MY HEART.

I.

  Night, with her power to silence day,
      Filled up my lonely room,
  Quenching all sounds but one that lay
      Beyond her passing doom,
  Where in his shed a workman gay
      Went on despite the gloom.

  I listened, and I knew the sound,
      And the trade that he was plying;
  For backwards, forwards, bound on bound,
      A shuttle was flying, flying—
  Weaving ever—till, all unwound,
      The weft go out a sighing.

II.

  As hidden in thy chamber lowest
      As in the sky the lark,
  Thou, mystic thing, on working goest
      Without the poorest spark,
  And yet light's garment round me throwest,
      Who else, as thou, were dark.

  With body ever clothing me,
      Thou mak'st me child of light;
  I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea,
      The sky's rejoicing height,
  A woven glory, globed by thee,
      Unknowing of thy might!

  And when thy darkling labours fail,
      And thy shuttle moveless lies,
  My world will drop, like untied veil
      From before a lady's eyes;
  Or, all night read, a finished tale
      That in the morning dies.

III.

  Yet not in vain dost thou unroll
      The stars, the world, the seas—
  A mighty, wonder-painted scroll
      Of Patmos mysteries,
  Thou mediator 'twixt my soul
      And higher things than these!

  Thy holy ephod bound on me,
      I pass into a seer;
  For still in things thou mak'st me see,
      The unseen grows more clear;
  Still their indwelling Deity
      Speaks plainer in mine ear.

  Divinely taught the craftsman is
      Who waketh wonderings;
  Whose web, the nursing chrysalis
      Round Psyche's folded wings,
  To them transfers the loveliness
      Of its inwoven things.

  Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!—
      For a greater heart beats on,
  Whose better texture follows fleet
      On thy last thread outrun,
  With a seamless-woven garment, meet
      To clothe a death-born son.

THE FLOWER-ANGELS.

  Of old, with goodwill from the skies—
    God's message to them given—
  The angels came, a glad surprise,
    And went again to heaven.

  But now the angels are grown rare,
    Needed no more as then;
  Far lowlier messengers can bear
    God's goodwill unto men.

  Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn
    Breaks from the earth below;
  Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,
    The noontide roses glow.

  The snowdrops first—the dawning gray;
    Then out the roses burn!
  They speak their word, grow dim—away
    To holy dust return.

  Of oracles were little dearth,
    Should heaven continue dumb;
  From lowliest corners of the earth
    God's messages will come.

  In thy face his we see, O Lord,
    And are no longer blind;
  Need not so much his rarer word,
    In flowers even read his mind.

TO MY SISTER,

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

I.

  Old fables are not all a lie
    That tell of wondrous birth,
  Of Titan children, father Sky,
    And mighty mother Earth.

  Yea, now are walking on the ground
    Sons of the mingled brood;
  Yea, now upon the earth are found
    Such daughters of the Good.

  Earth-born, my sister, thou art still
    A daughter of the sky;
  Oh, climb for ever up the hill
    Of thy divinity!

  To thee thy mother Earth is sweet,
    Her face to thee is fair;
  But thou, a goddess incomplete,
    Must climb the starry stair.

II.

  Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend,
    Wouldst see the Father's face?
  To all his other children bend,
    And take the lowest place.

  Be like a cottage on a moor,
    A covert from the wind,
  With burning fire and open door,
    And welcome free and kind.

  Thus humbly doing on the earth
    The things the earthly scorn,
  Thou shalt declare the lofty birth
    Of all the lowly born.

III.

  Be then thy sacred womanhood
    A sign upon thee set,
  A second baptism—understood—
    For what thou must be yet.

  For, cause and end of all thy strife,
    And unrest as thou art,
  Still stings thee to a higher life
    The Father at thy heart.

OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH!

  Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
    Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow;
  But spring is floating up the southern skies,
    And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.

  Let me persuade: in dull December's day
    We scarce believe there is a month of June;
  But up the stairs of April and of May
    The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

  Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest.
    O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou.
  He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;—
    And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.

WILD FLOWERS.

  Content Primroses,
  With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
  Peeping as from his mother's lap the child
  Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!—
  Hanging Harebell,
  Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes,
  Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!—
  Fluttering-wild
  Anemone, so well
  Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free,
  Yieldest thee, helpless—wilfully,
  With Take me or leave me,
  Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone!—
  Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming
  Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!—
  Fire-winged Pimpernel,
  Communing with some hidden well,
  And secrets with the sun-god holding,
  At fixed hour folding and unfolding!—
  How is it with you, children all,
  When human children on you fall,
  Gather you in eager haste,
  Spoil your plenty with their waste—
  Fill and fill their dropping hands?
  Feel you hurtfully disgraced
  By their injurious demands?
  Do you know them from afar,
  Shuddering at their merry hum,
  Growing faint as near they come?
  Blind and deaf they think you are—
  Is it only ye are dumb?
  You alive at least, I think,
  Trembling almost on the brink
  Of our lonely consciousness:
  If it be so,
  Take this comfort for your woe,
  For the breaking of your rest,
  For the tearing in your breast,
  For the blotting of the sun,
  For the death too soon begun,
  For all else beyond redress—
  Or what seemeth so to be—
  That the children's wonder-springs
  Bubble high at sight of you,
  Lovely, lowly, common things:
  In you more than you they see!
  Take this too—that, walking out,
  Looking fearlessly about,
  Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt,
  And our childhood's faith renew;
  So that we, with old age nigh,
  Seeing you alive and well
  Out of winter's crucible,
  Hearing you, from graveyard crept,
  Tell us that ye only slept—
  Think we die not, though we die.

  Thus ye die not, though ye die—
  Only yield your being up,
  Like a nectar-holding cup:
  Deaf, ye give to them that hear,
  With a greatness lovely-dear;
  Blind, ye give to them that see—
  Poor, but bounteous royally.
  Lowly servants to the higher,
  Burning upwards in the fire
  Of Nature's endless sacrifice,
  In great Life's ascent ye rise,
  Leave the lowly earth behind,
  Pass into the human mind,
  Pass with it up into God,
  Whence ye came though through the clod—
  Pass, and find yourselves at home
  Where but life can go and come;
  Where all life is in its nest,
  At loving one with holy Best;—
  Who knows?—with shadowy, dawning sense
  Of a past, age-long somnolence!

SPRING SONG.

      Days of old,
  Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
        Ye are not cold,
  But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.

  The sun brings back the swallows fast
        O'er the sea;
  When he cometh at the last,
  The days of old come back to me.

SUMMER SONG.

  "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan,
  Many a tune in a single tone,
  For every ear with a secret true—
  The sea-shell wants to whisper to you."

  "Yes—I hear it—far and faint,
  Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint;
  Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain;
  Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain."

  "By smiling lip and fixed eye,
  You are hearing a song within the sigh:
  The murmurer has many a lovely phrase—
  Tell me, darling, the words it says."

  "I hear a wind on a boatless main
  Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain;
  On the dreaming waters dreams the moon—
  But I hear no words in the doubtful tune."

  "If it tell thee not that I love thee well,
  'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell:
  If it be not of love, why sigh or sing?
  'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!"

  "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice
  Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice;
  It says not a word of your love to me,
  But it tells me I love you eternally."

AUTUMN SONG.

  Autumn clouds are flying, flying
    O'er the waste of blue;
  Summer flowers are dying, dying,
    Late so lovely new.
  Labouring wains are slowly rolling
    Home with winter grain;
  Holy bells are slowly tolling
    Over buried men.

  Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
    Like an afternoon;
  Colder airs come stealing, creeping
    From the misty moon;
  And the leaves, of old age dying,
    Earthy hues put on;
  Out on every lone wind sighing
    That their day is gone.

  Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
    Down to winter low;
  And our hearts are thinking, thinking
    Of the sleet and snow;
  For our sun is slowly sliding
    Down the hill of might;
  And no moon is softly gliding
    Up the slope of night.

  See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
    Heaped in golden glooms!
  See, the earth's outworn sunrises
    Dream in cloudy tombs!
  Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
    Of a quickening wind;
  And the man, through Death's door going,
    Leaves old Death behind.

  Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
    Let the gold turn gray;
  Feet, though feeble, still may falter
    Toward the better day!
  Brother, let not weak faith linger
    O'er a withered thing;
  Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
    Burns to hues of Spring.

WINTER SONG.

  They were parted then at last?
    Was it duty, or force, or fate?
  Or did a worldly blast
    Blow-to the meeting-gate?

  An old, short story is this!
    A glance, a trembling, a sigh,
  A gaze in the eyes, a kiss—
    Why will it not go by!

PICTURE SONGS.

I.

  A pale green sky is gleaming;
    The steely stars are few;
  The moorland pond is steaming
    A mist of gray and blue.

  Along the pathway lonely
    My horse is walking slow;
  Three living creatures only,
    He, I, and a home-bound crow!

  The moon is hardly shaping
    Her circle in the fog;
  A dumb stream is escaping
    Its prison in the bog.

  But in my heart are ringing
    Tones of a lofty song;
  A voice that I know, is singing,
    And my heart all night must long.

II.

  Over a shining land—
    Once such a land I knew—
  Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned,
    The sky is all white and blue.

  The waves are kissing the shores,
    Murmuring love and for ever;
  A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars
    Flash out of the level river.

  Oh to be there with thee
    And the sun, on wet sands, my love!
  With the shining river, the sparkling sea,
    And the radiant sky above!

III.

  The autumn winds are sighing
    Over land and sea;
  The autumn woods are dying
    Over hill and lea;
  And my heart is sighing, dying,
    Maiden, for thee.

  The autumn clouds are flying
    Homeless over me;
  The nestless birds are crying
    In the naked tree;
  And my heart is flying, crying,
    Maiden, to thee.

  The autumn sea is crawling
    Up the chilly shore;
  The thin-voiced firs are calling
    Ghostily evermore:
  Maiden, maiden! I am falling
    Dead at thy door.

IV.

  The waters are rising and flowing
    Over the weedy stone—
  Over it, over it going:
    It is never gone.

  Waves upon waves of weeping
    Went over the ancient pain;
  Glad waves go over it leaping—
    Still it rises again!

A DREAM SONG.

  I dreamed of a song—I heard it sung;
  In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung.
  What were its words I could not tell,
  Only the voice I heard right well,
  For its tones unearthly my spirit bound
  In a calm delirium of mystic sound—
  Held me floating, alone and high,
  Placeless and silent, drinking my fill
  Of dews that from cloudless skies distil
  On desert places that thirst and sigh.
  'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep,
  Rousing old echoes that all day sleep
  In cavern and solitude, each apart,
  Here and there in the waiting heart;—
  A voice with a wild melodious cry
  Reaching and longing afar and high.
  Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife,
  Gainful death, and new-born life,
  Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song.
  In my heart it said: O Lord, how long
  Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray,
  Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day!

1842.

AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET.

  Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
    And in their sadness overflow and blend—
  Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
    Far out amid them my pale soul I send.

  For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
    An hour draws near when my day too will die;
  Already I forecast unheaving breath,
    Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.

  Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
    Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
  At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
    Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!

  Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
    Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
  Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
    I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!

  Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before?
    Did you fare thus when first ye came this way?
  Somewhere there must be yet another door!—
    A door in somewhere from this dreary gray!

  Come walking over watery hill and glen,
    Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext;
  Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten,
    And bring me patient hoping for the next.

  Maker of heaven and earth, father of me,
    My words are but a weak, fantastic moan!
  Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea,
    Thou still wert with me; I were not alone!

  I am in thee, O father, lord of sky,
    And lord of waves, and lord of human souls!
  In thee all precious ones to me more nigh
    Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals!

  I shall not be alone although I die,
    And loved ones should delay their coming long;
  Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky,
    Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song.

  They are thy garments; thou art near within,
    Father of fathers, friend-creating friend!
  Thou art for ever, therefore I begin;
    Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end!

  Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child;
    I pray thee, father, give me everything;
  Give me the joy that makes the children wild;
    Give throat and heart an old new song to sing.

  Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ,
    And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere!
  With all the true I keep a hoping tryst;
    Eternal love is my eternal prayer.

1890.

A FATHER TO A MOTHER.

  When God's own child came down to earth,
    High heaven was very glad;
  The angels sang for holy mirth;
    Not God himself was sad!

  Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
    Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
  The little one will not forget;
    It's only till to-morrow!

THE TEMPLE OF GOD.

  In the desert by the bush,
  Moses to his heart said Hush.

  David on his bed did pray;
  God all night went not away.

  From his heap of ashes foul
  Job to God did lift his soul,

  God came down to see him there,
  And to answer all his prayer.

  On a dark hill, in the wind,
  Jesus did his father find,

  But while he on earth did fare,
  Every spot was place of prayer;

  And where man is any day,
  God can not be far away.

  But the place he loveth best,
  Place where he himself can rest,

  Where alone he prayer doth seek,
  Is the spirit of the meek.

  To the humble God doth come;
  In his heart he makes his home.

GOING TO SLEEP.

  Little one, you must not fret
    That I take your clothes away;
  Better sleep you so will get,
    And at morning wake more gay—
      Saith the children's mother.

  You I must unclothe again,
    For you need a better dress;
  Too much worn are body and brain;
    You need everlastingness—
      Saith the heavenly father.

  I went down death's lonely stair;
    Laid my garments in the tomb;
  Dressed again one morning fair;
    Hastened up, and hied me home—
      Saith the elder brother.

  Then I will not be afraid
    Any ill can come to me;
  When 'tis time to go to bed,
    I will rise and go with thee—
      Saith the little brother.

TO-MORROW.

  My TO-MORROW is but a flitting
    Fancy of the brain;
  God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting,
    Ready for joy or pain.

  My TO-MORROW has no soul,
    Dead as yesterdays;
  God's—a brimming silver bowl
    Of life that gleams and plays.

  My TO-MORROW, I mock you away!
    Shadowless nothing, thou!
  God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day,
    For God is in thee now.

FOOLISH CHILDREN.

  Waking in the night to pray,
    Sleeping when the answer comes,
  Foolish are we even at play—
    Tearfully we beat our drums!
  Cast the good dry bread away,
    Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

  "Evermore," while shines the day,
    "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!"
  Soon as evening groweth gray,
    Thy fair will we fain would shun!
  "Take, oh, take thy hand away!
    See the horrid dark begun!"

  "Thou hast conquered Death," we say,
    "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!"
  Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay!
    Death it is," we cry, "not sleep!
  Grave, take all. Shut out the Day.
    Sit we on the ground and weep!"

  Gathering potsherds all the day,
    Truant children, Lord, we roam;
  Fret, and longer want to play,
    When at cool thy voice doth come!—
  Elder Brother, lead the way;
    Make us good as we go home.

LOVE IS HOME.

  Love is the part, and love is the whole;
    Love is the robe, and love is the pall;
  Ruler of heart and brain and soul,
    Love is the lord and the slave of all!
  I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me;
  I thank thee more that I love thee.

  Love is the rain, and love is the air,
    Love is the earth that holdeth fast;
  Love is the root that is buried there,
    Love is the open flower at last!
  I thank thee, Love all round about,
  That the eyes of my love are looking out.

  Love is the sun, and love is the sea;
    Love is the tide that comes and goes;
  Flowing and flowing it comes to me;
    Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows!
  Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide!
  My sea, and my shore, and all beside!

  Light, oh light that art by showing;
    Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion;
  Thought, oh thought that art by knowing;
    Will, that art born in self-devotion!
  Love is you, though not all of you know it;
  Ye are not love, yet ye always show it!

  Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father,
    Home of our heart-infolded brother,
  Home to thee all thy glories gather—
    All are thy love, and there is no other!
  O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam—
  Home unto thee, we are coming home!

FAITH.

  "Earth, if aught should check thy race,
  Rushing through unfended space,
  Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall
  Into yonder glowing ball!"

  "Beggar of the universe,
  Faithless as an empty purse!
  Sent abroad to cool and tame,
  Think'st I fear my native flame?"

  "If thou never on thy track
  Turn thee round and hie thee back,
  Thou wilt wander evermore,
  Outcast, cold—a comet hoar!"

  "While I sweep my ring along
  In an air of joyous song,
  Thou art drifting, heart awry,
  From the sun of liberty!"

WAITING.

  I waited for the Master
    In the darkness dumb;
  Light came fast and faster—
    My light did not come!

  I waited all the daylight,
    All through noon's hot flame:
  In the evening's gray light,
    Lo, the Master came!

OUR SHIP.

  Had I a great ship coming home,
    With big plunge o'er the sea,
  What bright things, hid from star and foam,
    Lay in her heart for thee!

  The stormy billows heave and dip,
    The wild winds veer and play;
  But, regnant all, God's stately ship
    Is steering home this way!

MY HEART THY LARK.

  Why dost thou want to sing
    When thou hast no song, my heart?
  If there be in thee a hidden spring,
    Wherefore will no word start?

  On its way thou hearest no song,
    Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
  The years of thy life are growing long—
    Art still the heart of a boy?—

  Father, I am thy child!
    My heart is in thy hand!
  Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
    Of a song in thy high land.

  It will answer—but how, my God,
    Thou knowest; I cannot say:
  It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod—
    Thy lark to meet thy day!

TWO IN ONE.

  Were thou and I the white pinions
    On some eager, heaven-born dove,
  Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
    To our rest of old, my love!

  Were thou and I trembling strands
    In music's enchanted line,
  We would wait and wait for magic hands
    To untwist the magic twine.

  Were we two sky-tints, thou and I,
    Thou the golden, I the red;
  We would quiver and glow and darken and die,
    And love until we were dead!

  Nearer than wings of one dove,
    Than tones or colours in chord,
  We are one—and safe, and for ever, my love,
    Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord.

BEDTIME.

  "Come, children, put away your toys;
    Roll up that kite's long line;
  The day is done for girls and boys—
    Look, it is almost nine!
  Come, weary foot, and sleepy head,
  Get up, and come along to bed."

  The children, loath, must yet obey;
    Up the long stair they creep;
  Lie down, and something sing or say
    Until they fall asleep,
  To steal through caverns of the night
  Into the morning's golden light.

  We, elder ones, sit up more late,
    And tasks unfinished ply,
  But, gently busy, watch and wait—
    Dear sister, you and I,
  To hear the Father, with soft tread,
  Coming to carry us to bed.

A PRAYER.

  Thou who mad'st the mighty clock
    Of the great world go;
  Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock,
    Ceaseless to and fro;
  Thou whose will doth push and draw
    Every orb in heaven,
  Help me move by higher law
    In my spirit graven.

  Like a planet let me swing—
    With intention strong;
  In my orbit rushing sing
    Jubilant along;
  Help me answer in my course
    To my seasons due;
  Lord of every stayless force,
    Make my Willing true.

A SONG PRAYER.

  Lord Jesus,
  Oh, ease us
  Of Self that oppresses,
  Annoys and distresses
  Body and brain
  With dull pain!
  Thou never,
  Since ever,
  Save one moment only,
  Wast left, or wast lonely:
  We are alone,
  And make moan.

  Far parted,
  Dull-hearted,
  We wander, sleep-walking,
  Mere shadows, dim-stalking:
  Orphans we roam,
  Far from home.

  Oh new man,
  Sole human,
  God's son, and our brother,
  Give each to the other—
  No one left out
  In cold doubt!

  High Father,
  Oh gather
  Thy sons and thy daughters,
  Through fires and through waters,
  Home to the nest
  Of thy breast!

  There under
  The wonder
  Of great wings of healing,
  Of love and revealing,
  Teach us anew
  To sing true.

SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS.

SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS.

I.

  A glory on the chamber wall!
    A glory in the brain!
  Triumphant floods of glory fall
    On heath, and wold, and plain.

  Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;
    She has, and seeks no more;
  Forgets that days come after this,
    Forgets the days before.

  Each ripple waves a flickering fire
    Of gladness, as it runs;
  They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,
    And toss ten thousand suns.

  But hark! low, in the world within,
    One sad aeolian tone:
  "Ah! shall we ever, ever win
    A summer of our own?"

II.

  A morn of winds and swaying trees—
    Earth's jubilance rushing out!
  The birds are fighting with the breeze;
    The waters heave about.

  White clouds are swept across the sky,
    Their shadows o'er the graves;
  Purpling the green, they float and fly
    Athwart the sunny waves.

  The long grass—an earth-rooted sea—
    Mimics the watery strife.
  To boat or horse? Wild motion we
    Shall find harmonious life.

  But whither? Roll and sweep and bend
    Suffice for Nature's part;
  But motion to an endless end
    Is needful for our heart.

III.

  The morn awakes like brooding dove,
    With outspread wings of gray;
  Her feathery clouds close in above,
    And roof a sober day.

  No motion in the deeps of air!
    No trembling in the leaves!
  A still contentment everywhere,
    That neither laughs nor grieves!

  A film of sheeted silver gray
    Shuts in the ocean's hue;
  White-winged feluccas cleave their way
    In paths of gorgeous blue.

  Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day,
    Thy very clouds are dreams!
  Yon child is dreaming far away—
    He is not where he seems.

IV.

  The lark is up, his faith is strong,
    He mounts the morning air;
  Lone voice of all the creature throng,
    He sings the morning prayer.

  Slow clouds from north and south appear,
    Black-based, with shining slope;
  In sullen forms their might they rear,
    And climb the vaulted cope.

  A lightning flash, a thunder boom!—
    Nor sun nor clouds are there;
  A single, all-pervading gloom
    Hangs in the heavy air.

  A weeping, wasting afternoon
    Weighs down the aspiring corn;
  Amber and red, the sunset soon
    Leads back to golden morn.

SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS.

I.

  The dreary wind of night is out,
    Homeless and wandering slow;
  O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt,
    It breathes, but will not blow.

  It sighs from out the helpless past,
    Where doleful things abide;
  Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast
    Across its ebbing tide.

  O'er marshy pools it faints and flows,
    All deaf and dumb and blind;
  O'er moor and mountain aimless goes—
    The listless woesome wind!

  Nay, nay!—breathe on, sweet wind of night!
    The sigh is all in me;
  Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might,
    Until I wake and see.

II.

  The west is broken into bars
    Of orange, gold, and gray;
  Gone is the sun, fast come the stars,
    And night infolds the day.

  My boat glides with the gliding stream,
    Following adown its breast
  One flowing mirrored amber gleam,
    The death-smile of the west.

  The river moves; the sky is still,
    No ceaseless quest it knows:
  Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill
    At sight of its repose.

  The ripples run; all patient sit
    The stars above the night.
  In shade and gleam the waters flit:
    The heavens are changeless bright!

III.

  Alone I lie, buried amid
    The long luxurious grass;
  The bats flit round me, born and hid
    In twilight's wavering mass.

  The fir-top floats, an airy isle,
    High o'er the mossy ground;
  Harmonious silence breathes the while
    In scent instead of sound.

  The flaming rose glooms swarthy red;
    The borage gleams more blue;
  Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed
    Glimmers the rich dusk through.

  Hid in the summer grass I lie,
    Lost in the great blue cave;
  My body gazes at the sky,
    And measures out its grave.

IV.

  What art thou, gathering dusky cool,
    In slow gradation fine?
  Death's lovely shadow, flickering full
    Of eyes about to shine.

  When weary Day goes down below,
    Thou leanest o'er his grave,
  Revolving all the vanished show
    The gracious splendour gave.

  Or art thou not she rather—say—
    Dark-browed, with luminous eyes,
  Of whom is born the mighty Day,
    That fights and saves and dies?

  For action sleeps with sleeping light;
    Calm thought awakes with thee:
  The soul is then a summer night,
    With stars that shine and see.

SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS.

I.

  We bore him through the golden land,
    One early harvest morn;
  The corn stood ripe on either hand—
    He knew all about the corn.

  How shall the harvest gathered be
    Without him standing by?
  Without him walking on the lea,
    The sky is scarce a sky.

  The year's glad work is almost done;
    The land is rich in fruit;
  Yellow it floats in air and sun—
    Earth holds it by the root.

  Why should earth hold it for a day
    When harvest-time is come?
  Death is triumphant o'er decay,
    And leads the ripened home.

II.

  And though the sun be not so warm,
    His shining is not lost;
  Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
    Lie hid from coming frost.

  The sombre woods are richly sad,
    Their leaves are red and gold:
  Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad
    Signs that we men grow old?

  Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain
    From fields and days gone by;
  And mournful memories again
    Are born, are loved, and die.

  The mornings clear, the evenings cool
    Foretell no wintry wars;
  The day of dying leaves is full,
    The night of glowing stars.

III.

  'Tis late before the sun will rise,
    And early he will go;
  Gray fringes hang from the gray skies,
    And wet the ground below.

  Red fruit has followed golden corn;
    The leaves are few and sere;
  My thoughts are old as soon as born,
    And chill with coming fear.

  The winds lie sick; no softest breath
    Floats through the branches bare;
  A silence as of coming death
    Is growing in the air.

  But what must fade can bear to fade—
    Was born to meet the ill:
  Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!
    We sorrow, and are still.

IV.

  There is no longer any heaven
    To glorify our clouds;
  The rising vapours downward driven
    Come home in palls and shrouds.

  The sun himself is ill bested
    A heavenly sign to show;
  His radiance, dimmed to glowing red,
    Can hardly further go.

  An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom,
    Pervade the moveless air;
  The year is sinking to its tomb,
    And death is everywhere.

  But while sad thoughts together creep,
    Like bees too cold to sting,
  God's children, in their beds asleep,
    Are dreaming of the spring.