isle of Wight) 
 
 I've thart it out, and I sartainly 'lows 
 
 Bess Dore is the girl for me; 
 There edii't another from Chale to Cowes 
 
 As is fit to be named wi' she: 
 Her eyes is quick as a vannerhawk's, 
 
 Her voice have tlic kindest tone, 
 And when she's laughen, or when she talks, 
 
 'Tes soft as a wood-quest's own. 
 
 But for arl I zees and arl I knows. 
 
 No vorrarder does I drive: 
 For in zight o' she my spache it goes, 
 
 And I zims but half alive; 
 Wi' looks and smiles though she sweetly tole, 
 
 I wiggles from left to right, 
 Just Hive zome molledy-dowsty-poU 
 
 A-blunderen round the light. 
 
 1 left a tutty so neat and smarl 
 'Longzide of her neckle door, 
 5Z 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Of bethwine blossoms and yallow-carl, 
 And cammick from ojff the moor. 
 
 I bound en up wi' the shackle-ring 
 As haps the gate o' the voold; 
 
 But I heard the birds in the vuzbrake zing, 
 "Goo fetch her a ring o' goold!" 
 
 At whiles we meets in some zidelen spot, 
 
 Her dubersome step draas near, 
 She prid-nigh stops, as it med be what 
 
 There's summat her'd like to hear. 
 But, tell her more than a "Marnen, you!" 
 
 I cannot, upon my zoul! 
 She goes her ways, and the shinen blue 
 
 Grows black as a cotterul pole. 
 
 I finds a overner t'other night, 
 
 A-coorten her down by barn: 
 A pussikey veller wi' cuffs o' white, 
 
 And a vine flitch tongue to yarn: 
 It turn'd me zwivety hearen en mag, 
 
 But I zays to myself, Let be: 
 She'll furl en away like a mallishag — 
 
 Her can zee droo the likes o' he ! 
 
 At night I zaamers along the lay, 
 Like any wold swaailen hen; 
 
 I meditates long on words to say. 
 And they comes quite suant then. 
 
THE SMOCK-FAACED SHEPHERD 
 
 There edn't a sheep inside the zools 
 
 But's happier var than me : 
 Oh! why did the Lard make men zuch \u(;ls« 
 
 And maidens zo vair to see? 
 
 55 
 
COLUMBINES 
 
 White wings flutter from out of the West, 
 
 Silver and gold in the heart of the sky: 
 The birds of one feather go homeward to- 
 gether, 
 
 Ring-doves and rock-doves, for night-time 
 is nigh; 
 While out of the nest 
 
 The little ones croon, 
 *' Come, soothe us to rest. 
 
 Come soon, soon!" 
 
 White wings cloudily sweep from the West, 
 
 Over the garden where columbines grow. 
 All clustered together, like birds of one feather. 
 
 With pinions and plumage of silver and 
 snow: 
 And the birds in their nest. 
 
 They twitter and croon, 
 *'0 night, bring us rest. 
 
 Come soon, soon!" 
 
 White wings beat from the East to the West, 
 Souls flying home to the portals of pearl: 
 Like birds of one feather they hasten to- 
 gether 
 
COLUMBINES 
 
 To the Paradise-gardens where pinions 
 may furl; 
 And to mortals distrest, 
 
 They murmur and croon, 
 **Come home to your rest — 
 
 Come soon, soon!" 
 
 5T 
 
THE LAST 
 
 This is the last one dream I hold — 
 
 This dream I send — 
 Wrought of dead leaves, that once were fairy 
 gold 
 You helped to spend. 
 You were the loom and you the weft 
 Of every dream: now none are left; 
 I and my dreams were all too poor, too few 
 For you. 
 
 This is the last one word unsaid, 
 
 This word I send; 
 Although the music of my lips be fled. 
 
 Now all's at end. 
 Its jarring note, that harshly rings, 
 Like cadence torn from jangled strings. 
 Strives against iron fate to sound anew 
 For you. 
 
 This is the last one rose that's left, 
 
 This rose I send: 
 Although my empty garden lie bereft, 
 
 Where bare boughs bend; 
 58 
 
THE LAST 
 
 As I have given my rest, my best, 
 My fairest and my costliest, 
 All that I had, or could, or hoped, or knew — 
 For you! 
 
 59 
 
SEA-GHOSTS 
 
 0* stormy nights, be they summer or winter, 
 
 Hurricane nights like these, 
 When spar and topsail are rag and splinter 
 
 Hurled o'er the sluicing seas, 
 
 To the jagged edge where the cliff leans over. 
 
 Climb as you best may chmb; 
 Lie there and listen what mysteries hover. 
 
 Haunting the tides of Time. 
 
 The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles. 
 The great waves topple and pour, 
 
 Full of the fury of ancient battles, 
 Clamant with cries of war. 
 
 The gale has summoned, the night has 
 beckoned — 
 
 Lo, from the east and west. 
 Stately shadows arise unreckoned 
 
 Out of their deeps of rest! 
 
 Wild on the wind are voices ringing. 
 
 Echoes that throng the air, 
 Vahant voices, of victory singing, 
 
 Or dark with sublime despair. 
 6Q 
 
SEA-GHOSTS 
 
 To the distant drums with their rumbling 
 hollow, 
 
 The answering trumpets blow: 
 War-horn and fife and cymbal follow. 
 
 From galleys of long ago. 
 
 The crested breaker, on reef and boulder 
 
 That swirls in cavernous black, 
 Carries a challenge from decks that moulder 
 
 To ships that never came back. 
 
 The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles 
 Are one in their wrath and might 
 
 With the crash and clashing of armed vessels, 
 Grinding across the night. 
 
 Out of the dark the broadsides thunder. 
 
 Clattering to and fro: 
 The old sea-fighters, the old w^orld's wonder. 
 
 Are manning their wrecks below. 
 
 You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the 
 crackle, 
 
 Shall mark on the surly blast 
 Rush and tear of the rending tackle. 
 
 Thud of the falling mast. 
 
 With the foam that flies and the spray that 
 spatters, 
 Scourging the strand again, 
 A terrible outcry leaps and shatters — 
 Tumult of drowning men. 
 61 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles - 
 Was never such fear as this! 
 
 A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles 
 Out of the sea's abyss. 
 
 It quails and quivers, its grassy verges 
 Vibrant with uttermost dread: 
 
 It knows the groan of the laden surges, 
 The shout of the deathless Dead. 
 
 In a rolling roar of reverberations. 
 Marching with wind and tide. 
 
 Heroes of unremembered nations 
 Vaunt their immortal pride. 
 
 Briton, Spaniard, Phoenician, Roman, 
 
 Gallant implacable hosts — 
 Locked in fight with a phantom foeman, 
 
 Gather the grim sea-ghosts. 
 
 6? 
 
CHILDLESS 
 
 Brown sods and clods that ope your door 
 
 To let green armies through, 
 A barren woman, here once more 
 
 I turn dull eyes on you. 
 Let me but slough this tedious flesh, and cast 
 My free desires upon their flight at last! 
 
 And I will be the wind of spring, 
 
 To quicken bulb and root. 
 To bid each numb and dormant thing 
 
 Conceive and bring forth fruit, 
 To wake waste lands, fulfilling all their 
 
 dreams, 
 With tiny prattle of the dancing streams. 
 
 And I will be the April sun. 
 
 With living light to wrap 
 The baby seeds, laid one by one 
 
 In earth's warm mother-lap — 
 And through my morning-gold or evening-red 
 Watch their sweet growth and waxing goodli- 
 head. 
 
 And I will be the rainbow show'r. 
 With tiptoe feet to pass 
 6^ 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Where these my babes of leaf and flow*r 
 
 Sleep in the lengthening grass. 
 And touch so tenderly on lip and brow 
 Their exquisite faces — God, Thou knowest 
 how! 
 
 64 
 
THE COMBATANT 
 
 When thou shalt stand, a naked shivering 
 soul, 
 Stripped of thy shows and trappings, made 
 
 most bare 
 Of all the fleshly glory thou didst wear — 
 And hear the thunder of God's judgment roll 
 Above thy head; while to their hard-won goal 
 His own elect ascend the golden stair — 
 What plea wilt proffer, when, too late for 
 pray'r. 
 Of thy lost life thou see'st the sum and whole? 
 
 **I have no armour dinted by the fight, 
 No broken sword, no casque with cloven 
 rim; 
 
 Was none to witness to the grisly sight, 
 For all alone we strove in darkness dim; 
 
 Yet in the Valley of Death, O Lord, one night, 
 I met ApoUyon and I vanquished him." 
 
 05 
 
THE QUEST 
 
 Thou little Child witn naked feet 
 That walkest in the noisy street, 
 Whence comest Thou, and whither goest? 
 Say, if Thou knowest. 
 
 By muddy kerb and flaring gas, 
 I see Thy tiny footsteps pass; 
 On sodden face and ragged singer 
 Thy wide eyes linger. 
 
 Thou stay'st not by the windows bright, 
 That flaunt their gaudy wares to-night: 
 From gold and gems that show so bravely, 
 Thou turnest gravely. 
 
 Nor dainty food nor glittering toy 
 Allure Thy glance, Thou httle Boy: 
 Oh, where bare-headed dost Thou wander. 
 On what dost ponder? 
 
 Then said the Child: "In wind and wet 
 I seek and seek a dwelling yet: 
 Here is no stable and no manger 
 For Me the stranger. 
 66 
 
TEE QUEST 
 
 "The flower-girl on whose tawdry gown 
 The drops of rain are soaking down — 
 Beneath her tattered shawl, unbidden, 
 Whiles have I hidden. 
 
 "The shabby, weary, faded folk, 
 Bowed down beneath the accustomed yoke. 
 With coarsened hands and faces hollow, 
 Homeward I follow. 
 
 "And I will enter all unknown 
 
 Across their dingy threshold stone: 
 
 Poor, tired, obscure, they shall be blest there. 
 
 For I will rest there." 
 
 67 
 
TEE GIFTS 
 
 When as my child was ten days old. 
 
 Beside his tiny cot I laid 
 My slender wedding-ring of gold 
 
 Upon a table white-arrayed: 
 Cakes and fruits moreover, 
 
 And a piece of silver money, 
 
 And a pot of mountain honey. 
 Smelling of thyme and clover. 
 
 And three new almonds there-within, 
 
 The Fairy Ladies' grace to win. 
 
 So when I knew he soundly slept 
 As any blossom pink and small. 
 
 Behind the curtain-fold I crept, 
 
 And watched to see what should befall: 
 
 And presently a brightness 
 About the doorway kindled. 
 So that the firelight dwindled; — 
 
 Then came, all clad in whiteness. 
 
 The Ladies Three, and stood and smiled. 
 Looking upon my little child. 
 
 Then said the first," This fruit and cake 
 I claim — that he may hunger sore." 
 
 The second said, "This coin I take. 
 Poverty he shall know therefore.'* 
 
THE GIFTS 
 
 The third one, reaching over, 
 Took the ring, laughing lightly, 
 **New sorrows daily and nightly 
 
 Shall pierce the hapless lover. 
 
 Now have we left him void and bare 
 Unto the bitter world's cold air!" 
 
 Then was I torn 'twixt grief and rage, 
 Whether to curse them there and die, 
 
 Who robbed my dear's poor heritage. 
 And bid him cold and hungry lie — 
 
 Or to kneel down before them, 
 And pray them for repentance 
 Of this their cruel sentence — 
 
 And with wild words implore them, 
 And with a mother's anguish plead, 
 To change the doom they had decreed. 
 
 But suddenly there seemed to wake 
 A music like a silver bell: 
 
 And if they sang, or if they spake, 
 Or if I dreamed, I cannot tell — 
 
 A singing and a ringing. 
 
 Like rivers murmuring lowly, 
 Like wind-rocked pine-trees slowly 
 
 Their woven branches swinging. 
 
 Filled all the room : and one did stand 
 With the honey-jar in her right hand. 
 
 Then said the first, ''This child I dower 
 With fragrance of the mountain thyme. 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 And sweetness of the clover-flower, 
 
 Set in imperishable rhyme." 
 
 The next, "And in his hearing 
 
 Shall bees be ever humming, 
 
 In filmy flight still coming 
 With drowsy sounds endearing." 
 
 The third, "I give the glory and glow 
 
 Of yon great sea that rolls below." 
 
 "Sleep soft," they sang, "thy little lips 
 Not yet in deathless song shall stir, 
 
 Not yet thy rosy finger-tips 
 
 Shall touch or lute or dulcimer: 
 
 Weaned from the world's gross pleasure, 
 By pain and fast made worthy. 
 Eternal fame waits for thee, 
 
 And everlasting treasure. 
 
 Then shalt thou greet us where we dwell 
 On our clear heights — till then, farewell! 
 
 70 
 
SHUT IN 
 
 The little white-robed choristers 
 
 Descended one by one: 
 The organ thundered and grew still - 
 
 Evensong was done. 
 
 Pillar and shrine and monument 
 Withdrew themselves in gloom: 
 
 But high in the west the rose-window 
 Glowed like a rose in bloom. 
 
 Silence descended as a cloud, 
 Silence: alone there stirred, 
 
 In the east-window's blazonry, 
 The small wings of a bird. 
 
 It beat against the purple and gold, 
 
 The crimson and the blue; 
 It strove for the dim boughs without. 
 
 Darkness and the dew: 
 
 As though a soul not ripe for heaven 
 
 Itself therein should find, 
 And beat against the bars of gold 
 
 For its old love left behind. 
 
 71 
 
THE DISTAFF 
 
 All things that ask for proof 
 Lie needless and aloof: 
 Hearing has failed, 
 And sight is veiled — 
 
 What is, is but what seems: 
 And, gray from head to heel. 
 The Night sits at her wheel, 
 Spinning beneath a shadow-roof 
 Her distaff full of dreams. 
 
 The world is left without, 
 Incredibly shut out. 
 No faintest speech 
 From it may reach, 
 
 No show of farthest gleams. 
 The essential facts are left, 
 In magic warp and weft. 
 Wherewith the Night hath hung about 
 Her distaff full of dreams. 
 
 A fragrance warm and dense 
 Nameless unto the sense. 
 
 Hangs in deep drift 
 
 That does not lift, 
 
 72 
 
TEE DISTAFF 
 
 O'er muffled fields and streams 
 So, in that breath of love 
 And the strange hints thereof, 
 The Night sits ever, winding thence 
 
 Her distaff full of dreams. 
 
 Those dreams — in long-drawn mist 
 Of pearl and amethyst — 
 Each, one by one. 
 In secret spun 
 
 Of scents and filmy beams, 
 Are all of you, of you — 
 But baseless all? Ah, who 
 Knows, save the Night? Yet have I kissed 
 Her distaff full of dreams. 
 
 78 
 
OBLATION 
 
 I am the glass wherein you see 
 Your own poor heart eternally — 
 
 I pray you, then, for pity, take it; 
 And — since this end must surely be 
 The only end for you and me — 
 Break it! 
 
 I am the flower whose bloom shall shed 
 Its sweetness on you, living or dead — 
 
 Against your lips, I pray you, brush it; 
 Then — since this end must surely be 
 The only end for you and me — 
 Crush it! 
 
 I am the wine that fills your veins 
 With bitter joys and exquisite pains — 
 
 Lo, my heart's cup ! I pray you, taste it; 
 Then — since this end must surely be 
 The only end for you and me — 
 Waste it! 
 
 I am the light that shall illume 
 Your very soul from out my tomb, 
 74 
 
OBLATION 
 
 Though there with tears of blood you 
 drench it; 
 But — since this end must surely be 
 The only end for you and me — 
 Quench it! 
 
 T5 
 
POPLARS 
 
 They are not as the other trees; 
 
 Apart, aloof, austere, 
 Mute of a thousand mysteries. 
 
 They guard the crescent year; 
 Only a waft of fleeting breath 
 
 Makes answer to the rain — 
 A few brief words the poplar saith. 
 
 And then is still again. 
 
 When oak and elm on sultry eves 
 
 Drowse in a full-fed sloth, 
 When hazels hardly lift their leaves 
 
 Out of the undergrowth, 
 The poplars murmur each to each. 
 
 Bending tall brow to brow; 
 In what remote, immortal speech 
 
 Are they conversing now? 
 
 To the least movement of the air. 
 
 Their supple shapes respond: 
 Although their visible forms be there. 
 
 Their souls dwell far beyond: 
 Their thoughts, on upper currents borne, 
 
 A pilgrimage do go, 
 Seeking the mountains of the morn, 
 
 The springs of afterglow. 
 7a 
 
POPLARS 
 
 In some ethereal, thin Gulf-stream 
 
 Of influence most sweet, 
 Some immemorial drift of dream 
 
 That trends about their feet. 
 The poplars stand; and yet, who knows? 
 
 If one should listen well. 
 Some careless whisper might disclose 
 
 The secret poplar-spell. 
 
 77 
 
BALLAD OF FOULWEATHER JACK 
 
 Admiral Byron has weighed his anchor, 
 
 And put to sea in a gale; 
 But deep in his heart is a hidden canker. 
 
 Because of an oft-told tale. 
 Brave he may be, deny it who can, 
 Yet Admiral John is a luckless man; 
 And the midshipmen's mothers cry, "Out, 
 
 alack ! 
 My lad has sailed with Foulweather Jack!" 
 
 Admiral Byron has hoisted his pennant. 
 
 And steered for Cape Breton shore: 
 But the surgeon says to the first lieutenant, 
 
 "We shall never see Spithead more! 
 Weather-beaten and battle-scarr'd, 
 To Plymouth Hoe or to Portsmouth Hard, 
 The crews return — but they never come back 
 Who sign and serve with Foulweather Jack! 
 
 "Many a frigate has he commanded, 
 
 In every storm that's blown: 
 He would fight with a squadron single-handed. 
 
 But his luck is the devil's own: 
 He loses the wind, he misses the tide, 
 He shaves the rocks, and his shots go wide; 
 The fate is curst and the future black. 
 That hangs o'er the head of Foulweather 
 Jack. 
 
 78 
 
BALLAD OF FOULWEATHER JACK 
 
 "As for me, I'm a tough old stager, 
 
 Nor care if I sink or swim, 
 But when I think of the stranded Wager, 
 
 My heart is heavy for him. 
 Round the world to ruin and wreck 
 He carried his luck on the Dolphin's deck: 
 If ever a man had the gift and knack; 
 Of sheer disaster, 'tis Foulweather Jack!'* 
 
 As a sea-gull's wings o'er the surges flutter. 
 In the light of the sunset flame. 
 
 There hovered from westward a hasty cutter, 
 To speak with the frigate Fame. 
 
 "Twenty Parley- voo ships to-day 
 
 Lurk and loiter in Chaleur Bay; 
 
 Like wolves they gather to make attack 
 
 On the ships and convoy of Foulweather Jack. 
 
 "Frigates three for your three are biding. 
 
 And of arm'd privateers a score; 
 Sloops and schooners at anchor riding. 
 
 Are waiting you close in shore; 
 Their guns are many, and yours are few; 
 Eight to one they outnumber you: 
 The wind is slow and the tide is slack, 
 But you yet may escape them, Foulweather 
 Jack!" 
 
 The Admiral stood six foot and over, 
 
 He was stately and stern to see: 
 But his eyes lit up like those of a lover, 
 79 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 And merry of mind was he: 
 And the Byron blood and the Berkeley blood 
 Burned in his veins like a fiery flood, 
 And his pulses leaped, and his comely face 
 Glowed with the pride of a fighting race. 
 
 The Admiral laughed with the wind's own 
 laughter. 
 
 And spoke with the sea's own might, 
 "From danger and death, and what comes after. 
 
 No Englishman turns in flight: 
 They call me unlucky, — to-day you'll learn 
 How the worst of luck for a time may turn : 
 We'll rid the seas of this vermin-pack, 
 And I'll be huntsman!" quoth Foulweather 
 Jack. 
 
 The twilight sank and the darkness settled, 
 
 The Admiral's frigate led: 
 She took the waves like a steed high-mettled. 
 
 And thus to his men he said: 
 "Desperate measures for desperate needs, 
 And valorous crews for dare-devil deeds: 
 A goodly quarry we have in track — 
 Clear the decks for action!" says Foulweather 
 Jack. 
 
 All through the night were the sea-birds soaring 
 Shrieking and scared from rest: 
 
 All through the night the guns were roaring 
 Under the sea-birds' nest. 
 80 
 
BALLAD OF FOULWEATHER JACK 
 
 When morning broke in a glimmer gray, 
 There was dreadful silence in Chaleur Bay — 
 Only the crackle of burning decks, 
 And cries for succour from crowded wrecks. 
 
 The Bienfaisant is aground and blazing. 
 
 And sunk is the proud Marchault: 
 The privateersmen aghast are gazing 
 
 At their vessels that burn a-row; 
 The staggering smoke that volleys and blows 
 Shrouds the shattered Marquis de Marlose, 
 And the sloops and schooners in rout and 
 
 wrack 
 Strew the pathway of Foulweather Jack. 
 
 The prisoners question in fear and wonder, 
 
 "What fiend have we fought to-day? 
 We are burnt and spHntered and split in 
 sunder, 
 Who boasted him soon our prey. 
 He grappled and boarded us, one to ten, 
 But he and his crew are devils, not men: 
 Curs'd be the hour when we crossed the track 
 Of this — how do you call him? — Foul- 
 weather Jack!" 
 
 Admiral Byron has counted his losses, 
 
 And steered for Cape Breton shore; 
 The baulks and spars that the wild wave 
 tosses, 
 Last night they were ships of war. 
 81 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 The wounded men in the cock-pit dim 
 With feeble voices huzza for him: 
 "The stars may fall and the skies may crack — 
 But my luck is broken!" says Foulweather 
 Jack. 
 
THE GYPSY TAINT 
 
 Father is a townsman, mother from the far 
 
 Green southern uplands where wealthy pas- 
 tures are: 
 
 My kith and my kindred are prosperous and 
 sleek, 
 
 Who feed well and work well and thrive all 
 the week. 
 
 But somewhere and sometime, many a year 
 
 ago, 
 There was a gypsy woman, that right well 
 
 I know, 
 A wild dark woman from the moor and wold. 
 Who bare me an ancestor in days of old. 
 
 They hushed up her memory, hid her name 
 
 away. 
 Thought they had done with her for ever and 
 
 a day — 
 Yet hath she left a heritage that none else 
 
 shall win, 
 Whereunto my wandering feet have entered in. 
 
 For surely when the dead leaves scatter down 
 
 the street, 
 With a rush and rustle, like little flying feet, — 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 When the sou'-west wakens, and with scared 
 looks askance 
 
 The townsfolk hasten from the storm's ad- 
 vance, — 
 
 My whole soul sickens with a fierce desire, 
 Stress of sudden longing sets my blood on 
 
 fire, 
 For the wind on the hill-top in a lonely 
 
 place, 
 And the cold, soft raindrops blowing on my 
 
 face; 
 
 For the steep-hung hedges of the winding 
 road, 
 
 And the forest pathway by the stream o*er- 
 flowed; 
 
 For the storm-swept heather where the black- 
 cock whirs, 
 
 And the salt wind whistles through the 
 stunted firs; 
 
 For the brown wood-water, and the brown 
 
 field's smell, 
 And the wide sea-marshes where the curlews 
 
 dwell : 
 For the moorland black against the last red 
 
 fight, 
 And the sunk reef's breakers brawling to the 
 
 night. 
 
 84 
 
THE GYPSY TAINT 
 
 Hide within your houses with your glaring 
 gas! 
 
 Mine shall be the peat-smoke in the beech- 
 roofed grass: 
 
 Count your sordid silver, tell your grimy 
 gain — 
 
 Mine shall be the treasures of the wind and 
 rain! 
 
 85 
 
AUF WIEDERSEHEN 
 
 When at the last my Youth and I shall part, 
 Who now already waxes weary of me, 
 Seeing the skies grow ashen-gray above me, 
 
 And toward the dim horizon turns in heart, 
 
 To sapphire seas whereof the secret chart 
 Is lost for ever — Shall the parting move 
 
 me 
 To anguish, for that Youth forgets to 
 love me. 
 
 And stab my soul with bitter sting and smart? 
 
 Return not, Youth, to those sweet vanished 
 years, 
 The dewy, flowery fields that lie behind thee, 
 But haste before, and climb heaven's golden 
 stair. 
 And stand in God's own house — that I 
 may find thee, 
 Purged of regret and comforted from tears, 
 When my slow faltering feet o'ertake thee 
 there. 
 
 86 
 
THE SWORD BETWEEN 
 
 We must be strong. However hard, 
 The burning words you shall retard. 
 The aching arm you shall deny, 
 While you are you and I am I. 
 
 Shut up in silence all the speech 
 That lifts the veil from each to each — 
 Suppress the eloquent swift sigh — 
 For you are you and I am I. 
 
 Deflect the look that means so much — 
 Withhold the brief sweet thrill of touch — 
 The poignant moment — pass it by : 
 For you are you and I am I. 
 
 Lest haply in some moment's space 
 Fate should our barriers all efface. 
 And one fierce flame, that cleaves the sky, 
 Fuse us — consume us — you and I ! 
 
 87 
 
TRIO 
 
 The nightingale sang softly in the wood, 
 As though a thousand flowers had just 
 found speech — 
 A strange, sweet tongue that only is under- 
 stood 
 In faery lands no mortal road may reach. 
 "How shall the glory fail 
 Of my immortal tale. 
 Or any silence o'er my song prevail?" 
 
 The evening star upon the edge of night 
 
 Hung like a dewdrop on a dark leaf's rim. 
 Throbbed like a heart o'er-brimmed with pure 
 delight, 
 Gathering new splendour while the skies 
 grew dim. 
 
 *'How shall my beauty fade, 
 Who in the May-night's shade 
 Henceforth am an eternal brightness made?" 
 
 But the sea sighed through all its depths of 
 gray, 
 The sea complained on every lonely shore : 
 
TRIO 
 
 "Too well I know your fate, ye joys of May, 
 Heard and beheld so many a time before! 
 
 Your passionate faith is vain — 
 
 I only, I remain. 
 When light and song are fled for evermore!*' 
 
THE LITTLE GARDENS 
 
 Within the secret gates of Paradise, 
 
 That stand between the sunset and the 
 dawn, 
 In visions I have passed, not once nor twice. 
 And seen the happy souls, from earth 
 withdrawn, 
 
 Quiescent there. 
 In the pure languor of the expectant air. 
 
 The place is all a garden, as you know, 
 
 Greenness and graciousness and colour 
 and scent; 
 Blossoming trees of gold and fire and snow, 
 To blossoming earth with their dear 
 burden bent; 
 
 And filmy spray 
 Of fountains chiming in the shadows gray. 
 
 And flowers whose very splendour cries aloud. 
 And flowers in dark recesses burning 
 deep. 
 And lesser loveliness in starry crowd, 
 
 Head laid to head like little ones asleep; 
 
 And vistas dim 
 Of branches pencilled on the horizon's rim. 
 90 
 
THE LITTLE GARDENS 
 
 But in a region by the westward wall. 
 
 In sunny ways and less-frequented lands, 
 There I have found some gardens, very small, 
 Tended, for sure, by small and artless 
 hands, — 
 
 Quaint plots that lie 
 All disarranged in sweet unsymmetry. 
 
 There weeds and seeds are held in equal 
 worth, 
 The tall herbs and the groundlings grow 
 together, 
 Rising, like Ilium, to such music-mirth 
 
 As brooklets babble in the blue May 
 weather; 
 
 And round each border 
 Are pebbles set in careless careful order. 
 
 For they that do each childish garden till. 
 With serious eyes waiting an outcome fit. 
 
 The little exquisite folk, they have no skill, 
 To dig and sow, to prune and water it. 
 
 They do their best. 
 With toil pathetic: chance supplies the rest. 
 
 And none there is to hinder or to aid: 
 
 Birds of a feather, all these doves take 
 flight, 
 
 91 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Through the still sunshine or the tranquil 
 shade, 
 Fluttering around their gardens of de- 
 light; 
 
 They kneel, they bend. 
 They labour gaily till the day's rose-end. 
 
 And I have heard the baby footsteps run — 
 Along the pathways they have pattered 
 by- 
 That sound which whoso hears, henceforth 
 has done 
 With all that earth can proffer or deny — 
 
 Whose echo veers 
 Down the void loneliness of silent years. 
 
 And I have seen your tiny fingers touch. 
 Heart of my heart! each sHm and dainty 
 
 stem; , 
 Those puny flowers whereof you make so 
 
 much, 
 
 God, how I have looked and envied 
 them! 
 
 Watching your smile, 
 That only they have known, this long 
 long while. 
 
 Now when the friendly gates for me unfold, 
 
 1 shall forget the boughs of snow and fire; 
 
 99 
 
TEE LITTLE GARDENS 
 
 For recompense of all mine anguish old, 
 Give me the gladness of fulfilled desire — 
 Let me but go, 
 Good Father! where the Little Gardens grow. 
 
 9t 
 
A SONG OF LIGHTS 
 
 At morning from the tender blue. 
 
 Towards your bed — 
 "I am the sunhght pure and true; 
 Good-day and brightest hours to you, 
 
 Golden-head ! 
 And I will wake and make you cheer 
 Of dawn's delight the live-long year. 
 
 Dearest dear, 
 
 Sweetest sweet, 
 
 Golden-head!" 
 
 At evening from the dusky blue. 
 
 Towards your bed — 
 "I am the moonlight pure and true; 
 Good-night and lovely dreams to you, 
 
 Golden-head! 
 And I will hold and fold you fast 
 In happy sleep till night be past, 
 
 Dearest dear, 
 
 Sweetest sweet, 
 
 Golden-head!" 
 
 At all times from the glory above, 
 
 Softly shed, 
 **I am the light of God's own love, 
 
 P4 
 
A SONG OF LIGHTS 
 
 Blessing and bliss to you, white dove, 
 
 Golden-head ! 
 And I will wrap and lap you warm 
 From irk and ill, from wind and storm. 
 
 Dearest dear, 
 
 Sweetest sweet. 
 
 Golden-head!" 
 
 95 
 
THE WIDOWER 
 
 [Isle of Wight] 
 
 I often 'lows I must goo zote, 
 
 Since my wold 'ooman died: 
 There's not a zoul to stitch my cwoat, 
 
 He hangs in tatters at my zide; 
 I can't a-bid the harses whup, 
 
 I scuffs arl mum behind the plough: 
 'Twould take a zight o' triggen up 
 
 To zet me gooen now. 
 
 Her voice I hreckon 'twarn't too sweet, 
 
 Her'd yoppul, yoppul, arl day long: 
 But yet I mind her could repeat 
 
 Full many a merry good wold zong. 
 Nigh every week we'd come to words — 
 
 Her tongue could wag, the Lord knows 
 how — 
 I'd think 'twere like a charm o' birds 
 
 To hear en waggen now. 
 
 There's nowt to speak to but the cat, 
 A titchy beast more spit than purr, 
 
 She quots in chair where missus zat, 
 And looks the very daps o' her. 
 
THE WIDOWER 
 
 The mice run round the cupboard door. 
 The rats are skicen to and frow — 
 
 She ain't no heart as heretofore 
 To goo a-hunten now. 
 
 Wold 'ooman warn't no slackumtrance. 
 
 As leaves her kitchen in a harl: 
 She kep' en just so spick and spance. 
 
 From kittle-led to kite-wood bar'I; 
 And if I corned in drillen wet, 
 
 And floor got stabbled, she did scrow! 
 I'd fairly laugh for fun of et, 
 
 To zee her firken now. 
 
 Well, now I feeds on raams and brocks, 
 
 And tough wold callards not half-biled : 
 I've savens in the money-box. 
 
 But none to leave't to, chick nor child: 
 I'm arl a-bivver wi' the cold. 
 
 And twickered-out wd' one day's plough : 
 I 'lows I must be getten wold — 
 
 I'll soon zee missus now. 
 
 97 
 
IN HENRY THE SEVENTH'S CHAPEL 
 
 Here where the splendid sinners sleep un- 
 shriven, 
 And here, where the saints unknown have 
 trod, 
 Innumerable companies of angels 
 
 Look down from the lattices of God. 
 
 They crowd within their rose-engirt embra- 
 sures. 
 
 Their wings furled to rest that were so fleet: 
 The cold gray stone, the guardian of oblivion, 
 
 Is rounded to roses at their feet. 
 
 Beneath the steadfast glory of their gazing — 
 These wise in the sorrows of the past — 
 
 The hurry and glare and glamour of the ages, 
 Have sunk into somnolence at last. 
 
 White watchmen on the silver towers of 
 silence. 
 They stand since the strenuous years 
 began : 
 Their eyes are brimmed with pure immortal 
 pity, ^ 
 Appraising the tawdry worth of man. 
 
 08 
 
IN HENRY THE SEVENTH^S CHAPEL 
 
 The roses drop, the vert and or and azure 
 Are dulled o'er the dwelling of the dead: 
 
 The Kings are dust below their grim Hicjacety 
 The torn flags are mockeries overhead. 
 
 The moth and rust may lord it at their leisure, 
 But hush! walk ye holy ground unshod — 
 
 Innumerable companies of angels 
 
 Bend down from the balconies of God. 
 
 99 
 
OF SLEEPSHIRE 
 
 The hills therein they are high and brown, 
 And fledged with grasses from foot to crown, 
 From whose steep sides one may look deep 
 down, 
 In the happy valleys of Sleepshire. 
 
 The vales therein, they are sweet as dreams. 
 With water-meadows and winding streams. 
 And twilight glimmers, and flying gleams, 
 That light the forests of Sleepshire. 
 
 The woods therein, they are dark and dense. 
 With mossy gateway and ivied fence; 
 And scents of blossoms that issue thence 
 Fill all the dwellings of Sleepshire. 
 
 The dwellings therein, they are low and white. 
 Where one may whisper the livelong night 
 With the pale sweet wraith of his heart's 
 delight — 
 Who only may meet him in Sleepshire. 
 
 100 
 
TEE BROWN MAID'S DEFENCE 
 
 I am not red and white, 
 
 As other women be; 
 Yet shall you love me well, despite 
 
 These russet hues of me: 
 The precious seed is brown. 
 Which softly sinketh down 
 To ripen harvest gold anon, 
 When summer's roses all are gone. 
 
 Mine eyes no sapphires are. 
 
 Nor speedwells dipp'd in dew: 
 
 Yet forest lakes lie deeper far 
 
 Than pools of watchet blue. 
 
 No gold my head hath grac'd. 
 
 Yet shall my lover taste 
 
 Berries and nuts, whose swarthy glow 
 
 May cheer the shivering days of snow. 
 
 I am not white and red. 
 
 As other maids appear: 
 Yet shall my sombre goodlihead 
 
 To you be no less dear: 
 Where woodlands check the plough, 
 Brown is each bole and bough. 
 Whereof are seemly uses made. 
 When leaves do fall and blossoms fade. 
 101 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Brown is my face, in sooth, 
 And brown mine arms also; 
 
 Yet shall they keep a longer youth 
 Than red and white may know; 
 
 Brown is my gypsy breast, 
 
 Yet warm whereon to rest 
 
 As Mother Earth's — of whom 'tis sung 
 
 That brown she is and ever young. 
 
 102 
 
A BALLAD OF FAMOUS SHIPS 
 
 Cavendish came home from sea with his sails 
 
 of the damask green, 
 All his mariners clothed in silk and splend(/ur 
 
 of woven sheen: 
 England thrilled like a harp to his deeds, and 
 
 young blood leaped afire 
 For the Southern Seas and the Spanish ISfain 
 
 and the fame of the fierce Desire. 
 
 Drake went down to Darien, and a mighty 
 
 hope had he: 
 **Give me, O God, in an English ship to sail 
 
 yon secret sea!" 
 Fate and the elements leagued his foes, he 
 
 swerved not from his quest. 
 Till he could pasture the Golden Ilinde on 
 
 the treasure of all the West. 
 
 Those were the days, the living days, my 
 
 masters, an you will! 
 Of voyaging, of adventuring, might each man 
 
 have his fill; 
 
 1055 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 With Cumberland in the Red Dragon the 
 
 vaunting Dons to smite. 
 Or round the world with Dampier in the 
 
 Bachelor's Delight. 
 
 Some in the valiant Gabriel, where, under 
 the polar star, 
 
 Frobisher skirted frozen shores and perilous 
 lands afar: 
 
 Some at the sack of Cadiz saw the War- 
 spite's culverins play. 
 
 When Raleigh fought the tall San Philip 
 all St. Barnaby's Day. 
 
 The Sunshine and the Moonshine, shall their 
 
 light of renown grow pale, 
 Wherewith John Davis dauntless first did 
 
 Arctic waters sail? 
 Or shall the Tiger's orient fragrance fail as 
 
 the wind-spun foam. 
 First of all East-Indiamen that carried 
 
 her spices home? 
 
 Blake he prowled by the Kentish Knock, to 
 
 ambush De Ruyter there. 
 Boasting himself of his huge three-decker, 
 
 wonderful past compare: 
 Black and gold as a wasp she spread her 
 
 gorgeous wings to the breeze — 
 104 
 
A BALLAD OF FAMOUS SHIPS 
 
 The Dutchmen fled from the "Yellow Devil," 
 the Sovraigne of the Seas. 
 
 Anson with a rotten ship and a scurvy-smitten 
 
 crew 
 Lumbered on through the wallowing waves, 
 
 with a priceless prize in view: 
 Riddled with shot she seized her prey, she 
 
 fought with her decks aflame — 
 Like a trumpet-note it cleaves the ages, the 
 
 proud Centurion's name. 
 
 Famous ships, forgotten ships, that once were 
 
 in all men's speech, 
 Their sails to the moth, their nails to the rust, 
 
 their timbers rent each from each. 
 Splintered in sand, mouldered in ooze, broken 
 
 and burned they be, 
 That bore our fathers from strength to 
 
 strength, and our flag from sea to sea. 
 
 See, like a forest of masts unmoving, black 
 
 on the sunset glow, 
 Phantom outlines of hero-vessels loom from 
 
 the long ago; 
 None to lay their deeds to his heart, they 
 
 crowd in oblivion cold. 
 None to follow their stormy path, while the 
 
 careless world grows old. 
 105 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Who shall number them? who may honour 
 
 them? All in a thunderous haze, 
 Their tattered topsails glimmer out from 
 
 battles of bygone days; 
 The Swiftsure vies with the Arethusa, praise 
 
 undying to share, 
 And the Speedy claims like noble place with 
 
 the Fighting Temeraire. 
 
 Yet two shall stand the flagships of that 
 gallant immortal fleet. 
 
 One lordliest in her triumph, one most glori- 
 ous in defeat; 
 
 Bare your heads to their names, so long as 
 Englishmen you be — 
 
 For one of them is the little Revenge, and one 
 is the Victory, 
 
 106 
 
THE SHEPHERD OF DREAMS 
 
 I heard one fluting on the moor. 
 
 Across the honeyed heather: 
 And all the dreams that are drest in gray, 
 Like running streams at the close of day, 
 
 Went by in a flock together. 
 They passed the rich, they passed the poor, 
 
 No pasture might delay them — 
 They lingered not beside my door, 
 
 Who stretched my hands to stay them — 
 Flocks of dreams! 
 
 I heard one piping on the hill, 
 
 Among the red June clover: 
 And all the dreams that are decked in gold. 
 Like delicate gleams when the dawn is cold. 
 
 He counted over and over. 
 Then each by each, with gesture still. 
 
 With eyes deep-set and serious. 
 He summoned unto him at will, 
 
 To wend in ways mysterious — 
 Flocks of dreams. 
 
 I heard one singin^^ down the strand. 
 
 Above the spray-wet shingle — 
 And all the dreams that are dark and dim 
 107 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 As storm-wrack seems on the night*s long rim, 
 
 I saw in a crowd commingle. 
 He raised his crook, he waved his hand, 
 
 He led their lovely number, 
 He fed them far in Fairyland, 
 
 On shadowy slopes of slumber — 
 Flocks of dreams. 
 
 Shepherd of dreams, O South-west Wind! 
 
 Bring all thy cloudy fleeces 
 Once more to rest in that quiet fold 
 Within my breast, where they dwelt of old. 
 
 When strenuous day surceases. 
 But one ewe-lamb canst thou not find? 
 
 Come, satisfy me straightway! 
 Call them to-night, thou shepherd kind. 
 
 Through mine untrodden gateway — 
 Flocks of dreams! 
 
 108 
 
THE STEWARDSHIP 
 
 The silence of your ultimate thought is mine, 
 Beyond the depth that any word can 
 reach — 
 The sacred stillness of the inmost shrine, 
 That never yet was marred by mortal 
 speech. 
 
 And mine the fires that on the altar burn, 
 
 The altar of your spirit, where the dense 
 Sweet odours deepen. Have you yet to 
 learn 
 Whose fingers flung that nard and frank- 
 incense.'^ 
 
 And mine the word that never yet was said, 
 The mystic master-word, the key and clue 
 
 To all you wish or hope for, living or dead — 
 The very meaning of the soul of you. 
 
 These all are mine — and mine I swear they 
 stand — 
 Secret, unsoiled, in veils of love I fold 
 them. 
 Till God Himself shall claim them at my hand, 
 And I shall yield them Him for whom 
 I hold them. 
 
 109 
 
THE PILGRIM'S WAY 
 
 Beside that twisted thorn 
 'Twas there at last I sank, 
 
 Footsore, forspent, outworn, 
 Among the grasses rank, 
 
 My baby white, I clasped it tight; 
 Against my breast forlorn. 
 
 Beneath that stunted beech, 
 'Twas there I fell to rest, 
 
 Weary beyond all speech, 
 
 And the small babe on my breast 
 
 I sought to warm its tiny form. 
 Though I was ice at best. 
 
 Under those gnarled yews, 
 'Twas there its little eyes 
 
 Closed, in the cold, cold dews, 
 Under the careless skies. 
 
 My kisses wild wake not the child. 
 But very still it lies. 
 
 The road is trodden hard — 
 Nor leaf nor blade will grow; 
 
 The track is seared and scarred; 
 Whereby my steps did go — 
 
 The very grass whereon I pass 
 Shrivels to brown below. 
 110 
 
THE PILGRIM'S WAY 
 
 While the red sunset shuts 
 
 An angry scornful eye, 
 Rainwater fills the ruts — 
 
 Or is it blood, half -dry? 
 Where they have trod, my feet unshod, 
 
 And my dead babe and I. 
 
 Pilgrim who went this way. 
 
 In olden days devout, 
 Your phantoms dimly gray 
 
 Compass me round about — 
 Your holy bands raise beckoning hands 
 
 To me that am cast out. 
 
 Around me, through the pale 
 
 Vast reaches of the night, 
 The fluttering phantoms frail 
 
 Go huddling left and right, 
 They swirl and swarm, as when a storm 
 
 Puts the dead leaves to flight. 
 
 They journey evermore 
 
 To some immortal goal. 
 Whose sanctities restore 
 
 Rent lives and make them whole — . 
 Some safe retreat, where pity sweet 
 
 Shall heal the broken soul. 
 
 'Yond' poor sad wayfarer," 
 They look at me and say 
 111 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 "What shame withholdeth her. 
 
 What anguish doth delay?" . 
 And they are gone : and I creep on 
 
 Along the Pilgrim's Way. 
 
 112 
 
TEE CALL 
 
 I sleep, but my heart waketh — in dreams I go 
 
 forth to you. 
 Green uplands, gray downlands, that once 
 
 and of old I knew; 
 For the voice of my beloved is calling me soft 
 
 and low, 
 The south-wind, the sea-wind, that sang in 
 
 the long ago. 
 
 For the hills are curving their breasts, and 
 
 lifting their lovely shoulders. 
 Out there against the west, where the red 
 
 of the sunset smoulders: 
 And the plover's wail is keen, and the curlew's 
 
 whistle is sharp. 
 And the long dry grass is vibrant with the 
 
 sound of an elfin harp. 
 
 Now if you should meet a phantom that 
 
 roams on the silent hill, 
 In the dimness, the duskness, when shadowy 
 
 paths grow chill. 
 Whose head is filled with dew, and whose 
 
 locks with the drops of the night — 
 You will know it is I a-seeking the heritage 
 
 mine by right. 
 113 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 For me, for me it has waited, through many 
 
 an empty day, 
 Of dry and dusty labours that squander one's 
 
 life away — 
 The voice of my beloved is poignant above the 
 
 din, 
 Thrilling across the traffic where toilers go 
 
 out and in. 
 
 Call softer now, call fainter — drop down to 
 
 a thread of sound, 
 For by that thread I am fastened — in cords 
 
 of love I am bound — 
 . . . Greenuplands,graydownlands, great 
 
 hills that of old I knew. 
 In a mystery none shall fathom, once more 
 
 I am one with you! 
 
 lU 
 
A HOUSE OF DREAMS 
 
 Little sweet bud in the dawning gray, 
 Dancing out to the golden day, 
 Where did you find your gown so gay. 
 
 Your white, white raiment? 
 Down below in the dingy soil, 
 Shut from the weary world's turmoil, 
 Did vou strive and serve, did you labour and 
 toil? 
 
 What did you give for payment? 
 
 "I dwelt in a house of dreams, my dear, 
 By a well of joy, in the sw^eet o' the year. 
 Where elfin harpers wander anear 
 
 With music tender; 
 Where fairy w^eavers, sitting aloof 
 Under the arch of a rainbow roof. 
 Deftly fashioned their warp and woof 
 
 Into a garb of splendour." 
 
 Magical rose in the noonday blue. 
 Clad in crimson and fire and dew. 
 Where were such vestures wrought for you, 
 
 Such robes of wonder? 
 Did you journey here from a court afar. 
 Out of the land where rose-kings are, — 
 Over your travel, the morning star, 
 
 And the glow-worms glimmering under? 
 115 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 "I dwelt in a house of dreams, my dear, 
 Golden-built at the heart o' the year. 
 Where sunbeams sit by a fountain clear. 
 
 Singing and spinning: 
 There are spun, in a pulsing glow, 
 Rarer stuffs than the earth may know. 
 To the wheel's long melody, soft and low. 
 
 Without an end or beginning." 
 
 Shivering blossom in piteous plight, 
 Creeping silently out of sight 
 Into the black of the winter night. 
 
 When the last light's failing — 
 How did you grow so tattered and torn. 
 Threadbare mantle and sleeves out-worn,- 
 Where do you go in your rags forlorn. 
 
 While the desolate woods are wailing? 
 
 "I dwelt in a house of dreams, my dear. 
 Shadow-built in the dark o' the year, 
 Close awhile I will rest me here, 
 
 From the storm- wind's riot; 
 Here at the root of the world I lie. 
 My faded garments are folded by. 
 Naked I came, and naked go I, 
 
 But here shall be home and quiet." 
 
 116 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 I will not pass through the world as a captive 
 might, 
 
 Dragged at the chariot wheels of contemp- 
 tuous Fate, 
 
 Bleeding and prone, bewailing the hour of 
 my birth, 
 
 Suffering the buffets of chance, and the 
 fierce despite 
 
 Of the grinding years as they roll: by their 
 scornful hate 
 
 Crushed like a bruised reed into mouldering 
 earth. 
 
 But I will pass through the world as a con- 
 queror should. 
 Baffled at every turn, yet victorious still, 
 Breaking the chains of circumstance, shaping 
 
 mine ends 
 Out of inimical hours — yea, wresting the good 
 Out of mine ultimate worst: for the heavenly 
 
 hill 
 Is taken by force, and the violent thither 
 ascends. 
 
 117 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Baulked by the things unseen, as by evil gods. 
 Foiled, disappointed, flung down but to rise 
 again — 
 
 Thrones, principalities, powers — shall their 
 
 strength avail? 
 Reckless or failure, and trampling the terrible 
 
 odds 
 Under my feet as I go, I will sing right fain 
 Of the triumph to come, the triumph that 
 
 shall not fail. 
 
 Defrauded out of my dues of the earth's 
 
 delight, 
 All doors shut in my face, and each roadw^ay 
 
 barred. 
 Cheated of peace and pleasure and starved 
 
 of fame — 
 Yet will I march into day through the walls 
 
 of night. 
 Fronting a routed universe, battle-scarred. 
 Colours flying, unsoiled of defeat or shame. 
 
 By the crossfire of villainous guns raked stem 
 
 to stern. 
 Staggering onward, smoke-shrouded, with 
 
 splintered decks, 
 Mainmast broken and foremast gone by the 
 
 board, — 
 
 lis 
 
THE CONQUEROR 
 
 Yet shall the clashing bells acclaim the 
 
 victor's return, 
 As I reach to my moorings at last — as, a 
 
 wreck of wrecks, 
 I fight my way into port in the Name of the 
 
 Lord. 
 
 119 
 
A FLIGHT OF NESTLINGS 
 
 The little white angels of God go by in the 
 gloaming, 
 They flicker and float, with a glimmer of 
 snow-white wings, 
 With pinions of silver and pearl, like little 
 doves homing. 
 Aloof and aloft from the soil of our earthly 
 things, 
 But down by the curtain of silk and the 
 cradle of cedar. 
 By the mean little basket that rocked the 
 serf's baby to rest, 
 Comes the wailing, "Ah me, that I dwelt 
 in the tents of Kedar, 
 With no wings to follow the bird that hath 
 flown from my breast!'* 
 
 The little white angels of God, like the 
 petals of roses 
 Blown by on a delicate wind, they are 
 fluttering far: 
 Like thistledown see where they drift o'er 
 the garden closes, 
 Upward and onward and beckoned by 
 beams of a star. 
 120 
 
A FLIGHT OF NESTLINGS 
 
 But down in the palace of marble that 
 tow'rs o'er the city, 
 And down in the hut by the reeds of the 
 poisonous fen, 
 Comes the comfortless weeping of Rachel, 
 "O Father, have pity 
 On me the forsaken, that childless must 
 go among men!" 
 
 The little white angels of God, they have 
 gained to the gateway 
 Where faces of seraphs with tenderest 
 welcome do throng; 
 And, folding their pinions of silver, they 
 enter in straightway. 
 With cooing and crooning like buds that 
 have burst into song. 
 But down on the velvet-hid floor that 
 no small feet shall tread now, 
 And down on the bare chilly stones in 
 the dews of the night. 
 The sighing wears endlessly on, though 
 the tears are all shed now. 
 For the little child-angels of God that 
 have taken their flight. 
 
 121 
 
TEE SEA LULLABY 
 
 I listened in the darkness, and I heard, 
 
 Low in the lonely night, strange lullabies. 
 Uttered with sighs of love, with broken 
 sighs. 
 And here and there the echo of a word: 
 
 Some savage mother to her babe might 
 
 croon 
 Such rhythmic murmurs 'neath a drop- 
 ping moon. 
 
 It is the Mother, sleepless all night long. 
 Beside her children's cradle watching well. 
 That whispers thus her ancient slumber- 
 spell. 
 
 That chants her mystic secrecy of song; 
 Till all the hurry and the noise of day, 
 Fused in immortal calm, dissolve away. 
 
 The wild Sea-Mother, bending o'er her brood. 
 With tender solace rocking us to rest — 
 Have you not seen the throbbing of her 
 breast, 
 
 122 
 
TEE SEA LULLABY 
 
 And felt her kisses thro' the solitude? 
 
 Have you not known, in half-awakening 
 
 trance, 
 The glory of her dark, sweet countenance? 
 
 123 
 
FOOUS PARADISE 
 
 The gates thereof and the walls thereof, 
 
 Are wrought of cobwebs frail; 
 The key it is but a whisper of love, 
 
 And the threshold a fairy tale 
 Shadowy sentinels sleep without. 
 
 Clad all in misty blue, 
 Midsummer wraps it round about, — 
 
 It was made for me and you. 
 
 The magic spell of the middle June 
 
 Is heavy on all the air. 
 The blackbird sings and the ringdoves croon. 
 
 And the soft wind ruffles our hair. 
 The hay scent and the syringa scent, 
 
 The innermost soul they woo — 
 The sheer delight that can never be spent. 
 
 It was made for me and you. 
 
 Now if the wall one should dare to scale. 
 
 And gaze from its height, he sees 
 Sinister sights that shall turn him pale. 
 
 And loosen his trembling knees. 
 Tragedy lurks with a wolf-like face, 
 
 Deadly disasters brew — 
 There are smouldering fires at the root o' 
 the place, 
 
 That was made for me and you. 
 124 
 
FOOVS PARADISE 
 
 The thunder-clouds lie ominous red, 
 
 On the low horizon's rim; 
 The feet of Dread with a measured tread 
 
 Draw nigh from the distance dim; 
 Bolt the gates with a rainbow's end, 
 
 Lest ever a fear peep through! . 
 Rosy boughs o'er the garden bend. 
 
 That was made for me and you. 
 
 Some day — to-day? — the spell may break, 
 
 The vision dissolve in doom — 
 If Fate should a careless finger shake, 
 
 'T would shatter the spires of bloom; 
 A wintry gust, a shudder of earth. 
 
 Would snap the place in two — 
 Come, clasp the hour for what it is worth — 
 
 "t was made for me and you! 
 
 Ah, dream we in Fool's Paradise! 
 
 So drowsy it is, so dear, 
 So precious beyond all count or price 
 
 The fugitive moments here — 
 The pleasure poised on a turn of chance, 
 
 The sweetness that life holds due. 
 Wrung from reluctant circumstance — 
 
 It was made for me and you! 
 
 Roses and kisses, dreams and dews, 
 Our own for an hour of gold, 
 
 So hard to find, so easy to lose, 
 
 Between the cold and the cold, 
 125 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 For us, for us, shall all suffice, 
 
 It was made for me and you — 
 
 They only mock at Fool's Paradise, 
 Who never may win thereto! 
 
 1?6 
 
TEE HOUSEHOLD 
 
 Sometimes in dreams I see 
 
 The houses of the Lord, not built with 
 
 hands : 
 Each mansion that in God's own city stands, 
 Empty and waiting, 
 Lifts up its everlasting doors for me. 
 
 And some of these are ceiled 
 
 With flaming swords, as for some hero's 
 
 home: 
 And some for weary souls that long did roam 
 Are soft be-cushioned : 
 And some are set in green and lilied field. 
 
 But fairest of them all 
 
 Are those great houses whereout laughing 
 
 eyes 
 From nursery windows look, and sounds arise 
 Of little voices, 
 Holding within eternal festival; 
 
 And flying glimpses gleam 
 Of nutbrown locks, of golden curly head. 
 Of innocent floweret faces, hands outspread 
 In joyous welcome. 
 
 And little feet that dance across my dream. 
 127 
 
TEE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 And rounded rosy limbs 
 Through cloudy curtains glance and dis- 
 appear; 
 And tiny songs, and prattle sweet to hear. 
 And lovely laughter, 
 Ringing softly out, and baby mirth o'er-brims. 
 
 And there at last I know 
 The barren woman shall keep house some day, 
 A joyful mother of children: and shall say, 
 Sobbing with gladness, 
 
 *'Past all my hopes, why hast thou blessed 
 me so?'* 
 
 128 
 
ALL SAINTS' DAY 
 
 Red leaves against the gray, 
 
 That shudder and are still. 
 
 What fate do ye fulfil. 
 Mocked in a king's array? 
 Your crimson and your gold 
 In vain ye hope to hold: 
 Obscure, forgotten, unbewailed 
 
 By bitter sighs or bootless tears. 
 Ye fall and fail: even so have failed 
 
 Red leaves through immemorial years. 
 
 Red leaves against the gray. 
 
 That tremble and disperse. 
 
 Your little universe 
 Is crumbling to decay. 
 Unreckoned, lost, remote. 
 On aimless airs ye float: 
 Yet doth your Maker count you His, 
 
 Though mists of death around you press. 
 And in celestial treasuries 
 
 Hides your surrendered loveliness. 
 
 Red leaves, against the gray 
 
 Ye thrill and glow no more: 
 Dark through an earthly door 
 129 
 
THE WIND ON THE HEATH 
 
 Now lies your lonely way — 
 
 Ye that awhile so well 
 
 Held your green citadel. 
 
 Yet hear ye not, far-off and faint, 
 
 Deep unto deep make answer true? 
 Seraph with seraph, saint with saint, 
 
 Yea, God of God, shall welcome you! 
 
 180 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 Close, close beneath my heart. 
 
 Lie still, my joy, nor thence as yet depart! 
 
 Lo, in the quiet garden ground 
 
 The sweUing buds globe to the perfect round — • 
 
 The little leaves, tendril and blade and curl. 
 
 With timid sweet delay themselves unfurl. 
 
 The earliest swallows dart. 
 
 Close, close beneath my breast. 
 Lie still, my hidden hope, and be at rest! 
 The pomps and splendours of the prime 
 Prepare themselves in their appointed time; 
 The teeming glories of the full flood-tide, 
 Whereon June mornings as at anchor ride, 
 Shall bring thee of their best. 
 
 For thee the mid-year's glow, 
 For thee the sceptred lilies all a-row, 
 Roses for thee, and swathes of hay. 
 And sweetness of the long midsummer day. 
 When happy songs in happier hush are stayed. 
 And silent bliss holds all the greenwood shade, 
 And thou, my bud, shalt blow! 
 133 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 n 
 
 Last night there was wind and storm, 
 
 And white waves wild on the shore; 
 But the room was quiet and warm, 
 
 When a stranger knocked at the door. 
 Oh, how, in the gusty street. 
 
 On the cobblestones slippery-wet. 
 Through the clattering battering sleet, 
 
 Were his delicate footsteps set? 
 
 Last night there was storm and wind, 
 
 And rattle of icy rain; 
 But the hearth shone friendly and kind. 
 
 When a stranger tapped at the pane. 
 Through the shivering starless night, 
 
 And the field's tempestuous gray, 
 With shadows to left and right. 
 
 Oh, how did he find the way? 
 
 Bareheaded and barefoot he. 
 
 His shoulders and knees were bare. 
 In the roar of the raging sea, 
 
 And the rush of the whistling air; 
 But the storm like a dream went by, 
 
 And dropped in the dawning glow; 
 And here doth a stranger lie, 
 
 Where none lay a night ago. 
 134 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 My lily, my rose, my dove, 
 
 My golden treasure of joy. 
 My jewel of life and love, 
 
 My pure little spotless boy! 
 Unknown but a daylight since, 
 
 My breast is warm to your brow; 
 Eternity's self, my prince, 
 
 It never can part us now! 
 
 135 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 III 
 
 (CRADLE SONG) 
 
 Rose and gold and blue of the skies, 
 Face and curls and innocent eyes, 
 Sleep, my little one, dream and drowse: 
 All the birds sit still in the boughs, 
 The dark blue spaces with stars are sown — 
 Sleep, my blessing, my love, my own, 
 Sleep ! 
 
 Gold and blue and rose of the west, 
 To the palace of sleep step in, sweet guest! 
 The sun-spark sinks like a rose-bud furled. 
 And rose-lights ruddy the restful world; 
 The ponds are as pitchers of rosy fire — 
 Sleep, my blossom, my heart's desire. 
 Sleep ! 
 
 Blue and rose and gold of the morn, 
 
 You shall wake and laugh when the night's 
 
 outworn. 
 When dreams go home in the dawning cold. 
 Suffused with splendour of streaming gold. 
 Golden head on your pillow so white. 
 Sleep, my treasure, my soul's delight, 
 Sleep ! 
 136 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 IV 
 
 (TEE STORM-CHILD) 
 
 My child came to me with the equinox, 
 The wild wind blew him to my swinging door. 
 With flakes of tawny foam from off the 
 shore, 
 And shivering spindrift whirled across the 
 
 rocks. 
 Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow- 
 flocks 
 Cried him a greeting; and the lordly woods, 
 Waving lean arms of welcome one by one. 
 Cast down their russet cloaks and golden 
 hoods. 
 And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run 
 Before the tender feet of this my son. 
 
 Therefore the sea*s swift fire is in his veins, 
 And in his heart the glory of the sea; 
 Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade 
 be. 
 That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering 
 plains. 
 
 1S7 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 October, shot with flashing rays and rains^ 
 
 Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know 
 
 The stress and splendour of the roaring gales, 
 
 The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy 
 
 tales, 
 
 And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, 
 
 While in his ears the eternal bugles blow. 
 
 138 
 
VITA NUOVA 
 
 V 
 
 (THE RETURN) 
 
 The buds arrive unto the tree, 
 
 The frost forsakes the sod; 
 Made straight with joy full soon shall be 
 
 The crooked ways we trod; 
 The sunbeams march by shore and sea. 
 
 In golden sandals shod — 
 Comfort ye, comfort ye. 
 
 My people, saith your God. 
 
 The sun returns again with all 
 
 His wealth of heretofore. 
 And doth his ancient state recall 
 
 His golden largess pour; 
 But I hear a little knocking fall 
 
 From a hand at my heart's door. 
 So soft and small, O very small. 
 
 That I shall hold no more. 
 
 Open the door, small hand, I pray, 
 
 Come in, O noiseless feet: 
 Bright head, as in a bygone day 
 
 Find safe and sure retreat 
 Upon my breast: Smile, dear, and lay 
 
 Your arms that they may meet 
 About my neck, and whispering say 
 
 If slumber-time be sweet. 
 139 
 
APR 
 
 U 1^^^