I send you daffodils, my dear, For these are emperors of spring, And in my heart you keep so clear So delicate an empery, That none but emperors could be Ambassadors endowed to bring My messages of honesty.
My mind makes faring to and fro, Deft or bewildered, dark or kind, That not the eye of God may know Which motion is of true estate And which a twisted runagate Of all the farings of my mind, And which has honesty for mate.
Only my hope for you is clean Of scandal’s use, and though, may be, Far rangers have my passions been, — Since thus the word of Eden went, — Yet of the springs of my content, My very wells of honesty, Are you the only firmament.
FOR A GUEST ROOM
All words are said, And may it fall That, crowning these, You here shall find A friendly bed, A sheltering wall, Your body’s ease, A quiet mind.
May you forget In happy sleep The world that still You hold as friend, And may it yet Be ours to keep Your friendly will To the world’s end.
For he is blest Who, fixed to shun All evil, when The worst is known, Counts, east and west, When life is done, His debts to men In love alone.
ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS
To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book, She who so comforted those Grasmere days When song was at the flood, and thence I took A larger note of fortitude and praise.
And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred, And happy faith was in my heart again, Because the virtue of a simple word Was durable above the lives of men.
For reading there that quiet record made Of skies and hills, domestic hours, and free Traffic of friends, and song, and duty paid, I touched the wings of immortality.
THE OLD WARRIOR
Sorrow has come to me, Making the world to be Of sunken cheek; Faded my fields, and of Names that were most to love, I dare not speak.
Would that my soul were blind, Since duty brings to mind All that is done, Saying, ‘How gladly you Walked with your chosen few Under my sun.’
I am an alien now; Tell me, good stranger, how Best may be borne His grief who comes at night To his own window-light Friendless, forlorn.
No. I will pass. Again Of my delight in men Nothing shall tell. Now is my travel where My lost companions fare; Onward. Farewell.
THE GUEST
Sometimes I feel that death is very near, And, with half-lifted hand, Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear, But walk his friendly land, Comrade with him, and wise As peace is wise.
Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves For dear imperilled loves, I somehow know That death is friendly so, A comfortable spirit; one who takes Long thought for all our sakes.
I wonder; will he come that friendly way, That guest, or roughly in the appointed day? And will, when the last drops of life are spilt, My soul be torn from me, Or, like a ship truly and trimly built, Slip quietly to sea?