Читать книгу: «Tides», страница 4

WITH DAFFODILS

 
I send you daffodils, my dear,
For these are emperors of spring,
And in my heart you keep so clear
So delicate an empery,
That none but emperors could be
Ambassadors endowed to bring
My messages of honesty.
 
 
My mind makes faring to and fro,
Deft or bewildered, dark or kind,
That not the eye of God may know
Which motion is of true estate
And which a twisted runagate
Of all the farings of my mind,
And which has honesty for mate.
 
 
Only my hope for you is clean
Of scandal’s use, and though, may be,
Far rangers have my passions been, —
Since thus the word of Eden went, —
Yet of the springs of my content,
My very wells of honesty,
Are you the only firmament.
 

FOR A GUEST ROOM

 
All words are said,
And may it fall
That, crowning these,
You here shall find
A friendly bed,
A sheltering wall,
Your body’s ease,
A quiet mind.
 
 
May you forget
In happy sleep
The world that still
You hold as friend,
And may it yet
Be ours to keep
Your friendly will
To the world’s end.
 
 
For he is blest
Who, fixed to shun
All evil, when
The worst is known,
Counts, east and west,
When life is done,
His debts to men
In love alone.
 

ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS

 
To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book,
She who so comforted those Grasmere days
When song was at the flood, and thence I took
A larger note of fortitude and praise.
 
 
And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred,
And happy faith was in my heart again,
Because the virtue of a simple word
Was durable above the lives of men.
 
 
For reading there that quiet record made
Of skies and hills, domestic hours, and free
Traffic of friends, and song, and duty paid,
I touched the wings of immortality.
 

THE OLD WARRIOR

 
Sorrow has come to me,
Making the world to be
Of sunken cheek;
Faded my fields, and of
Names that were most to love,
I dare not speak.
 
 
Would that my soul were blind,
Since duty brings to mind
All that is done,
Saying, ‘How gladly you
Walked with your chosen few
Under my sun.’
 
 
I am an alien now;
Tell me, good stranger, how
Best may be borne
His grief who comes at night
To his own window-light
Friendless, forlorn.
 
 
No. I will pass. Again
Of my delight in men
Nothing shall tell.
Now is my travel where
My lost companions fare;
Onward. Farewell.
 

THE GUEST

 
Sometimes I feel that death is very near,
And, with half-lifted hand,
Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,
But walk his friendly land,
Comrade with him, and wise
As peace is wise.
 
 
Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves
For dear imperilled loves,
I somehow know
That death is friendly so,
A comfortable spirit; one who takes
Long thought for all our sakes.
 
 
I wonder; will he come that friendly way,
That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?
And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,
My soul be torn from me,
Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,
Slip quietly to sea?