The white frost’s on the hill, love,
The white mist on the lea;
The yellow leaves are falling
From each still and drooping tree,—
Through the silent mist, love,
That creepeth o’er the lea.
And hark! the night-wind waketh,
It moaneth sad and low,
For the summer that must die, love,
Though it linger never so;
The longest, happiest Summer
That ever we shall know.
O sweetly came the Spring, love,
And tenderly she moved
O’er every dewy meadow,
Through every tangled wood,
And by the freshening burnie,
Each slender blade and bud.
And tender was the plant, love,
That in our bosom grew;
One chilly blast had killed it;—
Oh! little then we knew
How great a tree we reared, love,
To shelter me and you.
And still we nursed and knew not
What meant the little shoot;
We wondered at the blossom
And dreamed not of the fruit;
And as aye the branches rose, love,
Still wider spread the root.
Still grew the stately branches,
And waved them to and fro
In every Summer breeze, love,
That through the land did blow,
The longest, happiest Summer,
That ever we shall know.
Lo all the pleasant woods, love,
Are growing old and sere,
But Summer from our hearts, love,
Shall never disappear,
The long and happy Summer
Of Love’s immortal year.
As I lay on my sick-bed, Mary,
With a weight upon my heart,
And a fire within my head,
The thought came,—we must part.
And men will say, "He’s dead," Mary,
"He has played his little part,
And another will stand in his stead,
In council and in mart,”
Though many a joy and woe, Mary,
Our memories intertwine,
Though sweet the interflow,
'Twixt hearts like thine and mine,
The pleasures of long ago, Mary,
The sorrows of lang-syne,
And the present all aglow,
With light and love divine;
And though I had always yearned, Mary,
And strained my childish eyes,
For a glimpse of some undiscerned,
And beautiful Paradise;
And though since then I've learned, Mary,
With a spirit calm and wise,
That the hopes which in me burned,
Are splendid realities;
And though I stood so near, Mary,
I heard the waters roar,
And heard, beyond, the cheer,
Of those who had gone before,
The friends we hold most dear, Mary,
The spirits we most adore;
O many a bard and seer,
And hero heart of yore.
And though God I still did own, Mary,
Was wiser far than we,
I answered with a groan,
O sad, if this should be!
For what were Heaven, alone, Mary,
And who would care for thee;
Till then I had not known,
How dear thou wert to me.
The soft wind bloweth, the blithe stream floweth,
To Paradisal airs:
Where are we going? there’s no knowing,
And who amongst us cares?
Then row! brothers row! for merrily, ho!
The wild birds sing and the soft winds blow.
The soul that is wary, the land of the fairy,
Never, never may find;
But the stream grows dark, and the black woods stark,
And shrill the icy wind,
Then row! brothers row! for brighter grow,
The woods and the flowery banks as we go.
O, fragrant the showers of leaves and of flowers,
That greet us passing along!
While under the wave, each starry cave
Sends up its fairy song;
And! brothers, lo! more rosily glow,
The sky above, and the plain below.