The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 150

Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head-- A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

Her talk was all of woodland things, Of little lives that pa.s.s Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted gra.s.s;

For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes-- 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers, And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers From sunset to sunrise;

I gave her all delight and ease That G.o.d had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave, and all I did, Brought but a weary smile Of grat.i.tude upon her face; As though a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth or sky, So merry and so sad a thing, One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wildwood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: My wife that came from fairyland No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood--home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I went back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May-- I remember, you and I Were as glad as they.

But the branches now are bare And the lad you knew, Long ago was buried there-- Long ago, with you!

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

THE INVISIBLE BRIDE

The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free-- The one that touched my youth-- The one G.o.d gave to me.

She kindles the desire Whereby the G.o.ds survive-- The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery On roads beyond our ken, Softly she comes to me, And goes to G.o.d again.

Edwin Markham [1852-

RAIN ON A GRAVE

Clouds spout upon her Their waters amain In ruthless disdain,-- Her who but lately Had s.h.i.+vered with pain As at touch of dishonor If there had lit on her So coldly, so straightly Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken Each tentative tread If drops chanced to pelt her That summertime spills In dust-paven rills When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there And she were housed here!

Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both,--who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year.

Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daisies be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them-- Ay--the sweet heart of them, Loved beyond measure With a child's pleasure All her life's round.

Thomas Hardy [1840-1928]

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.