Through the glowing meadows aflame With buttercup gold I came To the green, still heart of the wood. A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed, The hazel-stems grew close, Like leaves round the heart of a rose, Round the still, green nest that I chose.
Then I gathered the bracken that grew In a fairy forest all round, And I laid it in heaps on the ground With grass and blossoms and leaves. I gathered the summer in sheaves, And pale, rare roses a few, And spread out a carpet meet For the touch of my lady's feet.
I waited; the wood was still; Only one little brown bird On a hazel swayed and stirred With the impulse of his song; And I waited, and time was long.
Then I heard a step on the grass In the path where the others pass, And a voice like a voice in a dream; And I saw a glory, a gleam, A flash of white through the green (Her arms and her gown are white); And the summer sighed her name As she and the sunshine came: O sun and blue sky and delight! O eyes and lips of my queen!
What was done there or said No one will ever know, For nobody saw or heard Save one little, brown, bright bird Who swayed on a twig overhead, And he will never betray; But all who pass by that way, As they near the spot where we lay Among the blossoms and grass Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick (Though it lies out of reach, out of sight Of the path where the world may pass), Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers, That rhymes with the summer and sun, With the lover to win or won, With the wild-flower crown of delight, The crown of love that was ours.
THE GARDEN
My garden was lovely to see, For all things fair, Sweet flowers and blossoms rare, I had planted there. There were pinks and lilies and stocks, Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue, And clematis white and blue, And pansies and daisies and phlox. And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady, And all things were ready to greet my lady On the Life's-love-crowning day When she should come To her lover's home, To give herself to me.
I saw the red of the roses — The royal roses that bloomed for her sake. "They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie: They shall droop on her heart and die." I dreamed in the orchard-closes: "'Tis here we will walk in the July days, When the paths and the lawn are ablaze; We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss: And thank God for this".
I leaned where the jasmine white Wreathed all my window round: "Here we will lean, I and my queen, And look out on the broad moonlight. For there shall be moonlight – bright — On my wedding-night."
She never saw the flowers That were hers from their first sweet hours. The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn. Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose, They were gathered – to honour and sorrow born. They lay round her, touched her close. The jasmine stars – white stars, that about our window their faint light shed, Lay round her head. And the white, white roses lay on her breast, And a long, white lily lay in her hand.
They lie by her – rest with her rest; But I, unhonoured, unblest — I stand outside, In the ruined garden solitude — Where she never stood — On the trim green sod Which she never trod; And the red, red roses grow and blow, — As if any one cared How they fared! And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand And see the Angel with flaming sword — Life's pitiless Lord — And I know I never may pass. Alas! alas! O Rose! my rose! I never may reach the place where she grows, A rose in the garden of God.
PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES
O God, let there be rain! Rain, till this sky of gray That covers us every day Be utterly wept away, Let there be rain, we pray, Till the sky be washed blue again Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain, For the sky hangs heavy with pain, And we, who walk upon earth, We find our days not of worth; None blesses the day of our birth, We question of death's day in vain, — Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain Till the full-fed earth complain. Yea, though it sweep away The seeds sown yesterday And beat down the blossoms of May And ruin the border gay: In storm let this gray noon wane, Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain Till the rivers rise a-main! Though the waters go over us quite And cover us up from the light And whelm us away in the night And the flowers of our life be slain, O God, let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain, Out of the gray sky, rain! To wash the earth and to wash the sky And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh In the gray of a sordid satiety. Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High, And some day send us the sun again. O God, let there be rain!
A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE
Squalid street after squalid street, Endless rows of them, each the same, Black dust under your weary feet, Dust upon every face you meet, Dust in their hearts, too, – or so it seems — Dust in the place of dreams.
Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives, Here men hardly have heard her name. Work is the end and aim of their lives — Work, work, work! for their children and wives; Work for a life which, when it is won, Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!
Work – one dark and incessant round In black dull workshops, out of the light; Work that others' ease may abound, Work that delight for them may be found, Work without hope, without pause, without peace, That only in death can cease.
Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun, What of these men, at work in the night? God will ask you what you have done; Their lives be required of you – every one — Ye, who were glad and who liked life well, While they did your work – in hell!
LONDON'S VOICES
SPEAK TO TWO SOULS – WHO THUS REPLY:
I
In all my work, in all the children's play, I hear the ceaseless hum of London near; It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear Its never-ending wail, by night and day. So many millions – is it vain to pray That all may win such peace as I have here, With books, and work, and little children dear? — That flowers like mine may grow along their way?
Through all my happy life I hear the cry, The exceeding bitter cry of human pain, And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by. I can do nothing – even hope is vain That the bright light of peace and purity In those lost souls may ever shine again!
II
'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood: Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good. Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!" I left the mill, the meadows and the trees, And came to do the little best I could For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would I had a thousand lives to give for these!
What can one hand do 'gainst a world of wrong? Yet, when the voice said, "Come!" how could I stay? The foe is mighty, and the battle long (And love is sweet, and there are flowers in May), And Good seems weak, and Gold is very strong; But, while these fight, I dare not turn away.
THE SICK JOURNALIST
Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain. The stupid paper and ink, That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks – as of old. One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate, And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat; And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line!
Molly, my pet – don't cry, Father can't write if you do — And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor; We'll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear! The children are starving – your little ones — While you sit fooling there. Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head — Here they are – see! Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed! — I cannot bear their eyes. Their soft little kisses burn — They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn.
If I could only write Just a dozen pages or so On "The Prospects of Trade," or "The Irish Question," or "Why are Wages so Low?" — The printers are waiting for copy now, I've had my next week's screw, There'll be nothing more till I've written something, Oh, God! what am I to do? If I could only write! The paper glares up white Like the cursed white of the heavy stone Under which she lies alone; And the ink is black like death, And the room and the window are black. Molly, Molly – the sun's gone out, Cannot you fetch it back? Did I frighten my little ones? Never mind, daddy dropped asleep — Cuddle down closely, creep Close to his knee And daddy will see If he can't do his writing. Vain! I shall never write again! Oh, God! was it like a love divine To make their lives hang on my pen When I cannot write a line?
TWO LULLABIES
I
Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear, Thee shall no want or pain come near; Sleep softly on thy downy nest, Or on this lace-veiled mother-breast.
Thy cradle is all silken lined, Wrought roses on thy curtains twined, Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread, With soft white pillows for thy head.
Much gold those little hands shall hold, And wealth about thy life shall fold, And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife, Nor the low ills of common life.
These little feet shall never tread Except on paths soft-carpeted, And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine To deck that darling head of thine.
Thou shalt have overflowing measure Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure, And thou shalt be right charitable With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
And thou shalt praise God every day For His good gifts that come thy way, And again thank Him, and again, That thou art not as other men.
For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall — 'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all; And when all's spent that life has given, Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.
II
Sleep, little baby, sleep, Though the wind is cruel and cold, And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in Is old and ragged and thin; And my hand is too frozen to hold — Yet my bosom's still warm – so creep Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Sleep, little baby, and rest, Though we wander alone through the night, And there is no food for me, No shelter for me and thee. Through the windows red fires shine bright, And tables show, heaped with the best — But there's naught for us there – so rest.
Sleep, you poor little thing! Just as pretty and dear As any fine lady's child. Oh, but my heart grows wild! — Is it worth while to stay here? What good thing from life will spring For you – you poor little thing?
Sleep, you poor little thing! Mine, my treasure, my own — I clasp you, I hold you close, My darling, my bird, my rose! Rich mothers have hearts like stone, Or else some help they would bring To you – you poor little thing!
Sleep, little baby, sleep — If some good, rich mother would take My dear, I would kiss thee, and then Never come near thee again — Not though my heart should break! I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake — For the river is dark and deep, And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
BABY SONG
I
Sleep, baby, sleep! The greeny glow-worms creep, The pigeons to their cote are gone And, to their fold, the sheep.
Rest, baby, rest! The sun sinks in the west, The daisies all have gone to sleep, The birds are in the nest.
Sleep, baby, sleep! The sky grows dark and deep, The stars watch over all the world, God's angels guard thy sleep.
II
Wake, baby dear! The good, glad morning's here; The dove is cooing soft and low, The lark sings loud and clear.
Wake, baby, wake! Long since the day did break, The daisy buds are all uncurled, The sun laughs in the lake.
Wake, baby dear! Thy mother's waiting near, And love, and flowers, and birds, and sun, And all things bright and dear.
LULLABY
Sleep, my darling; mother will sing Soft low songs to her little king, Nobody else must listen or hear The pretty secrets I tell my dear.
Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may — Sorrow dawns with the dawning day, Sleep, my baby, sleep, my dear, Soon enough will the day be here.
Lie here quiet on mother's arm, Safe from harm; Nestled closely to mother's breast, Sleep and rest!
Mother feels your breath's soft stir Close to her; Mother holds you, clasps you tight, All the night.
When the little Jesus lay On the manger's hay, He was a Baby, if tales tell true, Just like you.
And He had no crown to wear But His bright hair; And such kisses as I give you He had too.
Mary never loved her Son More than I love my little one; And her Baby never smiled More divinely than my little child.
Sleep, my darling, sleep while you may — Sorrow dawns with the dawning day; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my dear, All too soon will the day be here.
AN EAST-END TRAGEDY
You said that you would never wed: "My love, my life's one work lie here, 'Mid crowded alleys, dank and drear, Where all life's flower-petals are shed!" You said.
I heard: I bowed to what I heard; I bowed my head and worshipped you — So brave, so beautiful, so true — How could I doubt a single word I heard?
My sweet, white lily! All the street, As you passed by, grew clean again; The fallen, blackened souls of men Looked heavenward when men heard your feet, My sweet.
But one came, dared to woo, and won — He heard your vows, and laughed at them; He plucked my lily from its stem — Sacred to all men under sun, But one!
