New Poems, and Variant Readings

You have been far, and I
      Been farther yet,
   Since last, in foul or fair
   An impecunious pair,
Below this northern sky
      Of ours, we met.

Now winter night shall see
      Again us two,
   While howls the tempest higher,
   Sit warmly by the fire
And dream and plan, as we
      Were wont to do.

And, hand in hand, at large
      Our thoughts shall walk
   While storm and gusty rain,
   Again and yet again,
Shall drive their noisy charge
      Across the talk.

The pleasant future still
      Shall smile to me,
   And hope with wooing hands
   Wave on to fairy lands
All over dale and hill
      And earth and sea.

Come—where the great have trod,
      The great shall lead—
   Come, elbow through the press,
   Pluck Fortune by the dress—
By God, we must—by God,
      We shall succeed.

TO OTTILIE

You remember, I suppose,
How the August sun arose,
   And how his face
Woke to trill and carolette
All the cages that were set
   About the place.

In the tender morning light
All around lay strange and bright
   And still and sweet,
And the gray doves unafraid
Went their morning promenade
   Along the street.

This gloomy northern day,
   Or this yet gloomier night,
      Has moved a something high
      In my cold heart; and I,
That do not often pray,
   Would pray to-night.

And first on Thee I call
   For bread, O God of might!
      Enough of bread for all,—
      That through the famished town
Cold hunger may lie down
   With none to-night.

I pray for hope no less,
   Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord,
      That to the struggling young
      May preach with brazen tongue
Stout Labour, high success,
   And bright reward.

And last, O Lord, I pray
   For hearts resigned and bold
      To trudge the dusty way—
      Hearts stored with song and joke
And warmer than a cloak
   Against the cold.

This makes the sanded inn
   A palace for a Prince,
      And this, when griefs begin
      And cruel fate annoys,
Can bring to mind the joys
   Of ages since.

THE WIND IS WITHOUT THERE AND HOWLS IN THE TREES

The wind is without there and howls in the trees,
   And the rain-flurries drum on the glass:
Alone by the fireside with elbows on knees
   I can number the hours as they pass.
Yet now, when to cheer me the crickets begin,
   And my pipe is just happily lit,
Believe me, my friend, tho’ the evening draws in,
   That not all uncontested I sit.

And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail,
   As I cherish thy light in each draught,
His lamp is not more to the miner—their sail
   Is not more to the crew on the raft.
For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave,
   And, as forth thro’ the years I look on,
Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave,
   I see wonderful things to be done.

To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend,
   If the call should come early for me,
I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend
   For some new city over the sea.
To do or to try; and if failure be mine,
   And if Fortune go cross to my plan,
Believe me, my friend, tho’ I mourn the design
   I shall never lament for the man.

Motley I count the only wear
   That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,
Who boldly smile upon despair
   And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy’s eyes.
Singers should sing with such a goodly cheer
   That the bare listening should make strong like wine,
At this unruly time of year,
   The Feast of Valentine.

We do not now parade our “oughts”
   And “shoulds” and motives and beliefs in God.
Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts
   Must keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad,
Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased;
   But in the public streets, in wind or sun,
Keep open, at the annual feast,
   The puppet-booth of fun.

I know how, day by weary day,
   Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade.
I have not trudged in vain that way
   On which life’s daylight darkens, shade by shade.
And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased,
   Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,
Keep open, at the annual feast,
   The puppet-booth of fun.

I care not if the wit be poor,
   The old worn motley stained with rain and tears,
If but the courage still endure
   That filled and strengthened hope in earlier years;
If still, with friends averted, fate severe,
   A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mine
To greet the unruly time of year,
   The Feast of Valentine.

Stand on your putrid ruins—stand,
   White neck-clothed bigot, fixedly the same,
Cruel with all things but the hand,
   Inquisitor in all things but the name.
Back, minister of Christ and source of fear—
   We cherish freedom—back with thee and thine
From this unruly time of year,
   The Feast of Valentine.

Blood thou mayest spare; but what of tears?
   But what of riven households, broken faith—
Bywords that cling through all men’s years
   And drag them surely down to shame and death?
Stand back, O cruel man, O foe of youth,
   And let such men as hearken not thy voice
Press freely up the road to truth,
   The King’s highway of choice.

Hail!  Childish slaves of social rules
   You had yourselves a hand in making!
How I could shake your faith, ye fools,
   If but I thought it worth the shaking.
I see, and pity you; and then
   Go, casting off the idle pity,
In search of better, braver men,
   My own way freely through the city.

My own way freely, and not yours;
   And, careless of a town’s abusing,
Seek real friendship that endures
   Among the friends of my own choosing.
I’ll choose my friends myself, do you hear?
   And won’t let Mrs. Grundy do it,
Tho’ all I honour and hold dear
   And all I hope should move me to it.

Gladly I trudge the footpath way,
   While you and yours roll by in coaches
In all the pride of fine array,
   Through all the city’s thronged approaches.
O fine religious, decent folk,
   In Virtue’s flaunting gold and scarlet,
I sneer between two puffs of smoke,—
   Give me the publican and harlot.

Ye dainty-spoken, stiff, severe
   Seed of the migrated Philistian,
One whispered question in your ear—
   Pray, what was Christ, if you be Christian?
If Christ were only here just now,
   Among the city’s wynds and gables
Teaching the life he taught us, how
   Would he be welcome to your tables?

Alone on that unsounded deep,
   Poor waif, it may be I shall perish,
Far from the course I thought to keep,
   Far from the friends I hoped to cherish.
It may be that I shall sink, and yet
   Hear, thro’ all taunt and scornful laughter,
Through all defeat and all regret,
   The stronger swimmers coming after.

SWALLOWS TRAVEL TO AND FRO

Swallows travel to and fro,
And the great winds come and go,
And the steady breezes blow,
   Bearing perfume, bearing love.
Breezes hasten, swallows fly,
Towered clouds forever ply,
And at noonday, you and I
   See the same sunshine above.

Let us wander where we will,
Something kindred greets us still;
Something seen on vale or hill
   Falls familiar on the heart;
So, at scent or sound or sight,
Severed souls by day and night
Tremble with the same delight—
   Tremble, half the world apart.

TO MESDAMES ZASSETSKY AND GARSCHINE

The wind may blaw the lee-gang way
And aye the lift be mirk an’ gray,
An deep the moss and steigh the brae
   Where a’ maun gang—
There’s still an hoor in ilka day
   For luve and sang.

An’ weel for them if kindly fate
Send ower the hills to them a mate;
They’ll crack a while o’ kirk an’ State,
   O’ yowes an’ rain:
An’ when it’s time to take the gate,
   Tak’ ilk his ain.

—Sic neuk beside the southern sea
I soucht—sic place o’ quiet lee
Frae a’ the winds o’ life.  To me,
   Fate, rarely fair,
Had set a freendly company
   To meet me there.

Kindly by them they gart me sit,
An’ blythe was I to bide a bit.
Licht as o’ some hame fireside lit
   My life for me.
—Ower early maun I rise an’ quit
   This happy lee.

What is the face, the fairest face, till Care,
   Till Care the graver—Care with cunning hand,
Etches content thereon and makes it fair,
   Or constancy, and love, and makes it grand?

MUSIC AT THE VILLA MARINA

For some abiding central source of power,
   Strong-smitten steady chords, ye seem to flow
   And, flowing, carry virtue.  Far below,
The vain tumultuous passions of the hour
Fleet fast and disappear; and as the sun
   Shines on the wake of tempests, there is cast
   O’er all the shattered ruins of my past
A strong contentment as of battles won.

And yet I cry in anguish, as I hear
   The long drawn pageant of your passage roll
   Magnificently forth into the night.
To yon fair land ye come from, to yon sphere
Of strength and love where now ye shape your flight,
   O even wings of music, bear my soul!

From this grim world, where, sadly, prisoned, we
   Sit bound with others’ heart-strings as with chains,
   And, if one moves, all suffer,—to that Goal,
If such a land, if such a sphere, there be,
   Thither, from life and all life’s joys and pains,
   O even wings of music, bear my soul!

FEAR NOT, DEAR FRIEND, BUT FREELY LIVE YOUR DAYS

LET LOVE GO, IF GO SHE WILL

Let love go, if go she will.
   Seek not, O fool, her wanton flight to stay.
   Of all she gives and takes away
The best remains behind her still.

Joy she may give and take again,
Joy she may take and leave us pain.
   O Love, and what care we?
For one thing thou hast given, O Love, one thing
   Is ours that nothing can remove;
And as the King discrowned is still a King,
   The unhappy lover still preserves his love.

I DO NOT FEAR TO OWN ME KIN

I do not fear to own me kin
To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin;
Or to my brothers, the great trees,
That speak with pleasant voices in the breeze,
Loud talkers with the winds that pass;
Or to my sister, the deep grass.

Of such I am, of such my body is,
That thrills to reach its lips to kiss.
That gives and takes with wind and sun and rain
And feels keen pleasure to the point of pain.

Hence I not fear to yield my breath,
Since all is still unchanged by death;
Since in some pleasant valley I may be,
Clod beside clod, or tree by tree,
Long ages hence, with her I love this hour;
And feel a lively joy to share
With her the sun and rain and air,
To taste her quiet neighbourhood
As the dumb things of field and wood,
The clod, the tree, and starry flower,
Alone of all things have the power.

I am like one that for long days had sate,
   With seaward eyes set keen against the gale,
   On some lone foreland, watching sail by sail,
The portbound ships for one ship that was late;
And sail by sail, his heart burned up with joy,
   And cruelly was quenched, until at last
   One ship, the looked-for pennant at its mast,
Bore gaily, and dropt safely past the buoy;
And lo! the loved one was not there—was dead.
Then would he watch no more; no more the sea
   With myriad vessels, sail by sail, perplex
His eyes and mock his longing.  Weary head,
Take now thy rest; eyes, close; for no more me
   Shall hopes untried elate, or ruined vex.

VOLUNTARY

Here in the quiet eve
My thankful eyes receive
      The quiet light.
I see the trees stand fair
Against the faded air,
And star by star prepare
      The perfect night.

And in my bosom, lo!
Content and quiet grow
      Toward perfect peace.
And now when day is done,
Brief day of wind and sun,
The pure stars, one by one,
      Their troop increase.

For lo! the war is done,
Lo, now the battle won,
      The trumpets still.
The shepherd’s slender strain,
The country sounds again
Awake in wood and plain,
      On haugh and hill.

Loud wars and loud loves cease.
I welcome my release;
      And hail once more
Free foot and way world-wide.
And oft at eventide
Light love to talk beside
      The hostel door.

On now, although the year be done,
   Now, although the love be dead,
      Dead and gone;
Hear me, O loved and cherished one,
   Give me still the hand that led,
      Led me on.

IN THE GREEN AND GALLANT SPRING

In the green and gallant Spring,
Love and the lyre I thought to sing,
And kisses sweet to give and take
By the flowery hawthorn brake.

Now is russet Autumn here,
Death and the grave and winter drear,
And I must ponder here aloof
While the rain is on the roof.

Death, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends—
Whene’er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

On the death of their common friend, Mr. John Adam, Clerk of court.

Our Johnie’s deid.  The mair’s the pity!
He’s deid, an’ deid o’ Aqua-vitæ.
O Embro’, you’re a shrunken city,
      Noo Johnie’s deid!
Tak hands, an’ sing a burial ditty
      Ower Johnie’s heid.

To see him was baith drink an’ meat,
Gaun linkin’ glegly up the street.
He but to rin or tak a seat,
      The wee bit body!
Bein’ aye unsicken on his feet
      Wi’ whusky toddy.

To be aye tosh was Johnie’s whim,
There’s nane was better teut than him,
Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim’
      Ahint his ear,
An’ whiles he’d buttons oot or in
      The less ae mair.

An’ day an’ nicht, frae daw to daw,
Dink an’ perjink an’ doucely braw,
Wi’ a kind o’ Gospel ower a’,
      May or October,
Like Peden, followin’ the Law
      An’ no that sober.

Whusky an’ he were pack thegether.
Whate’er the hour, whate’er the weather,
John kept himsel’ wi’ mistened leather
      An’ kindled spunk.
Wi’ him, there was nae askin’ whether—
      John was aye drunk.

The auncient heroes gash an’ bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,
The task ance fo(u)nd to which th’were called,
      Stack stenchly to it.
His life sic noble lives recalled,
      Little’s he knew it.

An’ wow! but John was unco sport.
Whiles he wad smile about the Court
Malvolio-like—whiles snore an’ snort
      Was heard afar.
The idle winter lads’ resort
      Was aye John’s bar.

What’s merely humorous or bonny
The Worl’ regairds wi’ cauld astony.
Drunk men tak’ aye mair place than ony;
      An’ sae, ye see,
The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie—
      Or you an’ me.

John micht hae jingled cap an’ bells,
Been a braw fule in silks an’ pells,
In ane o’ the auld worl’s canty hells
      Paris or Sodom.
I wadnae had him naething else
      But Johnie Adam.

We leuch, an’ Johnie deid.  An’ fegs!
Hoo he had keept his stoiterin’ legs
Sae lang’s he did’s a fact that begs
      An explanation.
He stachers fifty years—syne plegs
      To’s destination.

I WHO ALL THE WINTER THROUGH

      I who all the winter through
      Cherished other loves than you,
And kept hands with hoary policy in marriage-bed and pew;
      Now I know the false and true,
      For the earnest sun looks through,
And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew.

LOVE, WHAT IS LOVE?

Love—what is love?  A great and aching heart;
Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair.
Life—what is life?  Upon a moorland bare
To see love coming and see love depart.

SOON OUR FRIENDS PERISH

      Soon our friends perish,
      Soon all we cherish
Fades as days darken—goes as flowers go.
      Soon in December
      Over an ember,
Lonely we hearken, as loud winds blow.

AS ONE WHO HAVING WANDERED ALL NIGHT LONG

I, O Melampus, halting, stand at gaze:
   I, liberated, look abroad on life,
Love, and distress, and dusty travelling ways,
   The steersman’s helm, the surgeon’s helpful knife,
On the lone ploughman’s earth-upturning share,
   The revelry of cities and the sound
Of seas, and mountain-tops aloof in air,
   And of the circling earth the unsupported round:

I, looking, wonder: I, intent, adore;
   And, O Melampus, reaching forth my hands
In adoration, cry aloud and soar
   In spirit, high above the supine lands
And the low caves of mortal things, and flee
   To the last fields of the universe untrod,
Where is no man, nor any earth, nor sea,
   And the contented soul is all alone with God.

Strange are the ways of men,
   And strange the ways of God!
We tread the mazy paths
   That all our fathers trod.

We tread them undismayed,
   And undismayed behold
The portents of the sky,
   The things that were of old.

The fiery stars pursue
   Their course in heav’n on high;
And round the ‘leaguered town,
   Crest-tossing heroes cry.

Crest-tossing heroes cry;
   And martial fifes declare
How small, to mortal minds,
   Is merely mortal care.

And to the clang of steel
   And cry of piercing flute
Upon the azure peaks
   A God shall plant his foot:

A God in arms shall stand,
   And seeing wide and far
The green and golden earth,
   The killing tide of war,

THE WIND BLEW SHRILL AND SMART

      The wind blew shrill and smart,
      And the wind awoke my heart
Again to go a-sailing o’er the sea,
      To hear the cordage moan
      And the straining timbers groan,
And to see the flying pennon lie a-lee.

      O sailor of the fleet,
      It is time to stir the feet!
It’s time to man the dingy and to row!
      It’s lay your hand in mine
      And it’s empty down the wine,
And it’s drain a health to death before we go!

      To death, my lads, we sail;
      And it’s death that blows the gale
And death that holds the tiller as we ride.
      For he’s the king of all
      In the tempest and the squall,
And the ruler of the Ocean wild and wide!

Man sails the deep awhile;
      Loud runs the roaring tide;
      The seas are wild and wide;
O’er many a salt, o’er many a desert mile,
      The unchained breakers ride,
      The quivering stars beguile.

Hope bears the sole command;
      Hope, with unshaken eyes,
      Sees flaw and storm arise;
Hope, the good steersman, with unwearying hand,
      Steers, under changing skies,
      Unchanged toward the land.

O wind that bravely blows!
      O hope that sails with all
      Where stars and voices call!
O ship undaunted that forever goes
      Where God, her admiral,
      His battle signal shows!

What though the seas and wind
      Far on the deep should whelm
      Colours and sails and helm?
There, too, you touch that port that you designed—
      There, in the mid-seas’ realm,
      Shall you that haven find.

THE COCK’S CLEAR VOICE INTO THE CLEARER AIR

The cock’s clear voice into the clearer air
   Where westward far I roam,
Mounts with a thrill of hope,
   Falls with a sigh of home.

A rural sentry, he from farm and field
   The coming morn descries,
And, mankind’s bugler, wakes
   The camp of enterprise.

He sings the morn upon the westward hills
   Strange and remote and wild;
He sings it in the land
   Where once I was a child.

He brings to me dear voices of the past,
   The old land and the years:
My father calls for me,
   My weeping spirit hears.

NOW WHEN THE NUMBER OF MY YEARS

Now when the number of my years
   Is all fulfilled, and I
   From sedentary life
   Shall rouse me up to die,
      Bury me low and let me lie
      Under the wide and starry sky.
      Joying to live, I joyed to die,
      Bury me low and let me lie.

Clear was my soul, my deeds were free,
   Honour was called my name,
   I fell not back from fear
   Nor followed after fame.
      Bury me low and let me lie
      Under the wide and starry sky.
      Joying to live, I joyed to die,
      Bury me low and let me lie.

WHAT MAN MAY LEARN, WHAT MAN MAY DO

What man may learn, what man may do,
Of right or wrong of false or true,
While, skipper-like, his course he steers
Through nine and twenty mingled years,
Half misconceived and half forgot,
So much I know and practise not.

Old are the words of wisdom, old
The counsels of the wise and bold:
To close the ears, to check the tongue,
To keep the pining spirit young;
To act the right, to say the true,
And to be kind whate’er you do.

SMALL IS THE TRUST WHEN LOVE IS GREEN

Small is the trust when love is green
   In sap of early years;
A little thing steps in between
   And kisses turn to tears.

Awhile—and see how love be grown
   In loveliness and power!
Awhile, it loves the sweets alone,
   But next it loves the sour.

A little love is none at all
   That wanders or that fears;
A hearty love dwells still at call
   To kisses or to tears.

Should you be sad, should you be gay,
   Or should you prove unkind,
A love to hold the growing way
   And keep the helping mind:—

A love to turn the laugh on care
   When wrinkled care appears,
And, with an equal will, to share
   Your losses and your tears.

KNOW YOU THE RIVER NEAR TO GREZ

Know you the river near to Grez,
   A river deep and clear?
Among the lilies all the way,
That ancient river runs to-day
   From snowy weir to weir.

Old as the Rhine of great renown,
   She hurries clear and fast,
She runs amain by field and town
From south to north, from up to down,
   To present on from past.

So may that love forever hold
   In life an equal pace;
So may that love grow never old,
But, clear and pure and fountain-cold,
   Go on from grace to grace.

IT’S FORTH ACROSS THE ROARING FOAM

It’s forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west,
It’s many a lonely league from home, o’er many a mountain crest,
From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold,
To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold.

I slept as one that nothing knows; but far along my way,
Before the morning God rose and planned the coming day;
Afar before me forth he went, as through the sands of old,
And chose the friends to help me beside the Gates of Gold.

I have been near, I have been far, my back’s been at the wall,
Yet aye and ever shone the star to guide me through it all:
The love of God, the help of man, they both shall make me bold
Against the gates of darkness as beside the Gates of Gold.

Up with the sun, the breeze arose,
Across the talking corn she goes,
And smooth she rustles far and wide
Through all the voiceful countryside.

Through all the land her tale she tells;
She spins, she tosses, she compels
The kites, the clouds, the windmill sails
And all the trees in all the dales.

God calls us, and the day prepares
With nimble, gay and gracious airs:
And from Penzance to Maidenhead
The roads last night He watered.

God calls us from inglorious ease,
Forth and to travel with the breeze
While, swift and singing, smooth and strong
She gallops by the fields along.

As in their flight the birds of song
Halt here and there in sweet and sunny dales,
But halt not overlong;
The time one rural song to sing
They pause; then following bounteous gales
Steer forward on the wing:
Sun-servers they, from first to last,
Upon the sun they wait
To ride the sailing blast.

So he awhile in our contested state,
Awhile abode, not longer, for his Sun—
Mother we say, no tenderer name we know—
With whose diviner glow
His early days had shone,
Now to withdraw her radiance had begun.
Or lest a wrong I say, not she withdrew,
But the loud stream of men day after day
And great dust columns of the common way
Between them grew and grew:
And he and she for evermore might yearn,
But to the spring the rivulets not return
Nor to the bosom comes the child again.

THE PIPER

Again I hear you piping, for I know the tune so well,—
   You rouse the heart to wander and be free,
Tho’ where you learned your music, not the God of song can tell,
   For you pipe the open highway and the sea.
O piper, lightly footing, lightly piping on your way,
   Tho’ your music thrills and pierces far and near,
I tell you you had better pipe to someone else to-day,
   For you cannot pipe my fancy from my dear.

TO MRS. MACMARLAND

In Schnee der Alpen—so it runs
   To those divine accords—and here
We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,
   A motley crew, for half the year:
A motley crew, we dwell to taste—
   A shivering band in hope and fear—
That sun upon the snowy waste,
   That Alpine ether cold and clear.

Up from the laboured plains, and up
   From low sea-levels, we arise
To drink of that diviner cup
   The rarer air, the clearer skies;
For, as the great, old, godly King
   From mankind’s turbid valley cries,
So all we mountain-lovers sing:
   I to the hills will lift mine eyes.

Of kindness, here I nothing say—
   Such loveless kindnesses there are
In that grimacing, common way,
   That old, unhonoured social war.
Love but my dog and love my love,
   Adore with me a common star—
I value not the rest above
   The ashes of a bad cigar.

TO MISS CORNISH

She, lady, as I learn, was one
   Among the many rarely good;
And destined still to be a sun
   Through every dark and rainy mood:—
She, as they told me, far had come,
   By sea and land, o’er many a rood:—
Admired by all, beloved by some,
   She was yourself, I understood.

But, compliment apart and free
   From all constraint of verses, may
Goodness and honour, grace and glee,
   Attend you ever on your way—
Up to the measure of your will,
   Beyond all power of mine to say—
As she and I desire you still,
   Miss Cornish, on your natal day.

Yes, friend, I own these tales of Arabia
Smile not, as smiled their flawless originals,
   Age-old but yet untamed, for ages
   Pass and the magic is undiminished.

Thus, friend, the tales of the old Camaralzaman,
Ayoub, the Slave of Love, or the Calendars,
   Blind-eyed and ill-starred royal scions,
   Charm us in age as they charmed in childhood.

Fair ones, beyond all numerability,
Beam from the palace, beam on humanity,
   Bright-eyed, in truth, yet soul-less houris
   Offering pleasure and only pleasure.

Thus they, the venal Muses Arabian,
Unlike, indeed, the nobler divinities,
   Greek Gods or old time-honoured muses,
   Easily proffer unloved caresses.

Lost, lost, the man who mindeth the minstrelsy;
Since still, in sandy, glittering pleasances,
   Cold, stony fruits, gem-like but quite in-
   Edible, flatter and wholly starve him.

Behold, as goblins dark of mien
   And portly tyrants dyed with crime
Change, in the transformation scene,
   At Christmas, in the pantomime,

Instanter, at the prompter’s cough,
   The fairy bonnets them, and they
Throw their abhorred carbuncles off
   And blossom like the flowers in May.

—So mankind, to angelic eyes,
   So, through the scenes of life below,
In life’s ironical disguise,
   A travesty of man, ye go:

But fear not: ere the curtain fall,
   Death in the transformation scene
Steps forward from her pedestal,
   Apparent, as the fairy Queen;

And coming, frees you in a trice
   From all your lendings—lust of fame,
Ungainly virtue, ugly vice,
   Terror and tyranny and shame.

STILL I LOVE TO RHYME

Still I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander
   Far from the commoner way;
Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder,
   Dreaming to-morrow to-day.

Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo,
   Measures descanted before;
Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow,
   Prints in the marbles of yore.

Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested,
   Songs for the brain to forget—
Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested
   Piping and chirruping yet.

LONG TIME I LAY IN LITTLE EASE

Long time I lay in little ease
   Where, placed by the Turanian,
Marseilles, the many-masted, sees
   The blue Mediterranean.

Now songful in the hour of sport,
   Now riotous for wages,
She camps around her ancient port,
   As ancient of the ages.

Algerian airs through all the place
   Unconquerably sally;
Incomparable women pace
   The shadows of the alley.

And high o’er dark and graving yard
   And where the sky is paler,
The golden virgin of the guard
   Shines, beckoning the sailor.

She sees the snowy islets dot
   The sea’s immortal azure,
And If, that castellated spot,
   Tower, turret, and embrasure.

FLOWER GOD, GOD OF THE SPRING

COME, MY BELOVED, HEAR FROM ME

SINCE YEARS AGO FOR EVERMORE

ENVOY FOR “A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES”

Whether upon the garden seat
You lounge with your uplifted feet
Under the May’s whole Heaven of blue;
Or whether on the sofa you,
No grown up person being by,
Do some soft corner occupy;
Take you this volume in your hands
And enter into other lands,
For lo! (as children feign) suppose
You, hunting in the garden rows,
Or in the lumbered attic, or
The cellar—a nail-studded door
And dark, descending stairway found
That led to kingdoms underground:
There standing, you should hear with ease
Strange birds a-singing, or the trees
Swing in big robber woods, or bells
On many fairy citadels:

When Thomas set this tablet here,
Time laughed at the vain chanticleer;
And ere the moss had dimmed the stone,
Time had defaced that garrison.
Now I in turn keep watch and ward
In my red house, in my walled yard
Of sunflowers, sitting here at ease
With friends and my bright canvases.
But hark, and you may hear quite plain
Time’s chuckled laughter in the lane.

HAIL, GUEST, AND ENTER FREELY!

Hail, guest, and enter freely!  All you see
Is, for your momentary visit, yours; and we
Who welcome you are but the guests of God,
And know not our departure.

Lo, now, my guest, if aught amiss were said,
Forgive it and dismiss it from your head.
For me, for you, for all, to close the date,
Pass now the ev’ning sponge across the slate;
And to that spirit of forgiveness keep
Which is the parent and the child of sleep.

SO LIVE, SO LOVE, SO USE THAT FRAGILE HOUR

So live, so love, so use that fragile hour,
That when the dark hand of the shining power
Shall one from other, wife or husband, take,
The poor survivor may not weep and wake.

Dear sir, good-morrow!  Five years back,
When you first girded for this arduous track,
And under various whimsical pretexts
Endowed another with your damned defects,
Could you have dreamed in your despondent vein
That the kind God would make your path so plain?
Non nobis, domine!  O, may He still
Support my stumbling footsteps on the hill!

BEFORE THIS LITTLE GIFT WAS COME

Before this little gift was come
The little owner had made haste for home;
And from the door of where the eternal dwell,
Looked back on human things and smiled farewell.
O may this grief remain the only one!
O may our house be still a garrison
Of smiling children, and for evermore
The tune of little feet be heard along the floor!

Go, little book—the ancient phrase
And still the daintiest—go your ways,
My Otto, over sea and land,
Till you shall come to Nelly’s hand.

How shall I your Nelly know?
By her blue eyes and her black brow,
By her fierce and slender look,
And by her goodness, little book!

What shall I say when I come there?
You shall speak her soft and fair:
See—you shall say—the love they send
To greet their unforgotten friend!

Giant Adulpho you shall sing
The next, and then the cradled king:
And the four corners of the roof
Then kindly bless; and to your perch aloof,
Where Balzac all in yellow dressed
And the dear Webster of the west
Encircle the prepotent throne
Of Shakespeare and of Calderon,
Shall climb an upstart.

There shall you all silent sit,
Till, when perchance the lamp is lit
And the day’s labour done, she takes
Poor Otto down, and, warming for our sakes,
Perchance beholds, alive and near,
Our distant faces reappear.