New Poems Part 14

What shall be likened to her, The sainted of my youth?

For she is truer-truer Than the truth.

As the stars are from the sleeper, Her heart is hid from me; For she is deeper-deeper Than the sea.

Yet in my dreams I view her Flush rosy with new ruth- Dreams! Ah, may these prove truer Than the truth.

WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER RAIN

WHEN the sun comes after rain And the bird is in the blue, The girls go down the lane Two by two.

When the sun comes after shadow And the singing of the showers, The girls go up the meadow, Fair as flowers.

When the eve comes dusky red And the moon succeeds the sun, The girls go home to bed One by one.

And when life draws to its even And the day of man is past, They shall all go home to heaven, Home at last.

LATE, O MILLER

LATE, O miller, The birds are silent, The darkness falls.

In the house the lights are lighted.

See, in the valley they twinkle, The lights of home.

Late, O lovers, The night is at hand; Silence and darkness Clothe the land.

TO FRIENDS AT HOME

TO friends at home, the lone, the admired, the lost The gracious old, the lovely young, to May The fair, December the beloved, These from my blue horizon and green isles, These from this pinnacle of distances I, The unforgetful, dedicate.

I, WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME VISITED

I, WHOM Apollo sometime visited, Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done, Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all The weariness of changes; nor perceive Immeasurable sands of centuries Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound Of generations beat the music down.

TEMPEST TOSSED AND SORE AFFLICTED

TEMPEST tossed and sore afflicted, sin defiled and care oppressed, Come to me, all ye that labour; come, and I will give ye rest.

Fear no more, O doubting hearted; weep no more, O weeping eye!

Lo, the voice of your redeemer; lo, the songful morning near.

Here one hour you toil and combat, sin and suffer, bleed and die; In my father's quiet mansion soon to lay your burden by.

Bear a moment, heavy laden, weary hand and weeping eye.

Lo, the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom here.

VARIANT FORM OF THE PRECEDING POEM

COME to me, all ye that labour; I will give your spirits rest; Here apart in starry quiet I will give you rest.

Come to me, ye heavy laden, sin defiled and care opprest, In your father's quiet mansions, soon to prove a welcome guest.

But an hour you bear your trial, sin and suffer, bleed and die; But an hour you toil and combat here in day's inspiring eye.

See the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom nigh.

I NOW, O FRIEND, WHOM NOISELESSLY THE SNOWS

I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows Settle around, and whose small chamber grows Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:

The kindly hill, as to complete our hap, Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap; Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees And ring of walls, we sit between her knees; A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green.

A disused quarry, furnished with a seat Sacred to pipes and meditation meet For such a sunny and retired nook.

There in the clear, warm mornings many a book Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky To keep my loose attention. . . .

Horace has sat with me whole mornings through: And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true; And chattering Pepys, and a few beside That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide, The calm and certain stay of garden-life, Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife.

There is about the small secluded place A garnish of old times; a certain grace Of pensive memories lays about the braes: The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days.

Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil, Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill Had made his secret church, in rain or snow, He cheers the chosen residue from woe.

All night the doors stood open, come who might, The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night.

Nor are there wanting later tales; of how Prince Charlie's Highlanders . . .

I have had talents, too. In life's first hour G.o.d crowned with benefits my childish head.

Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead.

Full many a s.h.i.+ning G.o.dhead disappeared.

From the bright rank that once adorned her brow The old child's Olympus