Lays and legends Part 7

See what the summer has to show!

Come back, come back--we too are here."

I hear them calling, and I go.

But when once more my dripping oar Makes music on the dreaming air, I vainly look to stream and sh.o.r.e For those white arms that lured me there.

I listen to the singing weir, I hold my breath where thrushes are, But I can never, never hear The voice that called me from afar.

Only when spring grows fair next year, Even where sin and cities be, I know what voices I shall hear, And what white arms will beckon me.

ON THE MEDWAY.

I.

In summer evening, love, We glide by gra.s.sy meadows, Red sun is s.h.i.+ning, Day is declining, Peace is around, above.

The poplar folds on high Dark wings against the sky; Through dreaming shadows On we move, Silently, you and I.

And seaward still we row, By sedge and bulrush sliding, Breezes are sending Ripples unending Over the way we go.

Above the poplar tree The moon sails white and free, The boat goes gliding Swift or slow, But ever towards the sea.

II.

Dip, drip, in and out The rhythmic oars move slowly, Mist-kissed, round about The pale sky reddens wholly; Chill, still, through waxing light Mystical and tender, Morn, born of starlit night, Clothes herself with splendour.

Rose-glows in eastern sky, In the north faint flushes; Boat, float idly by Past the sedge and rushes!

Here, near the willow screen River-G.o.ds bathe gaily; White, bright against the green, Poets see them daily.

See, we, we alone Greet this fresh sun-waking, Too few, who hail day done, See it in the making!

Sad, glad, we two see Dawn the earth adorning, Sigh: "Why can no noon be Worth so gold a morning?"

III.

It was beside a wide, white weir, Where the foam dances in the sun, The b.u.t.terflies are fair this year, And o'er the weir there hovered one-- A far-off cottage curled its smoke Against a blue and perfect sky; There love triumphant laughed and woke, And we were silent--you and I.

Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands, And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright, Then fell the careful cobweb bands With which our will had bound his might; His royal presence made us still, Our will was water, matched with his; Like water-spray he broke our will And joined our lips in our first kiss.

IV.

Look out! The stars are s.h.i.+ning, The dew makes gray the meadow!

The jasmine stars are twining About your window bright; The glow-worms green are creeping On lawns all dressed in shadow, The roses all are sleeping-- Good-night, my heart, good-night!

The nightingale is singing Her song of ceaseless sorrow, The night's slow feet pa.s.s, bringing The day when I rejoice; Beloved beyond measure, Our bridal is to-morrow-- Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!

Oh, let me hear thy voice!

From cloudy confines sliding, The moon sails white and splendid; No roses now are hiding The glory of their grace; So, if my song thou hearest-- For thee begun and ended-- Light up the night, my dearest, And let me see thy face!

V.

O gleaming, gliding river, Where ash and alder lean, Where sighing sedges s.h.i.+ver By willows gray and green; Upon thy s.h.i.+fting shadows The yellow lily lies, And all along thy meadows Grow flowers of Paradise.

The red-roofed village sleeping, Soft sounds of farm and fold, The dappled shadows creeping, The sunset's rose and gold, Twilight of mist and glamour, Noontide of sunlit ease, How, 'mid life's sordid clamour, Our hearts will long for these!

Yet, since at heart we treasure These weirs and woods and fields, This crown of lovely leisure Which Kentish country yields-- These, these are ours for ever, Though dream-sweet days be done; Through all our dreams our river Will evermore flow on.

VI.

When all is over, lay me down Far from this dull and jaded town, Not in a churchyard's ordered bound, But in some wide green meadow-ground.

No stone upon me! Above all Let no cold railing's shadows fall Across my rest. Dead, let me be What no one may be living--free.

Let no one mourning garments wear, And if you love me, shed no tear; Don't weight me with a clay-built heap, But plant the daisies where I sleep.

There is a certain field I know, I met my dear there, years ago; Perhaps, if you should speak them fair, They'd let you lay her lover there.

Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear The ceaseless singing of the weir, The soft wind sighing thro' the gra.s.s, And hear the little children pa.s.s.

Or, if my ears were stopped with clay From all sweet sounds of night and day, I should at least (so lay me there) Sleep better there than anywhere!

THE BETROTHAL.

There is none anywhere So beautiful as she nor half so dear; My heart sings ever when she draweth near, Because she is so good and sweet and fair.

I may not be the one To break the cloistered stillness of her life, To teach her pa.s.sion and love and grief and strife, And lead her through the garden of the sun.

For I am sad and wise; I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies--none; Yet she has taught me that I am alone, And what men mean who talk of Paradise.

But, when her joybells ring, I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh And wish the roses did not have to die, And that the birds might never cease to sing.

A TRAGEDY.

I.

Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white.