Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 163

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rock'd apart, Toss'd on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see, That--as kindled by its own fervency-- The verge shrivell'd inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty wither'd years-- No flower, but twenty shrivell'd years.

'Was never such thing until this hour,'

Low to his heart he said; 'the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory.'

'Was never this thing to me,' he said, 'Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!'

And again to his own heart very low: 'O child! I love, for I love and know;

'But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue;

'Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give--this withering flower of dreams.

'O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you?

To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

'You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days: 'Twill pa.s.s with the pa.s.sing of my face.

But where I go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you.

'I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

'So frankly fickle, and fickly true!

For my brief life-while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me--this withering flower of dreams.'

The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flush'd sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang 'mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of wither'd dream In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, Shelter'd and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! I fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leaved rhyme All that the world of me esteems-- My wither'd dreams, my wither'd dreams.

Henry Cust. 1861-1917

876. Non n.o.bis

NOT unto us, O Lord, Not unto us the rapture of the day, The peace of night, or love's divine surprise, High heart, high speech, high deeds 'mid honouring eyes; For at Thy word All these are taken away.

Not unto us, O Lord: To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, The ache of life, the loneliness of death, The insufferable sufficiency of breath; And with Thy sword Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord: Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given-- My light and life and earth and sky be blasted-- But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted: Let h.e.l.l afford The pavement of her Heaven!

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861

877. Sheep and Lambs

ALL in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.s'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.s'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of G.o.d Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

Frances Bannerman.

878. An Upper Chamber

I CAME into the City and none knew me; None came forth, none shouted 'He is here!

Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me, All the way by which I drew anear-- Night my banner, and my herald Fear.

But I knew where one so long had waited In the low room at the stairway's height, Trembling lest my foot should be belated, Singing, sighing for the long hours' flight Towards the moment of our dear delight.

I came into the City when you hail'd me Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:-- Not one guessing what it was that fail'd me, While along the way as they adored Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord.

But through all the joy I knew--I only-- How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, Silent of its music, and how lonely!

Never, though you crown me with your gold, Shall I find that little chamber as of old!

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

879. Renouncement

I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the love that lurks in all delight-- The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height, And in the dearest pa.s.sage of a song.

Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long.

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away,-- With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

880. The Lady of the Lambs

SHE walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep.

Her dreams are innocent at night; The chastest stars may peep.

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.