MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

WHEN THE WIND COMES UP
THE HILL

Oh! the wind among the trees,
How it stirs their wood to song!
Little whispered melodies,
All the winding road along.
Was there ever such a sound,
Breaking through a noontide still,
As this tune the trees have found,
When the wind comes up the hill!

PEACE
 
(Sidmouth)

Evening upon the calm sweet sea,
A little wind asleep,
Dim sails that drift as tranquilly
As dreams in slumber deep.
A seagull on the water’s breast
Folds up his wings of white;
As peaceful and as much at rest
As is my heart to-night.

LIME-TREES

Lime-trees meeting overhead,
Many lovers cold and dead,
Kissed and loved, and kissed again,
In the sunshine and the rain,
Underneath your scented green.
When we two, in Earth’s kind breast,
Fall a-sleeping with the rest,
Then to us, who loved our fill,
Sweet to know you whisper still,
Happy leaves—of all that’s been!

A LITTLE SONG

A ripple and a rush, and a mating thrush,
And, oh! the month must be at May.
A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee,
And, oh! it’s such a perfect day!
A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile,
And, oh! the world is very young.
Come winter, storm or cold,
Love never can grow old,
And oh! my little song is sung!

THE SONG OF THE WATCHER

At the early break of day,
When the river mists grow pink,
And the moon begins to sink,
Down along the southern way;
When the gold mimosa tree
Rustles low and pleasantly,
To the little singing bird
That within her heart has stirred;
I, the watcher at the window,
Thank the gods who made dawn lovely,
By creating you for me!
When the stately night steps down,
Silent footed, from the west,
With the moon against her breast
Folded in her cloudy gown;
When the endless, sighing sea
Stretches to eternity,
Yearning for the pale-eyed star,
Long beloved, and yet so far;
I, the watcher at the window,
Thank the gods who made night lovely,
By creating you for me!

BY THE RIVER

Through the rustling river grasses
Warm and sweet the young wind passes,
Blowing shyly soft caresses
To their dewy emerald tresses.
All along the silver sands
Little ripples joining hands,
Dance a quaint fantastic measure,
Making liquid sounds of pleasure.
While away beyond the weir
Calls the cuckoo loud and clear,
Something mystic and remote,
Ringing in his fairy note.
How I wish that I were small,
Swinging on the rushes tall,
Just a humble happy thing,
Born to live a while in Spring!

THE ROAD TO COLLA

The blossoms of a Judas tree
Deep pink against an azure sea,
A silver moth on thoughtless wing,
A hidden bird that lights to sing,
A little cloud that wanders by,
Across the endless field of sky.
A city in the far away,
Upon the hills beyond the bay,
And over all, the sun divine,
Pouring his stream of burning wine
Like nectar strong with youth and mirth,
Into this goblet of the earth!

PRAYER

If I should pray, my prayer would be
For gratitude unlimited:
For gratitude so vast and deep,
That it would move my soul to weep
Great tears, and all the words I said
To be as organ notes sublime,
Full-throated flowing words of rhyme,
Whose like no mortal eye hath read.
Then would I kneel before the God
Whose matchless genius made the earth;
The Poet-God, who sows the hours
With all the scented hosts of flowers,
Who gives the little winds their birth,
Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might
To shake the very stars at night,
And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth.
Whose mind is fragrant as a grove
Of cedar trees in summer rain,
Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up,
And poured within the brimming cup
They offered to the world in vain.
Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote
Into their music note by note,
Immortal, haunting, strain on strain.
Whose image is revealed to all
Great lovers in the loved one’s face,
Whose passion mystical and deep
Kindles the holy fires that sleep
Within the heart’s most secret place.
Whose breath is incense on the shrine
Of earthly love, burning divine
And changeless, through all time and space!

DAWN

It is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour
Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir
Within the womb of possibility.
A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea,
Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower.
The lights still glimmer all along the quay:
And overhead a flight of hurried stars
Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be.
Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships,
Gliding away towards their destiny.
The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait
For some loved being; through the eastern gate
Red clouds come floating. Oh! that I were day,
Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire,
Filled with the glory of my own desire,
And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me!

TO THE EARTH

Oh! hadst thou kindly arms that could enfold me
While yet I live, sweet Earth, console and hold me
Unto thy bosom, thou, my fruitful Mother.
Oh! hadst thou human lips for soft caresses,
To meet mine own in some pure kiss that blesses,
Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none other.
For I am weary of the city’s sorrow,
Captive and weary, longing for a morrow
That shall release me from these walls, my prison;
My eyes are sickened with the surging faces,
And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces,
Seeking the happy lark but newly risen.
My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating
Along the streets, monotonous, repeating
Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending.
Would I could hear cool water running seaward,
Or sigh of wind at daybreak sweeping leeward,
Through purple pines whose happy boughs are bending.
O Earth, dear Mother, as my spirit passes,
Make thou sweet fetters of thy flowers and grasses,
To bind it surely, lest it wander lonely
In some far sphere where never wild bird singeth,
Where never leaf at breath of Summer springeth,
For thou indeed art Heaven, O Earth, thou only!

DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES

Along the hills the olives grow,
And almonds bloom in early Spring,
And many are the streams that flow,
And countless are the birds that sing;
The air is cool with distant snow,
And musical with bells that ring.
Beneath my feet the road winds down
In deepening shadow, far away
To where a little peaceful town
Lies sleeping by the quiet bay;
A distant sail, now white, now brown,
Shows phantomlike against the day.
While gradually the Eastern skies
Grow flushed and bright, the late stars flee,
And eager clouds appear, and rise
Above the waves expectantly;
Till lo! before my wondering eyes,
The great sun steps from out the sea!

SILENT PLACES

Sweet are the silent places of the earth,
Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass,
Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass,
Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth.
Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings,
Stretching above the silent palisade,
Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade.
O’er which the dusk still hangs with starlit wings.
The hush of mid-day in the languid south,
Where marble borders rim the limpid pools,
In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools
Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth.
And above all things, silent and at rest,
I mind me of a little quiet bay,
Set like a sapphire in the golden day,
With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast.
Oh! happy waters of that quiet bay,
So near my heart—and yet so far away!

ONE EVENING NEAR NICE

Pale depth of sky, serene and wonderful,
Within whose fold the lamps of early stars
Shine far away and faintly luminous;
Whose pensive tones merge from the afterglow
Into this colour indescribable;
This blending of the sea and earth and clouds,
Soft and yet poignant, passionate yet calm.
I know not what the spirit in me feels,
When it beholds thee through my human eyes:
Nor what strange craving for forgotten things
Has stirred my soul to this disquietude!

THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO

Kind Earth, upon whose mother breast
The fruitful trees in time of spring,
Put forth their endless blossoming
From North to South, from East to West,
Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest
With striving seeds and budding flowers,
And all the potent toil of hours,
From sunrise until even’s rest—
Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn,
And touch me, compass me around,
Fill me with scent of upturned ground,
Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.
The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn,
Poor though they must be while I live,
For in my hour of death I give
My heart, that one rose may be born!

THREE CHILD-SONGS

I
 
THE THRUSH’S SONG

“Oh! bother,” sang the thrush,
“I’m in an awful rush,
For I’ve got to get ready for the Spring.
With feathers from my breast,
I’ll line a cosy nest,
A terribly difficult thing!
“Before it is too late,
I’ll have to find a mate,
And she must be dainty and small,
Obedient and sweet,
In jacket brown and neat,
And ready to come when I call.
“The robins are all wed
(Or so I’ve heard it said),
And the wind from the South it does blow.
The ice has felt the sun,
And winter must be done,
For a primrose is growing in the snow!”

II
 
WILLOW WAND

Willow wand, willow wand,
Change this little slender frond
To a Princess tall and fair,
With a mass of golden hair,
Of golden hair.
Willow wand, willow wand,
Change this shallow meadow pond
To a deep and crystal pool,
Where she bathes at even cool,
At even cool.
Wand cut from the willow tree,
Build a fairy home for me,
Build a home of light and shade,
Sun and shadow deftly made,
Most deftly made.
There where nothing comes to part,
With the ladye of my heart
I will dwell for ever—ever;
We will quarrel never—never,
Oh! never—never!

III
 
A WINTER SONG

“Swift away, swift away,”
Sang the fickle swallow,
Oh! the fickle swallow,
Flying to the sun!
“Come, my little brothers,
Bring your feathered mothers,
Come away, come away,
Each and every one.”
“Only stay, only stay,”
Sang the lonely poet,
Oh! the lonely poet,
All among the snow!
Robin Redbreast heard, and said,
“I am here though summer’s dead;
Cheer up, cheer up,
I will never go!”

AUTUMN IN SUSSEX

A glory is this autumn day,
That stretches far across the land,
To where the sea along the sand
Sings kindly, with a gentle lay
Upon its lips. The gleam and sway
Of burning leaves ignites the air
To strange soft fire; serene and bare
The wide fields lie on either hand.
More lovely than the timid Spring
Who tells her beads of humble flowers,
More perfect than the sun-warmed hours
Of summer, gay with birds that sing,
Is this fulfilment earth doth bring
To offer up to God; this deep
Vast prayer before the winter sleep,
This final tribute to His powers!

SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE
MAGNIS

In the bowl of a shell
Sings the wonderful song of the sea,
All the ebb and the swell,
In the bowl of a shell.
In the heart of a pool
Drifts the fathomless smile of the sky,
All the clouds white and cool,
In the heart of a pool.
In the beam of a star
Shines the light of a far away world,
Out of space, dim and far,
In the beam of a star.
In the cup of a rose
Dwells the languor and passion of June,
Eager life, warm repose,
In the cup of a rose.
In the throat of a bird
Lives the message of God to His earth,
Lo! the mystical word
In the throat of a bird!

TO ITALY

O Italy of chiming bells,
Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells,
Of incense mist and secret prayers,
Profound and sweet as scented airs
Blown from a field of lily flowers!
O Italy of pagan vine,
That thrills with sap of sun-born wine,
Drenching the Christian soul with red
Warm liquid of a faith long dead,
Wafting it back to sensuous hours.
No mortal woman ever held
Such sweet inconstancies, or welled
With such hot springs of turbid fire;
No being throbbed with such desire,
Thy very air is ecstacy!
O pagan goddess, from whose lips
The gentle Christian worship slips,
I fear thee, knowing what thou art
Yet I adore thee; take my heart
I am thy lover, Italy!

SUNDAY IN LIGURIA

This is the Sabbath day, the day of rest,
That breathes so gently in this quiet place,
With such insistent peace that for a space
The silver olives on the mountain’s crest
Forget to whisper, folded in the grace
Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon.
The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon
Slips out among them, calm and pale of face.
O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing
That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea;
This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy,
That like a great white bird on sunlit wing
Hovers above the world; ’tis given thee
To merge thyself in this harmonious whole,
And be content, seeking no higher goal;
The earth is God’s, to-day eternity!

GEORGETOWN,
U.S.A.

If you would hear the thrushes sing,
Then go to Georgetown in the spring,
And wander slowly at your ease
Along the avenues of trees.
The sunshine and the shadows meet
To weave a web across the street,
And in and out its magic strands
Play little children, joining hands.
The sky is washed with showers and dew,
Until it looks the palest blue,
And in the gardens down below
You almost see the grasses grow.
There’s something very very old
About the place, so we are told,
And yet it’s marvellously gay
And young, when seen on such a day!
The silent corners all around
Break up in waves of pleasant sound,
The mansions of Colonial days
Allow the sun to gild their greys.
The paving-stones, with earth between,
Are fringed with shoots of emerald green,
And oh! the song the thrushes sing
In Georgetown, when the year’s at spring!

ON THE POTOMAC RIVER,
U.S.A.

At close of June’s most burning day,
We took a ship and sailed away:
In mid-Potomac stream sailed we,
To Old Point Comfort by the sea.
The heavy hanging air of dusk
Was thick with scent of fainting musk,
And through the tired willow trees
Stirred never sound or breath of breeze.
So still it was, that from afar
We seemed to hear a falling star,
And every drop we heard, that dript
From off the paddle as it dipped.
The fireflies lit their yellow lamps,
And danced along the marshy damps;
They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again,
While beetles droned a dance-refrain.
The old ship pushed the mists apart,
And crawled along with throbbing heart,
Pausing from time to time for breath
Beside some jetty, still as death.
The moon rose up all reddish gold,
And lit the swirling misty fold
Of fog along the river bank,
Where grew the creepers dark and rank.
Sometimes the lonely “look-out” cried
“All’s well”: the water swished and sighed
An endless and protesting song,
As stealthily we crept along.
Until at last the wind blew free,
Where the Potomac met the sea;
And not so very far away
The shores of Old Point Comfort lay.

THE LOST WORD

High above a waveless sea,
On the hills of long ago,
There you lived awhile with me,
And we loved—I know.
For your hair I made a crown,
Twined it with these hands of mine,
Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown,
From the happy vine.
You were like some woodland thing,
Fear and rapture in your eyes,
Tender as a breath of Spring
Blown from April skies.
Then I called you, and you heard,
To your lover’s arms you came:
Ah! what was that magic word,
Your forgotten name!

COMPARISONS

A field of scented clover
That honey-bees hang over,
A hazel-wood in Spring,
Where thrush and robin sing.
A stream that seaward flows,
Rejoicing as it goes,
A little tower where dwells
The sound of happy bells.
A morning fresh and blue,
Flower-decked, and wet with dew,
All these my love she minds me of—
And other sweet things too.

A FRAGMENT

The clustering grapes of purple vine
Are crushed to make the crimson wine.
The poppies in the grasses deep
Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep.
The roses, when their glories bloom
Are crushed to yield their soul’s perfume.
And hearts, perchance of these the least,
Are crushed for nectar at Love’s feast!