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THE WINNOWERS Betwixt two billows of the downs The little hamlet lies, And nothing sees but the bald crowns Of the hills, and the blue skies. Clustering beneath the long descent And grey slopes of the wold, The red roofs nestle, oversprent With lichen yellow as gold. We found it in the mid-day sun Basking, what time of year The thrush his singing has begun, Ere the first leaves appear. High from his load a woodman pitched His faggots on the stack: Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitched Sweet hay from crib and rack: And from the barn hard by was borne A steady muffled din, By which we knew that threshÈd corn Was winnowing, and went in. The sunbeams on the motey air Streamed through the open door, And on the brown arms moving bare, And the grain upon the floor. One turns the crank, one stoops to feed The hopper, lest it lack, One in the bushel scoops the seed, One stands to hold the sack. We watched the good grain rattle down, And the awns fly in the draught; To see us both so pensive grown The honest labourers laughed: Merry they were, because the wheat Was clean and plump and good, Pleasant to hand and eye, and meet For market and for food. It chanced we from the city were, And had not gat us free In spirit from the store and stir Of its immensity: But here we found ourselves again. Where humble harvests bring After much toil but little grain, ’Tis merry winnowing.
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THE AFFLICTION OF RICHARD Love not too much. But how, When thou hast made me such, And dost thy gifts bestow, How can I love too much? Though I must fear to lose, And drown my joy in care, With all its thorns I choose The path of love and prayer. Though thou, I know not why, Didst kill my childish trust, That breach with toil did I Repair, because I must: And spite of frighting schemes, With which the fiends of Hell Blaspheme thee in my dreams, So far I have hoped well. But what the heavenly key, What marvel in me wrought Shall quite exculpate thee, I have no shadow of thought. What am I that complain? The love, from which began My question sad and vain, Justifies thee to man.
3 Since to be loved endures, To love is wise: Earth hath no good but yours, Brave, joyful eyes: Earth hath no sin but thine, Dull eye of scorn: O’er thee the sun doth pine And angels mourn.
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THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER Now thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams Of the September sun: his golden gleams On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers; Where tomtits, hanging from the drooping heads Of giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds; And in the feathery aster bees on wing Seize and set free the honied flowers, Till thousand stars leap with their visiting: While ever across the path mazily flit, Unpiloted in the sun, The dreamy butterflies With dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms, White, black and crimson stripes, and peacock eyes, Or on chance flowers sit, With idle effort plundering one by one The nectaries of deepest-throated blooms. With gentle flaws the western breeze Into the garden saileth, Scarce here and there stirring the single trees, For his sharpness he vaileth: So long a comrade of the bearded corn, Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are borne, O’er dewy lawns he turns to stray, As mindful of the kisses and soft play Wherewith he enamoured the light-hearted May, Ere he deserted her; Lover of fragrance, and too late repents; Nor more of heavy hyacinth now may drink, Nor spicy pink, Nor summer’s rose, nor garnered lavender, But the few lingering scents Of streakÈd pea, and gillyflower, and stocks Of courtly purple, and aromatic phlox. And at all times to hear are drowsy tones Of dizzy flies, and humming drones, With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky, Or the wild cry Of thirsty rooks, that scour ascare The distant blue, to watering as they fare With creaking pinions, or—on business bent, If aught their ancient polity displease,— Come gathering to their colony, and there Settling in ragged parliament, Some stormy council hold in the high trees.
5 So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change. But I can tell—let truth be told— That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be. And in the end ’twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all. His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.
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LARKS What voice of gladness, hark! In heaven is ringing? From the sad fields the lark Is upward winging. High through the mournful mist that blots our day Their songs betray them soaring in the grey. See them! Nay, they In sunlight swim; above the furthest stain Of cloud attain; their hearts in music rain Upon the plain. Sweet birds, far out of sight Your songs of pleasure Dome us with joy as bright As heaven’s best azure.
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THE PALM WILLOW See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvÈd fields, The birds have stayed to sing; No covert yet their fairy harbour yields. When cometh Spring? Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unborn Are quenched each morn. The lenten lilies, through the frost that push, Their yellow heads withhold: The woodland willow stands a lonely bush Of nebulous gold; There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attire Of frightened fire.
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ASIAN BIRDS In this May-month, by grace of heaven, things shoot apace. The waiting multitude of fair boughs in the wood, How few days have arrayed their beauty in green shade What have I seen or heard? it was the yellow bird Sang in the tree: he flew a flame against the blue; Upward he flashed. Again, hark! ’tis his heavenly strain. Another! Hush! Behold, many, like boats of gold, From waving branch to branch their airy bodies launch. What music is like this, where each note is a kiss? The golden willows lift their boughs the sun to sift: Their sprays they droop to screen the sky with veils of green, A floating cage of song, where feathered lovers throng. How the delicious notes come bubbling from their throats! Full and sweet how they are shed like round pearls from a thread! The motions of their flight are wishes of delight. Hearing their song I trace the secret of their grace. Ah, could I this fair time so fashion into rhyme, The poem that I sing would be the voice of spring.
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JANUARY Cold is the winter day, misty and dark: The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent; And patches of thin snow outlying, mark The landscape with a drear disfigurement. The trees their mournful branches lift aloft: The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust, With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft; The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust. No birds sing, but the starling chaps his bill And chatters mockingly; the newborn lambs Within their strawbuilt fold beneath the hill Answer with plaintive cry their bleating dams. Their voices melt in welcome dreams of spring, Green grass and leafy trees and sunny skies: My fancy decks the woods, the thrushes sing, Meadows are gay, bees hum and scents arise. And God the Maker doth my heart grow bold To praise for wintry works not understood, Who all the worlds and ages doth behold, Evil and good as one, and all as good.
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A ROBIN Flame-throated robin on the topmost bough Of the leafless oak, what singest thou? Hark! he telleth how— ’Spring is coming now; Spring is coming now. Now ruddy are the elm-tops against the blue sky, The pale larch donneth her jewelry; Red fir and black fir sigh, And I am lamenting the year gone by. The bushes where I nested are all cut down, They are felling the tall trees one by one, And my mate is dead and gone, In the winter she died and left me lone. She lay in the thicket where I fear to go; For when the March-winds after the snow The leaves away did blow, She was not there, and my heart is woe: And sad is my song, when I begin to sing, As I sit in the sunshine this merry spring: Like a withered leaf I cling To the white oak-bough, while the wood doth ring. Spring is coming now, the sun again is gay; Each day like a last spring’s happy day.’— Thus sang he; then from his spray He saw me listening and flew away.
11 I never shall love the snow again Since Maurice died: With corniced drift it blocked the lane, And sheeted in a desolate plain The country side. The trees with silvery rime bedight Their branches bare. By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air. We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found. The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead. We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow. Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come. We said, In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home. They brought him home; ’twas two days late For Christmas day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay. And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow.
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NIGHTINGALES Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.
13 A song of my heart, as the sun peered o’er the sea, Was born at morning to me: And out of my treasure-house it chose A melody, that arose Of all fair sounds that I love, remembered together In one; and I knew not whether From waves of rustling wheat it was, Recoveringly that pass: Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime: Or a descant in pairing time Of warbling birds: or watery bells Of rivulets in the hills: Or whether on blazing downs a high lark’s hymn Alone in the azure dim: Or a sough of pines, when the midnight wold Is solitary and cold: Or a lapping river-ripple all day chiding The bow of my wherry gliding Down Thames, between his flowery shores Re-echoing to the oars: Or anthem notes, wherever in archÈd quires The unheeded music twires, And, centuries by, to the stony shade Flies following and to fade: Or a homely prattle of children’s voices gay ’Mong garden joys at play: Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks: Or memory of my books, Which hold the words that poets in many a tongue To the irksome world have sung: Or the voice, my happy lover, of thee Now separated from me. A ruby of fire in the burning sleep of my brain Long hid my thought had lain, Forgotten dreams of a thousand days Ingathering to its rays, The light of life in darkness tempering long; Till now a perfect song, A jewel of jewels it leapt above To the coronal of my love.
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FOUNDER’S DAY. A SECULAR ODE
ON THE NINTH JUBILEE OF
ETON COLLEGE Christ and his Mother, heavenly maid, Mary, in whose fair name was laid Eton’s corner, bless our youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth! O ye, ’neath breezy skies of June, By silver Thames’s lulling tune, In shade of willow or oak, who try The golden gates of poesy; Or on the tabled sward all day Match your strength in England’s play, Scholars of Henry, giving grace To toil and force in game or race; Exceed the prayer and keep the fame Of him, the sorrowful king, who came Here in his realm a realm to found, Where he might stand for ever crowned. Or whether with naked bodies flashing Ye plunge in the lashing weir; or dashing The oars of cedar skiffs, ye strain Round the rushes and home again;— Or what pursuit soe’er it be That makes your mingled presence free, When by the schoolgate ’neath the limes Ye muster waiting the lazy chimes; May Peace, that conquereth sin and death, Temper for you her sword of faith; Crown with honour the loving eyes, And touch with mirth the mouth of the wise. Here is eternal spring: for you The very stars of heaven are new; And aged Fame again is born, Fresh as a peeping flower of morn. For you shall Shakespeare’s scene unroll, Mozart shall steal your ravished soul, Homer his bardic hymn rehearse, Virgil recite his maiden verse. Now learn, love, have, do, be the best; Each in one thing excel the rest: Strive; and hold fast this truth of heaven— To him that hath shall more be given. Slow on your dial the shadows creep, So many hours for food and sleep, So many hours till study tire, So many hours for heart’s desire. These suns and moons shall memory save, Mirrors bright for her magic cave; Wherein may steadfast eyes behold A self that groweth never old. O in such prime enjoy your lot, And when ye leave regret it not; With wishing gifts in festal state Pass ye the angel-sworded gate.
Then to the world let shine your light, Children in play be lions in fight, And match with red immortal deeds The victory that made ring the meads: Or by firm wisdom save your land From giddy head and grasping hand: Improve the best; so shall your sons Better what ye have bettered once. Send them here to the court of grace Bearing your name to fill your place: Ye in their time shall live again The happy dream of Henry’s reign: And on his day your steps be bent Where, saint and king, crowned with content, He biddeth a prayer to bless his youth With truth, and purity, mother of truth.
15 The north wind came up yesternight With the new year’s full moon, And rising as she gained her height, Grew to a tempest soon. Yet found he not on heaven’s face A task of cloud to clear; There was no speck that he might chase Off the blue hemisphere, Nor vapour from the land to drive: The frost-bound country held Nought motionable or alive, That ’gainst his wrath rebelled. There scarce was hanging in the wood A shrivelled leaf to reave; No bud had burst its swathing hood That he could rend or grieve: Only the tall tree-skeletons, Where they were shadowed all, Wavered a little on the stones, And on the white church-wall. —Like as an artist in his mood, Who reckons all as nought, So he may quickly paint his nude, Unutterable thought: So Nature in a frenzied hour By day or night will show Dim indications of the power, That doometh man to woe. Ah, many have my visions been, And some I know full well: I would that all that I have seen Were fit for speech to tell.— And by the churchyard as I came, It seemed my spirit passed Into a land that hath no name, Grey, melancholy and vast; Where nothing comes: but Memory, The widowed queen of Death, Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye All slumber banisheth. Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes That sickly, staring shore, Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore. And ghosts of cities long decayed, And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate. Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Nor the pale night of day, Since the old king with scorpion sting Hath done himself away. The morn was calm; the wind’s last breath Had fal’n: in solemn hush The golden moon went down beneath The dawning’s crimson flush.
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NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire; The lime hath stripped to the cold, And standeth naked above her yellow attire: The larch thinneth her spire To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright In the forest of flame, and wave aloft To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft. But swiftly in shuddering gloom the splendours fail, As the harrying North-wind beareth A cloud of skirmishing hail The grievÈd woodland to smite: In a hurricane through the trees he teareth, Raking the boughs and the leaves rending, And whistleth to the descending Blows of his icy flail. Gold and snow he mixeth in spite, And whirleth afar; as away on his winnowing flight He passeth, and all again for awhile is bright.
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FIRST SPRING MORNING A CHILD’S POEM Look! Look! the spring is come: O feel the gentle air, That wanders thro’ the boughs to burst The thick buds everywhere! The birds are glad to see The high unclouded sun: Winter is fled away, they sing, The gay time is begun. Adown the meadows green Let us go dance and play, And look for violets in the lane, And ramble far away To gather primroses, That in the woodland grow, And hunt for oxlips, or if yet The blades of bluebells show: There the old woodman gruff Hath half the coppice cut, And weaves the hurdles all day long Beside his willow hut. We’ll steal on him, and then Startle him, all with glee Singing our song of winter fled And summer soon to be.
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A VILLAGER There was no lad handsomer than Willie was The day that he came to father’s house: There was none had an eye as soft an’ blue As Willie’s was, when he came to woo. To a labouring life though bound thee be, An’ I on my father’s ground live free, I’ll take thee, I said, for thy manly grace, Thy gentle voice an’ thy loving face. ’Tis forty years now since we were wed: We are ailing an’ grey needs not to be said: But Willie’s eye is as blue an’ soft As the day when he wooed me in father’s croft. Yet changed am I in body an’ mind, For Willie to me has ne’er been kind: Merrily drinking an’ singing with the men He ’ud come home late six nights o’ the se’n. An’ since the children be grown an’ gone He ’as shunned the house an’ left me lone: An’ less an’ less he brings me in Of the little he now has strength to win. The roof lets through the wind an’ the wet, An’ master won’t mend it with us in’s debt: An’ all looks every day more worn, An’ the best of my gowns be shabby an’ torn. No wonder if words hav’ a-grown to blows; That matters not while nobody knows: For love him I shall to the end of life, An’ be, as I swore, his own true wife. An’ when I am gone, he’ll turn, an’ see His folly an’ wrong, an’ be sorry for me: An’ come to me there in the land o’ bliss To give me the love I looked for in this.
19 Weep not to-day: why should this sadness be? Learn in present fears To o’ermaster those tears That unhindered conquer thee. Think on thy past valour, thy future praise: Up, sad heart, nor faint In ungracious complaint, Or a prayer for better days. Daily thy life shortens, the grave’s dark peace Draweth surely nigh, When good-night is good-bye; For the sleeping shall not cease. Fight, to be found fighting: nor far away Deem, nor strange thy doom. Like this sorrow ’twill come, And the day will be to-day.
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