Читать книгу: «Verses», страница 7

SOLSTICE

I

 
  I sit at evening's scented close,
    In fulness of the summer-tide;
  All dewy fair the lily glows,
  No single petal of the row;
    Has fallen to dim the rose's pride.
 
 
  Sweet airs, sweet harmonies of hue,
    Surround, caress me everywhere;
  The spells of dusk, the spells of dew,
  My senses steal, my reason woo,
    And sing a lullaby to tare,
 
 
  But vainly do the warm airs sing,
    All vain the roses' rapturous breath;
  A chill blast, as from wintry wing,
  Smites on my heart, and, shuddering,
    I see the beauty changed to death.
 
 
  Afar I see it loom and rise,
    That pitiless and icy shape.
  It blots the blue, it dims the skies;
  Amid the summer land it cries,
    "I come, and there is no escape!"
 
 
  O, bitter drop in bloom and sweet!
    O, canker on the smiling day!
  Have we but climbed the hill to meet
  Thy fronting fare, thy eyes of sleet?
    To hate, yet dare not turn away?
 

II

 
  I sit beneath a leaden sky,
    Amid the piled and drifted snow;
  My feet are on the graves where lie
  The roses which made haste to die
    So long, so very long ago.
 
 
  The sobbing wind is fierce and strong,
    Its cry is like a human wail,
  But in my heart it sings this song:
  "Not long, O Lord! O Lord, not long!
    Surely thy spring-time shall prevail."
 
 
  Out of the darkness and the cold,
    Out of the wintry depths I lean,
  And lovingly I clasp and hold
  The promises, and see unrolled
    A vision of the summer green.
 
 
  O, life in death, sweet plucked from pain!
    O, distant vision fair to see!
  Up the long hill we press and strain;
  We can bear all things and attain,
    If once our faces turn to Thee!
 

IN THE MIST

 
  Sitting all day in a silver mist,
    In silver silence all the day,
  Save for the low, soft kiss of spray,
  And the lisp of sands by waters kissed,
    As the tide draws up the bay.
 
 
  Little I hear and nothing I see,
    Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun;
  The solid earth is vanished for me,
  And the shining hours speed noiselessly,
    A web of shadow and sun.
 
 
  Suddenly out of the shifting veil
    A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit,
  Flits like a dream,—or seems to flit,—
  With a golden prow and a gossamer sail,
    And the waves make room for it.
 
 
  A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm,
    Its diamond cordage cuts the sky
    In glittering lines; all silently
  A seeming spirit holds the helm
    And steers: will he pass me by?
 
 
  Ah, not for me is the vessel here!
    Noiseless and fast as a sea-bird's, flight,
    She swerves and vanishes from my sight;
  No flap of sail, no parting cheer,—
    She has passed into the light.
 
 
  Sitting some day in a deeper mist,
    Silent, alone, some other day,
    An unknown bark from an unknown bay,
  By unknown waters lapped and kissed,
    Shall near me through the spray.
 
 
  No flap of sail, no scraping of keel:
    Shadow, dim, with a banner dark,
    It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel
  A hand which beckons, and, shivering, steal
    To the cold strand and embark.
 
 
  Embark for that far mysterious realm,
    Whence the fathomless, trackless waters flow.
    Shall I see a Presence dim, and know
  A Gracious Hand upon the helm,
    Nor be afraid to go?
 
 
  And through black wave and stormy blast,
    And out of the fog-wreath dense and dun,
    Guided and held, shall the vessel run,
  Gain the fair haven, night being past,
    And anchor in the sun?
 

WITHIN

 
  Could my heart hold another one?
      I cannot tell.
  Sometimes it seems an ample dome,
      Sometimes a cell,
 
 
  Sometimes a temple filled with saints,
      Serene and fair,
  Whose eyes are pure from mortal taints
      All lilies are.
 
 
  Sometimes a narrow shrine, in which
      One precious fare
  Smiles ever from its guarded niche,
      With deathless grace.
 
 
  Sometimes a nest, where weary things,
      And weal; and shy,
  Are brooded under mother wings
      Till they can fly.
 
 
  And then a palace, with wide rooms
      Adorned and dressed,
  Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumes
      For each new guest.
 
 
  Whiche'er it be, I know always
      Within that door—
  Whose latch it is not mine to raise—
      Blows evermore,
 
 
  With breath of balm upon its wing,
      A soft, still air,
  Which makes each closely folded thing
      Look always fair.
 
 
  My darlings, do you feel me near,
      As every day
  Into this hidden place and dear
      I take my way?
 
 
  Always you stand in radiant guise,
      Always I see
  A noiseless welcome in the eyes
      You turn on me.
 
 
  And, whether I come soon or late,
      Whate'er befall,
  Always within the guarded gate
      I find you all.
 

MENACE

 
  All green and fair the Summer lies,
    Just budded from the bud of Spring,
  With tender blue of wistful skies,
    And winds which softly sing.
 
 
  Her clock has struck its morning hours;
    Noon nears—the flowery dial is true;
  But still the hot sun veils its powers,
    In deference to the dew.
 
 
  Yet there amid the fresh new green,
    Amid the young broods overhead,
  A single scarlet branch is seen,
    Swung like a banner red;
 
 
  Tinged with the fatal hectic flush
    Which, when October frost is in the near,
  Flames on each dying tree and bush,
    To deck the dying year.
 
 
  And now the sky seems not so blue,
    The yellow sunshine pales its ray,
  A sorrowful, prophetic hue
    Lies on the radiant day,
 
 
  As mid the bloom and tenderness
    I catch that scarlet menace there,
  Like a gray sudden wintry tress
    Set in a child's bright hair.
 
 
  The birds sing on, the roses blow,
    But like a discord heard but now,
  A stain upon the petal's snow
    Is that one sad, red bough.
 

"HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT MAKE HASTE."

 
  The aloes grow upon the sand,
    The aloes thirst with parching heat;
  Year after year they waiting stand,
    Lonely and calm, and front the beat
    Of desert winds; and still a sweet
  And subtle voice thrills all their veins:
  "Great patience wins; it still remains,
  After a century of pains,
    To you to bloom and be complete."
 
 
  I grow upon a thorny waste;
    Hot noontide lies on all the way,
  And with its scorching breath makes haste
    Each freshening dawn to burn and slay,
    Yet patiently I bide and stay:
  Knowing the secret of my fate,
  The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait,
  Come when it will, or soon or late,
    A hundred years are but a day.
 

MY LITTLE GHOST

 
  I know where it lurks and hides,
    In the midst of the busy house,
    In the midst of the children's glee,
  All clay its shadow bides:
    Nobody knows but me.
 
 
  On a closet-shelf it dwells,
    In the darkest corner of all,
    Mid rolls of woollen and fur,
  And faint, forgotten smells
    Of last year's lavender.
 
 
  That a ghost has its dwelling there
    Nobody else would guess,—
    "Only a baby's shoe,
  A curl of golden hair,"
    You would say, "a toy or two,—
 
 
  "A broken doll, whose lips
    And cheeks of waxen bloom
    Show dents of fingers small,—
  Little, fair finger-tips,—
    A worn sash,—that is all."
 
 
  Little to see or to guess;
    But whenever I open the door,
    There, faithful to its post,
  With its eyes' sad tenderness,
    I see my little ghost.
 
 
  And I hasten to shut the door,
    I shut it tight and fast,
    Lest the sweet, sad thing get free,
  Lest it flit beside on the floor,
    And sadden the day for me,
 
 
  Lest between me and the sun,
    And between me and the heavens,
    And the laugh in the children's eyes,
  The shadowy feet should run,
    The faint gold curls arise
 
 
  Like a gleam of moonlight pale,
    And all the warmth and the light
    Should die from the summer day,
  And the laughter turn to wail,
    And I should forget to pray.
 
 
  So I keep the door shut fast,
    And my little ghost shut in,
    And whenever I cross the hall
  I shiver and hurry past;
    But I love it best of all.
 

CHRISTMAS

 
  How did they keep his birthday then,
    The little fair Christ, so long ago?
  O, many there were to be housed and fed,
  And there was no place in the inn, they said,
    So into the manger the Christ must go,
  To lodge with the cattle and not with men.
 
 
  The ox and the ass they munched their hay
    They munched and they slumbered, wondering not,
  And out in the midnight cold and blue
  The shepherds slept, and the sheep slept too,
    Till the angels' song and the bright star ray
  Guided the wise men to the spot.
 
 
  But only the wise men knelt and praised,
    And only the shepherds came to see,
  And the rest of the world cared not at all
  For the little Christ in the oxen's stall;
    And we are angry and amazed
  That such a dull, hard thing should be!
 
 
  How do we keep his birthday now?
    We ring the bells and we raise the strain,
  We hang up garland, everywhere
  And bid the tapers, twinkle fair,
    And feast and frolic—and then we go
  Back to the Mine old lives again.
 
 
  Are we so better, then, than they
    Who failed the new-born Christ to see?
  To them a helpless babe,—to us
  He shines a Saviour glorious,
    Our Lord, our Friend, our All—yet we
  Are half asleep this Christmas day.
 

BENEDICAM DOMINO

 
  Thank God for life: life is not sweet always.
  Hands may he heavy-laden, hearts care full,
  Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days,
  And dreams divine end in awakenings dull.
  Still it is life, anil life is cause for praise.
  This ache, this restlessness, this quickening sting,
  Prove me no torpid and inanimate thing,
  Prove me of Him who is of life the Spring.
  I am alive!—and that is beautiful.
 
 
  Thank God for Love: though Love may hurt and wound
  Though set with sharpest thorns its rose may be,
  Roses are not of winter, all attuned
  Must be the earth, full of soft stir, and free
  And warm ere dawns the rose upon its tree.
  Fresh currents through my frozen pulses run;
  My heart has tasted summer, tasted sun,
  And I can thank Thee, Lord, although not one
  Of all the many roses blooms for me.