Kitabı oku: «The Rainbow and the Rose», sayfa 3

IV

"OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH."

  In answer to those who have said that English Poets give no personal love to their country.

 
  ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations,
  Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong,
  Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?
  Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?
  O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden,
  Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring,
  Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing,
  What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing?
  Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises,
  What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast?
  Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies?
  Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest?
  Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow,
  Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere,
  Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow?
  Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?
 
 
  Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
  Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
  Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
  Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.
  Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
  Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
  Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
  Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?
 
 
  Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
  Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
  Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
  But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
  Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
  Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
  Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
  Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?
  Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain
  Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies,
  Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain,
  England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes!
  Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor
  Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store;
  Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better,
  None, by the God that made you, ever can love you more!
 

SUMMER SONG

 
  THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow
  Where the flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray,
  There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow,
  There are pale dog-roses by the white highway;
  And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay,
  With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold,
  And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day,
  To laugh before the year grows old!
 
 
  There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river
  Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night,
  Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow shiver,
  Shiver in the night wind that turns them white.
  And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light,
  Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold.
  And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night,
  To be young before the heart grows old!
 

THE LOWER ROOM

 
  How soft the lamplight falls
  On pictures, books,
  And pleasant coloured walls
  And curtains drawn!
  How happily one looks
  On glowing flame and ember;
  Ah, why should one remember
  Dew and dawn!
 
 
  Here age and wisdom sit
  Calm and discreet,
  Life and the fruit of it
  Are here in truth,
  Whose gathering once was sweet—
  Wisdom and age! Well met!
  Yet neither can forget
  Folly and youth!
 

SONG

 
  THE summer down the garden walks
  Swept in her garments bright;
  She touched the pale still lily stalks
  And crowned them with delight;
  She breathed upon the rose's head
  And filled its heart with fire,
  And with a golden carpet spread
  The path of my desire.
 
 
  The larkspurs stood like sentinels
  To greet her as she came,
  Soft rang the Canterbury bells
  The music of her name.
  She passed across the happy land
  Where all dear dreams flower free;
  She took my true love by the hand
  And led her out to me.
 

MAY SONG

 
  BIRDS in the green of my garden
  Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
  Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
  And so to your singing again!
  Birds in my blossoming orchard,
  Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
  Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
  The May trees grow white in the park!
 
 
  Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
  Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
  Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground—
  The rain on green leaves dripping down!
  Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
  Rich with the promise of June,
  Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
  Love, like a bird, sings in tune!
 

V

TO IRIS

 
  IF I might build a palace, fair
  With every joy of soul and sense,
  And set my heart as sentry there
  To guard your happy innocence—
  If I might plant a hedge so strong
  No creeping sorrow could writhe through,
  And find my whole life not too long
  To give, to make your hedge for you—
 
 
  If I could teach the wandering air
  To bring no sounds that were not sweet,
  Could teach the earth that only fair
  Untrodden flower deserved your feet:
  Would I not tear the secret scroll
  Where all your griefs lie closely curled,
  And give your little hand control
  Of all the joys of all the world?
 
 
  But ah! I have no skill to raise
  The palace, teach the hedge to grow;
  The common airs blow through your days,
  By common ways your dear feet go.
  And you must twine of common flowers
  The wreath that happy women wear,
  And bear in desolate darkened hours
  The common griefs that all men bear.
 
 
  The pinions of my love I fold
  Your little shoulders close about:
  Ah—could my love keep out the cold
  And shut the creeping sorrows out!
  Rough paths will tire your darling feet,
  Gray skies will weep your tears above,
  While round you still, in torment, beat
  The impotent wings of mother-love.
 

TO A CHILD

(Rosamund.)

 
  The fairies have been busy while you slept;
  They have been laughing where the sad rain wept,
  They have taught Beauty to the ignorant flowers,
  Set tasks of hope to weary wind-torn bowers,
  And heard the lessons learned in school-rooms cold
  By seedling snapdragon and marigold.
  At dawn, while still you slept, I grew aware
  How good the fairies are, how many and fair.
 
 
  The fairy whose delightful gown is red
  Across a corner of our garden sped,
  And, where her flying raiment fluttered past,
  Its roseate reflection still is cast:
  Red poppies by the rhododendron's side,
  Paeonies gorgeous in their summer pride,
  And red may-bushes by the old red wall
  Shower down their crimson petals over all.
 
 
  Then she whose gown is gold, and gold her hair,
  Swept down the golden steep straight sunbeam-stair,
  She lit the tulip-lamps, she lit the torch
  Of hollyhock beside the cottage porch.
  She dressed the honeysuckle in fringe of gold,
  She gave the king-cups fairy wealth to hold,
  She kissed St. John's wort till it opened wide,
  She set the yarrow by the river side.
 
 
  Then came the lady all whose robes are white:
  She made the pale buds blossom in delight,
  Set silver stars upon the jasmine's hair,
  And gave the stream white lily-buds to wear.
  She painted lilies white, and pearl-white phlox,
  White poppies, passion-flowers and gray-leaved stocks.
  Her pure kind touch redeemed the most forlorn,
  And even the vile petunia smiled, new-born.
 
 
  The dearest fairy of all—green is her gown—
  She kissed the plane-trees in the tiresome town,
  She smoothed the pastures and the lawn's pale sheen,
  She decked the boughs with hangings fresh and green,
  She showed each flower the one and only way
  Its beauty of shape and colour to display;
  She taught the world to be a Paradise
  Of changing leaf and blade, for tired eyes.
 
 
  Then, one and all, they came where you were laid
  In your strait bed, my little lovely maid;
  The red-robed fairy kissed your lips, your face,
  The white-robed made your heart her dwelling-place.
  Into your eyes the green robed fairy smiled;
  The golden fairy touched your dreams, my child,
  And one, not named, but mightiest, made my Dear
  The innermost rose of the re-flowered year.
  May, 1898.
 

BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD. (IRIS.)

 
  DADDY dear, I'm only four
  And I'd rather not be more:
  Four's the nicest age to be—
  Two and two, or one and three.
 
 
  All I love is two and two,
  Mother, Fabian, Paul and you;
  All you love is one and three,
  Mother, Fabian, Paul and me.
 
 
  Give your little girl a kiss
  Because she learned and told you this.
 

TO ROSAMUND

 
  AND it is fair and very fair
  This maze of blossom and sweet air,
  This drift of orchard snows,
  This royal promise of the rose
  Wherein your young eyes see
  Such buds of scented joys to be.
  A gay green garden, softly fanned
  By the blythe breeze that blows
  To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land.
 
 
  But I—beyond the budding screen
  Of green and red and white and green,
  Behind the radiant show
  Of things that cling and grow and glow
  I see the plains where lie
  The hopes of days gone by:
  Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed
  By winds that coldly blow
  From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost.
 

FROM THE TUSCAN

 
  WHEN in the west the red sun sank in glory,
  The cypress trees stood up like gold, fine gold;
  The mother told her little child the story
  Of the gold trees the heavenly gardens hold.
 
 
  In golden dreams the child sees golden rivers,
  Gold trees, gold blossoms, golden boughs and leaves,
  Without, the cypress in the night wind shivers,
  Weeps with the rain and with the darkness grieves.
 

MOTHER SONG

From the Portuguese.

 
  HEAVY my heart is, heavy to carry,
  Full of soft foldings, of downy enwrapments—
  And the outer fold of all is love,
  And the next soft fold is love,
  And the next, finer and softer, is love again;
  And were they unwound before the eyes
  More folds and more folds and more folds would unroll
  Of love—always love,
  And, quite at the last,
  Deep in the nest, in the soft-packed nest,
  One last fold, turned back, would disclose
  You, little heart of my heart,
  Laid there so warm, so soft, so soft,
  Not knowing where you lie, nor how softly,
  Nor why your nest is so soft,
  Nor how your nest is so warm.
  You, little heart of my heart,
  You lie in my heart,
  Warm, safe and soft as this body of yours,
  This dear kissed body of yours that lies
  Here in my arms and sucks the strength from my breast,
  The strength you will break my heart with one of these days.