When my good-nights and prayers are said And I am safe tucked up in bed, I know my guardian angel stands And holds my soul between his hands.
I cannot see his wings of light Because I keep my eyes shut tight, For, if I open them, I know My pretty angel has to go.
But through the darkness I can hear His white wings rustling very near; I know it is his darling wings, Not Mother folding up my things!
III
“SHEPHERDS ALL AND MAIDENS FAIR”
Pipe, shepherds, pipe, the summer’s ripe; So wreathe your crooks with flowers; The world’s in tune to Love and June, The days are rich in hours, In rosy hours, in golden hours — Love’s crown and fortune fair, So gather gold for Love to hold, And flowers for Love to wear!
Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring Of pleasures speed your way; Too harsh and dry is fierce July, Too maiden-meek was May; But Love and June their old sweet tune Are singing at your ear: So learn the song and troop along To meet your shepherds dear!
Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear, And gold to spend have I — When all are gay on this June day You would not bid me sigh? You would not scorn a swain forlorn — Each shepherd far and near Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet, As I towards my dear.
No maids there be in Arcady But have their shepherds true; Must you alone despise the one Who only pipes for you? You have no ear my pipe to hear Though all for you it be; And I no eyes for her who sighs And only sings for me!
A PORTRAIT
Like the sway of the silver birch in the breeze of dawn Is her dainty way; Like the gray of a twilight sky or a starlit lawn Are her eyes of gray; Like the clouds in their moving white Is her breast’s soft stir; And white as the moon and bright Is the soul of her.
Like murmur of woods in spring ere the leaves be green, Like the voice of a bird That sings by a stream that sings through the night unseen, So her voice is heard. And the secret her eyes withhold In my soul abides, For white as the moon and cold Is the heart she hides.
THE OFFERING
What will you give me for this heart of mine, No heart of gold – and yet my dearest treasure? It has its graces – it can ache and pine, And beat true time to your sweet voice’s measure; It bears your name, it lives but for your pleasure: What will you give me for this heart I bring, That holds my life, my joy, my everything?
How can I ask a price, when all my prayer Is that, without return, you will but take it — Feed it with hope, or starve it to despair, Keep it to play with, mock it, crush it, break it, And, if your will lies there, at last forsake it? Its epitaph shall voice its deathless pride: “She held me in her hands until I died.”
ENTREATY
O love, let us part now! Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow, Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes. The first, involuntary, sacred kiss Still on our lips in benediction lies. O Love, be wise! Love at its best is worth no more than this — Let us part now!
O Love, let us part now! Ere yet the roses wither on my brow, Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast, Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bear The seeds of deathless anguish and unrest. To part is best. Between us still the drawn sword flameth fair — Let us part now!
THE FOREST POOL
Lean down and see your little face Reflected in the forest pool, Tall foxgloves grow about the place, Forget-me-nots grow green and cool. Look deep and see the naiad rise To meet the sunshine of your eyes.
Lean down and see how you are fair, How gold your hair, your mouth how red; See the leaves dance about your hair The wind has left unfilleted. What naiad of them can compare With you for good and dear and fair?
Ah! look no more – the water stirs, The naiad weeps your face to see, Your beauty is more rare than hers, And you are more beloved than she. Fly! fly, before she steals the charms The pool has trusted to her arms.
DISCRETION
Ah, turn your pretty eyes away! You would not have me love again? Love’s pleasure does not live a day, Immortal is Love’s pain, And I am tired of pain.
I have loved once – aye, once or twice; The pleasure died, the pain lives here; I will not look in your sweet eyes, I will not love you, Dear, Lest you should grow too dear.
For I am weary and afraid. Have I not seen why life was fair, And known how good a world God made, How sweet the blossoms were, How dear the green fields were?
And I have found how life was gray, A mist-hung road, a quest in vain, Until once more Love smiled my way And fooled me once again, And taught me grief again.
Now I will gather no more grief; I only ask to see the sky, The budding flower, the budding leaf, And put old dreamings by, The dreams Love tortures by.
For, being wise, I love no more; You, if you will, snare with those eyes Some fool who never loved before, And teach him to be wise! For why should you be wise?
SPRING SONG
Here’s the Spring-time, Sweet! Earth’s green gown is new, Lambs begin to bleat, Doves begin to coo, Birds begin to woo In the wood and lane; Sweet, the tale is true Spring is here again!
I have been discreet All the winter through; Now, before your feet, Blossoms let me strew. Flowers, as yet, are few; Will my lady deign Take this flower or two? Spring is here again
Make the year complete, Give the Spring her due! All the flowers entreat, All the song-birds sue. ’Twixt the green and blue Let Love wake and reign, Let me worship you — Spring is here again!
TOO LATE
When Love, sweet Love, was tangled in my snare I clipped his wings, and dressed his cage with flowers, Made him my little joy for little hours, And fed him when I had a song to spare. And then I saw how good life’s good things were, The kingdoms and the glories and the powers. Flowers grew in sheaves and stars were shed in showers, And, when the great things wearied, Love was there.
But when, within his cage, one winter day I found him lying still with folded wings, No longer fluttering, eager to be fed — Kingdoms and powers and glories passed away, And of life’s countless, precious, priceless things Nothing was left but Love – and Love was dead!
BY FAITH WITH THANKSGIVING
Love is no bird that nests and flies, No rose that buds and blooms and dies, No star that shines and disappears, No fire whose ashes strew the years: Love is the god who lights the star, Makes music of the lark’s desire, Love tells the rose what perfumes are, And lights and feeds the deathless fire.
Love is no joy that dies apace With the delight of dear embrace — Love is no feast of wine and bread, Red-vintaged and gold-harvested: Love is the god whose touch divine On hands that clung and lips that kissed, Has turned life’s common bread and wine Into the Holy Eucharist.
THE APPEAL
All summer-time you said: “Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness, For all the flowers take pity on his blindness, And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”
“He is a king,” you said. “That I bow not the knee will never grieve him, For all the summer-palaces receive him.” But now Love has not where to lay his head.
“He is a god,” you said. “His altars are wherever roses blossom.” And summer made his altar of her bosom, But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said: Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted; Summer who bore him has with tears departed, And o’er her grave he weeps uncomforted.
And you, for all you said, Would weep too, if when dawn stills the wind’s riot, You found him on your threshold, pale and quiet, Clasped him at last, and found the child was dead.
AUTUMN SONG
“Will you not walk the woods with me? The shafts of sunlight burn On many a golden-crested tree And many a russet fern. The Summer’s robe is dyed anew, And Autumn’s veil of mist Is gemmed with little pearls of dew Where first we met and kissed.”
“I will not walk the woodlands brown Where ghosts and mists are blown, But I will walk the lonely down And I will walk alone. Where Night spreads out her mighty wing And dead days keep their tryst, There will I weep the woods of Spring Where first we met and kissed.”
THE LAST ACT
Never a ring or a lock of hair Or a letter stained with tears, No crown for the princely hour to wear, To be mocked of the rebel years. Not a spoken vow, not a written page And never a rose or a rhyme To tell to the wintry ear of age The tale of the summer time.
Never a tear or a farewell kiss When the time is come to part; For the kiss would burn and the tear would hiss On the smouldering fire in my heart. But let me creep to the kindly clay, And nothing be left to tell How I played in your play a year and a day, And died when the curtain fell!
FAUTE DE MIEUX
When the corn is green and the poppies red And the fields are crimson with love-lies-bleeding, When the elms are black deep overhead And the shade lies cool where the calves are feeding, When the blackbird whistles the song of June, When kine knee-deep in the pond are drowsing, Leave pastoral peace – come up through the noon To the high chalk downs where the sheep are browsing.
Oh! sweet to dream in the noontide heat, On the scented bed of thyme and clover, With the air from the sea, blown keen and sweet, And the wings of the wide sky folded over, While, far in the blue, the skylark sings, Renounce desire and renounce endeavour, Forget life’s little unworthy things And dream that the dream will last for ever.
The love of your life, in your heart’s hid shrine, With its gifts and its torments, leave it sighing, And I will bury the pain of mine In the selfsame grave where its joy is lying. Let me hold your hand for a quiet hour In the wild thyme’s scent and the clear blue weather, Then come what may, we have plucked one flower, This hour on the downs alone together.
