Kitabı oku: «Robert F. Murray (Author of the Scarlet Gown): His Poems; with a Memoir», sayfa 4

LOVE’S PHANTOM

 
Whene’er I try to read a book,
Across the page your face will look,
And then I neither know nor care
What sense the printed words may bear.
 
 
At night when I would go to sleep,
Thinking of you, awake I keep,
And still repeat the words you said,
Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.
 
 
And when, with weariness oppressed,
I sink in spite of you to rest,
Your image, like a lovely sprite,
Haunts me in dreams through half the night.
 
 
I wake upon the autumn morn
To find the sunrise hardly born,
And in the sky a soft pale blue,
And in my heart your image true.
 
 
When out I walk to take the air,
Your image is for ever there,
Among the woods that lose their leaves,
Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.
 
 
By what enchantment shall be laid
This ghost, which does not make afraid,
But vexes with dim loveliness
And many a shadowy caress?
 
 
There is no other way I know
But unto you forthwith to go,
That I may look upon the maid
Whereof that other is the shade.
 
 
As the strong sun puts out the moon,
Whose borrowed rays are all his own,
So, in your living presence, dies
The phantom kindled at your eyes.
 
 
By this most blessed spell, each day
The vexing ghost awhile I lay.
Yet am I glad to know that when
I leave you it will rise again.
 

COME BACK TO ST. ANDREWS

 
Come back to St. Andrews!  Before you went away
You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay,
The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea
Come back to St. Andrews – St. Andrews and me.
 
 
Oh, it’s dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down,
And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red gown,
As I often saw you do, when I watched you going by
On the stormy days to College, from my window up on high.
 
 
I wander on the Lade Braes, where I used to walk with you,
And purple are the woods of Mount Melville, budding new,
But I cannot bear to look, for the tears keep coming so,
And the Spring has lost the freshness which it had a year ago.
 
 
Yet often I could fancy, where the pathway takes a turn,
I shall see you in a moment, coming round beside the burn,
Coming round beside the burn, with your swinging step and free,
And your face lit up with pleasure at the sudden sight of me.
 
 
Beyond the Rock and Spindle, where we watched the water clear
In the happy April sunshine, with a happy sound to hear,
There I sat this afternoon, but no hand was holding mine,
And the water sounded eerie, though the April sun did shine.
 
 
Oh, why should I complain of what I know was bound to be?
For you had your way to make, and you must not think of me.
But a woman’s heart is weak, and a woman’s joys are few —
There are times when I could die for a moment’s sight of you.
 
 
It may be you will come again, before my hair is grey
As the sea is in the twilight of a weary winter’s day.
When success is grown a burden, and your heart would fain be free,
Come back to St. Andrews – St. Andrews and me.
 

THE SOLITARY

 
I have been lonely all my days on earth,
   Living a life within my secret soul,
With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,
      Beyond the world’s control.
 
 
Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought
   To walk the paths where other mortals tread,
To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought,
      And eat the selfsame bread —
 
 
Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove
   To mould my life upon the common plan,
That I was furthest from all truth and love,
      And least a living man.
 
 
Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy,
   Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense;
No man could love me, for all men could see
      The hollow vain pretence.
 
 
Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air,
   Upon their easy road I tripped and fell,
And still I sickened of the wholesome fare
      On which they nourished well.
 
 
I was a stranger in that company,
   A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed,
And when they lifted up their songs of glee,
      My voice sad discord made.
 
 
Peace for mine own self I could never find,
   And still my presence marred the general peace,
And when I parted, leaving them behind,
      They felt, and I, release.
 
 
So will I follow now my spirit’s bent,
   Not scorning those who walk the beaten track,
Yet not despising mine own banishment,
      Nor often looking back.
 
 
Their way is best for them, but mine for me.
   And there is comfort for my lonely heart,
To think perhaps our journeys’ ends may be
      Not very far apart.
 

TO ALFRED TENNYSON – 1883

 
Familiar with thy melody,
   We go debating of its power,
   As churls, who hear it hour by hour,
Contemn the skylark’s minstrelsy —
 
 
As shepherds on a Highland lea
   Think lightly of the heather flower
   Which makes the moorland’s purple dower,
As far away as eye can see.
 
 
Let churl or shepherd change his sky,
   And labour in the city dark,
      Where there is neither air nor room —
How often will the exile sigh
   To hear again the unwearied lark,
      And see the heather’s lavish bloom!
 

ICHABOD

 
Gone is the glory from the hills,
   The autumn sunshine from the mere,
   Which mourns for the declining year
In all her tributary rills.
 
 
A sense of change obscurely chills
   The misty twilight atmosphere,
   In which familiar things appear
Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.
 
 
The twilight hour a month ago
   Was full of pleasant warmth and ease,
      The pearl of all the twenty-four.
Erelong the winter gales shall blow,
   Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze —
      And oh, that it were June once more!
 

AT A HIGH CEREMONY

 
Not the proudest damsel here
Looks so well as doth my dear.
All the borrowed light of dress
Outshining not her loveliness,
 
 
A loveliness not born of art,
But growing outwards from her heart,
Illuminating all her face,
And filling all her form with grace.
 
 
Said I, of dress the borrowed light
Could rival not her beauty bright?
Yet, looking round, ’tis truth to tell,
No damsel here is dressed so well.
 
 
Only in them the dress one sees,
Because more greatly it doth please
Than any other charm that’s theirs,
Than all their manners, all their airs.
 
 
But dress in her, although indeed
It perfect be, we do not heed,
Because the face, the form, the air
Are all so gentle and so rare.
 

THE WASTED DAY

 
Another day let slip!  Its hours have run,
   Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
   All run to waste.  A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!
 
 
Through my west window streams the setting sun.
   I kneel within my chamber, and confess
   My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,
In place of honest joy for work well done.
 
 
At noon I passed some labourers in a field.
   The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,
      Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.
And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,
   Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,
      Yet he was happier, though he did not know.
 

INDOLENCE

 
Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I
   Thy strong solicitations to withstand.
   Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,
Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.
 
 
How can I work, when that seductive sky
   Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland,
   And seems to half entreat and half command
My presence out of doors beneath its eye?
 
 
Will not the air be fresh, the water blue,
   The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore,
      Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers?
Good-bye, dull books!  Hot room, good-bye to you!
   And think it strange if I return before
      The sea grows purple in the evening hours.
 

DAWN SONG

 
I hear a twittering of birds,
   And now they burst in song.
How sweet, although it wants the words!
   It shall not want them long,
For I will set some to the note
Which bubbles from the thrush’s throat.
 
 
O jewelled night, that reign’st on high,
   Where is thy crescent moon?
Thy stars have faded from the sky,
   The sun is coming soon.
The summer night is passed away,
Sing welcome to the summer day.
 

CAIRNSMILL DEN – TUNE: ‘A ROVING’

 
As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,
With love o’erthrown, with love o’erthrown,
   And this is truth I tell,
As I, with hopeless love o’erthrown,
Was sadly walking all alone,
 
 
I met my love one morning
   In Cairnsmill Den.
One morning, one morning,
One blue and blowy morning,
I met my love one morning
   In Cairnsmill Den.
 
 
A dead bough broke within the wood
Within the wood, within the wood,
   And this is truth I tell.
A dead bough broke within the wood,
And I looked up, and there she stood.
 
 
I asked what was it brought her there,
What brought her there, what brought her there,
   And this is truth I tell.
I asked what was it brought her there.
Says she, ‘To pull the primrose fair.’
 
 
Says I, ‘Come, let me pull with you,
Along with you, along with you,’
   And this is truth I tell.
Says I, ‘Come let me pull with you,
For one is not so good as two.’
 
 
But when at noon we climbed the hill,
We climbed the hill, we climbed the hill,
   And this is truth I tell.
But when at noon we climbed the hill,
Her hands and mine were empty still.
 
 
And when we reached the top so high,
The top so high, the top so high,
   And this is truth I tell.
And when we reached the top so high
Says I, ‘I’ll kiss you, if I die!’
 
 
I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,
In Cairnsmill Den, in Cairnsmill Den,
   And this is truth I tell.
I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den,
And my love kissed me back again.
 
 
I met my love one morning
   In Cairnsmill Den.
One morning, one morning,
One blue and blowy morning,
I met my love one morning
   In Cairnsmill Den.
 

A LOST OPPORTUNITY

 
One dark, dark night – it was long ago,
   The air was heavy and still and warm —
It fell to me and a man I know,
   To see two girls to their father’s farm.
 
 
There was little seeing, that I recall:
   We seemed to grope in a cave profound.
They might have come by a painful fall,
   Had we not helped them over the ground.
 
 
The girls were sisters.  Both were fair,
   But mine was the fairer (so I say).
The dark soon severed us, pair from pair,
   And not long after we lost our way.
 
 
We wandered over the country-side,
   And we frightened most of the sheep about,
And I do not think that we greatly tried,
   Having lost our way, to find it out.
 
 
The night being fine, it was not worth while.
   We strayed through furrow and corn and grass
We met with many a fence and stile,
   And a quickset hedge, which we failed to pass.
 
 
At last we came on a road she knew;
   She said we were near her father’s place.
I heard the steps of the other two,
   And my heart stood still for a moment’s space.
 
 
Then I pleaded, ‘Give me a good-night kiss.’
   I have learned, but I did not know in time,
The fruits that hang on the tree of bliss
   Are not for cravens who will not climb.
 
 
We met all four by the farmyard gate,
   We parted laughing, with half a sigh,
And home we went, at a quicker rate,
   A shorter journey, my friend and I.
 
 
When we reached the house, it was late enough,
   And many impertinent things were said,
Of time and distance, and such dull stuff,
   But we said little, and went to bed.
 
 
We went to bed, but one at least
   Went not to sleep till the black turned grey,
And the sun rose up, and the light increased,
   And the birds awoke to a summer day.
 
 
And sometimes now, when the nights are mild,
   And the moon is away, and no stars shine,
I wander out, and I go half-wild,
   To think of the kiss which was not mine.
 
 
Let great minds laugh at a grief so small,
   Let small minds laugh at a fool so great.
Kind maidens, pity me, one and all.
   Shy youths, take warning by this my fate.
 

THE CAGED THRUSH

 
Alas for the bird who was born to sing!
They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing;
They have shut him up in a dingy street,
And they praise his singing and call it sweet.
But his heart and his song are saddened and filled
With the woods, and the nest he never will build,
And the wild young dawn coming into the tree,
And the mate that never his mate will be.
And day by day, when his notes are heard
They freshen the street – but alas for the bird
 

MIDNIGHT

 
The air is dark and fragrant
   With memories of a shower,
And sanctified with stillness
   By this most holy hour.
 
 
The leaves forget to whisper
   Of soft and secret things,
And every bird is silent,
   With folded eyes and wings.
 
 
O blessed hour of midnight,
   Of sleep and of release,
Thou yieldest to the toiler
   The wages of thy peace.
 
 
And I, who have not laboured,
   Nor borne the heat of noon,
Receive thy tranquil quiet —
   An undeservèd boon.
 
 
Yes, truly God is gracious,
   Who makes His sun to shine
Upon the good and evil,
   And idle lives like mine.
 
 
Upon the just and unjust
   He sends His rain to fall,
And gives this hour of blessing
   Freely alike to all.
 

WHERE’S THE USE

 
Oh, where’s the use of having gifts that can’t be turned to money?
   And where’s the use of singing, when there’s no one wants to hear?
It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey,
   But where’s the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?
 

A MAY-DAY MADRIGAL

 
The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,
Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light,
Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,
Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.
 
 
Because you are a princess, a princess of the land,
You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand,
A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes;
But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.
 
 
’Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring,
Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.
They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command,
Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.
 

SONG IS NOT DEAD

 
Song is not dead, although to-day
   Men tell us everything is said.
There yet is something left to say,
   Song is not dead.
 
 
While still the evening sky is red,
   While still the morning gold and grey,
While still the autumn leaves are shed,
 
 
While still the heart of youth is gay,
   And honour crowns the hoary head,
While men and women love and pray
   Song is not dead.
 

A SONG OF TRUCE

 
Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
 
 
While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
 
 
In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon’s mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
 
 
Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.
 

ONE TEAR

 
Last night, when at parting
   Awhile we did stand,
Suddenly starting,
   There fell on my hand
 
 
Something that burned it,
   Something that shone
In the moon as I turned it,
   And then it was gone.
 
 
One bright stray jewel —
   What made it stray?
Was I cold or cruel,
   At the close of day?
 
 
Oh, do not cry, lass!
   What is crying worth?
There is no lass like my lass
   In the whole wide earth.
 

A LOVER’S CONFESSION

 
When people tell me they have loved
   But once in youth,
I wonder, are they always moved
   To speak the truth?
 
 
Not that they wilfully deceive:
   They fondly cherish
A constancy which they would grieve
   To think might perish.
 
 
They cherish it until they think
   ’Twas always theirs.
So, if the truth they sometimes blink,
   ’Tis unawares.
 
 
Yet unawares, I must profess,
   They do deceive
Themselves, and those who questionless
   Their tale believe.
 
 
For I have loved, I freely own,
   A score of times,
And woven, out of love alone,
   A hundred rhymes.
 
 
Boys will be fickle.  Yet, when all
   Is said and done,
I was not one whom you could call
   A flirt – not one
 
 
Of those who into three or four
   Their hearts divide.
My queens came singly to the door,
   Not side by side.
 
 
Each, while she reigned, possessed alone
   My spirit loyal,
Then left an undisputed throne
   To one more royal,
 
 
To one more fair in form and face
   Sweeter and stronger,
Who filled the throne with truer grace,
   And filled it longer.
 
 
So, love by love, they came and passed,
   These loves of mine,
And each one brighter than the last
   Their lights did shine.
 
 
Until – but am I not too free,
   Most courteous stranger,
With secrets which belong to me?
   There is a danger.
 
 
Until, I say, the perfect love,
   The last, the best,
Like flame descending from above,
   Kindled my breast,
 
 
Kindled my breast like ardent flame,
   With quenchless glow.
I knew not love until it came,
   But now I know.
 
 
You smile.  The twenty loves before
   Were each in turn,
You say, the final flame that o’er
   My soul should burn.
 
 
Smile on, my friend.  I will not say
   You have no reason;
But if the love I feel to-day
   Depart, ’tis treason!
 
 
If this depart, not once again
   Will I on paper
Declare the loves that waste and wane,
   Like some poor taper.
 
 
No, no!  This flame, I cannot doubt,
   Despite your laughter,
Will burn till Death shall put it out,
   And may be after.