  WHEN THE WIND COMES UP
THE HILL Oh! the wind among the trees, How it stirs their wood to song! Little whispered melodies, All the winding road along. Was there ever such a sound, Breaking through a noontide still, As this tune the trees have found, When the wind comes up the hill! PEACE
(Sidmouth) Evening upon the calm sweet sea, A little wind asleep, Dim sails that drift as tranquilly As dreams in slumber deep. A seagull on the water’s breast Folds up his wings of white; As peaceful and as much at rest As is my heart to-night. LIME-TREES Lime-trees meeting overhead, Many lovers cold and dead, Kissed and loved, and kissed again, In the sunshine and the rain, Underneath your scented green. When we two, in Earth’s kind breast, Fall a-sleeping with the rest, Then to us, who loved our fill, Sweet to know you whisper still, Happy leaves—of all that’s been! A LITTLE SONG A ripple and a rush, and a mating thrush, And, oh! the month must be at May. A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee, And, oh! it’s such a perfect day! A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile, And, oh! the world is very young. Come winter, storm or cold, Love never can grow old, And oh! my little song is sung! THE SONG OF THE WATCHER At the early break of day, When the river mists grow pink, And the moon begins to sink, Down along the southern way; When the gold mimosa tree Rustles low and pleasantly, To the little singing bird That within her heart has stirred; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made dawn lovely, By creating you for me! When the stately night steps down, Silent footed, from the west, With the moon against her breast Folded in her cloudy gown; When the endless, sighing sea Stretches to eternity, Yearning for the pale-eyed star, Long beloved, and yet so far; I, the watcher at the window, Thank the gods who made night lovely, By creating you for me! BY THE RIVER Through the rustling river grasses Warm and sweet the young wind passes, Blowing shyly soft caresses To their dewy emerald tresses. All along the silver sands Little ripples joining hands, Dance a quaint fantastic measure, Making liquid sounds of pleasure. While away beyond the weir Calls the cuckoo loud and clear, Something mystic and remote, Ringing in his fairy note. How I wish that I were small, Swinging on the rushes tall, Just a humble happy thing, Born to live a while in Spring! THE ROAD TO COLLA The blossoms of a Judas tree Deep pink against an azure sea, A silver moth on thoughtless wing, A hidden bird that lights to sing, A little cloud that wanders by, Across the endless field of sky. A city in the far away, Upon the hills beyond the bay, And over all, the sun divine, Pouring his stream of burning wine Like nectar strong with youth and mirth, Into this goblet of the earth! PRAYER If I should pray, my prayer would be For gratitude unlimited: For gratitude so vast and deep, That it would move my soul to weep Great tears, and all the words I said To be as organ notes sublime, Full-throated flowing words of rhyme, Whose like no mortal eye hath read. Then would I kneel before the God Whose matchless genius made the earth; The Poet-God, who sows the hours With all the scented hosts of flowers, Who gives the little winds their birth, Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might To shake the very stars at night, And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth. Whose mind is fragrant as a grove Of cedar trees in summer rain, Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up, And poured within the brimming cup They offered to the world in vain. Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote Into their music note by note, Immortal, haunting, strain on strain. Whose image is revealed to all Great lovers in the loved one’s face, Whose passion mystical and deep Kindles the holy fires that sleep Within the heart’s most secret place. Whose breath is incense on the shrine Of earthly love, burning divine And changeless, through all time and space! DAWN It is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir Within the womb of possibility. A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea, Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower. The lights still glimmer all along the quay: A
c012"> High above a waveless sea, On the hills of long ago, There you lived awhile with me, And we loved—I know. For your hair I made a crown, Twined it with these hands of mine, Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown, From the happy vine. You were like some woodland thing, Fear and rapture in your eyes, Tender as a breath of Spring Blown from April skies. Then I called you, and you heard, To your lover’s arms you came: Ah! what was that magic word, Your forgotten name! COMPARISONS A field of scented clover That honey-bees hang over, A hazel-wood in Spring, Where thrush and robin sing. A stream that seaward flows, Rejoicing as it goes, A little tower where dwells The sound of happy bells. A morning fresh and blue, Flower-decked, and wet with dew, All these my love she minds me of— And other sweet things too. A FRAGMENT The clustering grapes of purple vine Are crushed to make the crimson wine. The poppies in the grasses deep Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep. The roses, when their glories bloom Are crushed to yield their soul’s perfume. And hearts, perchance of these the least, Are crushed for nectar at Love’s feast!
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