The Ballad of the Quest Part 7

Yet--dear grey s.h.i.+ps--the spirits of the fearless, Lost many a day beneath the deepest blue,-- The souls of mighty sailors, bright and tearless, Arose from out the sea to sail with you.

And not alone you kept your banners flying,-- And not alone you met each bitter day,-- For dauntless ones,--unseen, and death-defying, Swept outward with you on your darkened way!

JUNE

Now by every meadow-side the b.u.t.tercups blow-- (O June, you are spendthrift of your gold!) Green are the uplands where the little lambs go, Green and glad the forests that are old.

Once again the summer weaves on her magic loom, Cloth of clover,--fairy web of wheat;-- Only Mary's alabaster box of perfume Ever made the pa.s.sing wind more sweet.

Even through the city where the dusty roads run, Blue runs now the river to the sea.

Tender is the twilight when the long day is done,-- Infinite the stars' tranquillity.

Not forever are the rains or the winter snows, All these past--nor shall be overlong,-- And with every lovely June cometh the rose, The sweet blue dusk,--a night-bird's wonder-song!

OCTOBER GOES

October goes, and its colors pa.s.s: At dawn there's a silver film on the gra.s.s, And the reeds are s.h.i.+ning as pipes of gla.s.s,

But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold, Sailed the hunter's moon,--a galleon of gold!

And now in the very depth of the night It is just a little flame, blown and white, Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.

But the steadfast trees at the forest rim, And the pines in places scented and dim, Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.

And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?"

And the yellow leaves that go rustling by, Say only, "Remember," and sigh,--and sigh.

THE LILY-POND

On this little pool where the sun-beams lie, This tawny gold ring where the shadows die G.o.d doth enamel the blue of His sky.

Through the scented dark when the night wind sighs He mirrors His stars where the ripples rise Till they glitter like prisoned fireflies.

'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl, And here the lilies uplift and unfurl Their golden-lined goblets of carven pearl.

When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink, Through the silver sedge at the pool's low brink The little lone field-mouse creeps down to drink.

And creatures to whom only G.o.d is kind, The loveless small things, the slow, and the blind, Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find.

Oh, restless the river, restless the sea, Where the great s.h.i.+ps go and the dead men be; The Lily-pond giveth but peace to me.