Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours … Let me sleep.
Riches won but mock the old, unable years; Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! … Let me sleep.
1872
III
O, gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it!
For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And Time will turn him never.
So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.
The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!
1874
IV—I. M. To R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE (1846-1899)
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
1875
V
I am the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms - Reaping, still reaping - All things with heedful hook Timely I gather.
I am the Sower. All the unbodied life Runs through my seed-sheet. Atom with atom wed, Each quickening the other, Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless Ceaselessly sowing, Life, incorruptible life, Flows from my seed-sheet.
Maker and breaker, I am the ebb and the flood, Here and Hereafter. Sped through the tangle and coil Of infinite nature, Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. Taker and giver, I am the womb and the grave, The Now and the Ever.
1875
VI
Praise the generous gods for giving In a world of wrath and strife With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life.
At whatever source we drink it, Art or love or faith or wine, In whatever terms we think it, It is common and divine.
Praise the high gods, for in giving This to man, and this alone, They have made his chance of living Shine the equal of their own.
1875
VII
Fill a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live.
Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.
1875
VIII
We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear.
We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear.
We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon. No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.
1875
IX—To W. R.
Madam Life’s a piece in bloom Death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room, He’s the ruffian on the stair.
You shall see her as a friend, You shall bilk him once and twice; But he’ll trap you in the end, And he’ll stick you for her price.
With his kneebones at your chest, And his knuckles in your throat, You would reason—plead—protest! Clutching at her petticoat;
But she’s heard it all before, Well she knows you’ve had your fun, Gingerly she gains the door, And your little job is done.
1877
X
The sea is full of wandering foam, The sky of driving cloud; My restless thoughts among them roam … The night is dark and loud.
Where are the hours that came to me So beautiful and bright? A wild wind shakes the wilder sea … O, dark and loud’s the night!
1876
XI—To W. R.
Thick is the darkness - Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway - Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbours surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.
1876
XII
To me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows;
And the smoke that whirls and eddies In a thousand times and keys Is really a visible music Set to my reveries.
O monstrous pipes, melodious With fitful tune and dream, The clouds are your only audience, Her thought is your only theme!
1875
XIII
Bring her again, O western wind, Over the western sea: Gentle and good and fair and kind, Bring her again to me!
Not that her fancy holds me dear, Not that a hope may be: Only that I may know her near, Wind of the western sea.
1875
XIV
The wan sun westers, faint and slow; The eastern distance glimmers gray; An eerie haze comes creeping low Across the little, lonely bay; And from the sky-line far away About the quiet heaven are spread Mysterious hints of dying day, Thin, delicate dreams of green and red.
And weak, reluctant surges lap And rustle round and down the strand. No other sound … If it should hap, The ship that sails from fairy-land! The silken shrouds with spells are manned, The hull is magically scrolled, The squat mast lives, and in the sand The gold prow-griffin claws a hold.
It steals to seaward silently; Strange fish-folk follow thro’ the gloom; Great wings flap overhead; I see The Castle of the Drowsy Doom Vague thro’ the changeless twilight loom, Enchanted, hushed. And ever there She slumbers in eternal bloom, Her cushions hid with golden hair.
1875
XV
There is a wheel inside my head Of wantonness and wine, An old, cracked fiddle is begging without, But the wind with scents of the sea is fed, And the sun seems glad to shine.
The sun and the wind are akin to you, As you are akin to June. But the fiddle! … It giggles and twitters about, And, love and laughter! who gave him the cue? - He’s playing your favourite tune.
1875
XVI
While the west is paling Starshine is begun. While the dusk is failing Glimmers up the sun.
So, till darkness cover Life’s retreating gleam, Lover follows lover, Dream succeeds to dream.
Stoop to my endeavour, O my love, and be Only and for ever Sun and stars to me.
1876
XVII
The sands are alive with sunshine, The bathers lounge and throng, And out in the bay a bugle Is lilting a gallant song.
The clouds go racing eastward, The blithe wind cannot rest, And a shard on the shingle flashes Like the shining soul of a jest;
While children romp in the surges, And sweethearts wander free, And the Firth as with laughter dimples … I would it were deep over me!
1875
XVIII—To A. D.
The nightingale has a lyre of gold, The lark’s is a clarion-call, And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life, And we in the mad, spring weather, We two have listened till he sang Our hearts and lips together.
1876
XIX
Your heart has trembled to my tongue, Your hands in mine have lain, Your thought to me has leaned and clung, Again and yet again, My dear, Again and yet again.
Now die the dream, or come the wife, The past is not in vain, For wholly as it was your life Can never be again, My dear, Can never be again.
1876
XX
The surges gushed and sounded, The blue was the blue of June, And low above the brightening east Floated a shred of moon.
The woods were black and solemn, The night winds large and free, And in your thought a blessing seemed To fall on land and sea.
1877
XXI
We flash across the level.
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