I
Under grey clouds some birds will dare to sing,
No wild exultant chants, but soft and low;
Under grey clouds the young leaves seek the spring,
And lurking violets blow.
And waves make idle music on the strand,
And inland streams have lucky words to say,
And children’s voices sound across the land
Although the clouds be grey.
II
Only maidenhood and youth,
Only eyes that are most fair,
And the pureness of a mouth,
And the grace of golden hair,
Yet beside her we grow wise,
And we breathe a finer air.
Words low-utter’d, simple-sweet,—
Yet, nor songs of morning birds,
Nor soft whisperings of the wheat
More than such clear-hearted words
Make us wait, and love, and listen,
Stir more mellow heart accords.
Only maiden-motions light,
Only smiles that sweetly go,
Girlish laughter pure and bright,
And a footfall like the snow,
What in these should make us wise?
What should bid the blossom blow?
Child! on thee God’s angels wait,
’Tis their robes that wave and part,
Make this summer air elate,
Fresh and fragrant, and thou art
But a simple child indeed,
One dare cherish to the heart.
III
Were life to last for ever, love,
We might go hand in hand,
And pause and pull the flowers that blow
In all the idle land,
And we might lie in sunny fields
And while the hours away
With fallings-out and fallings-in
For half a summer day.
But since we two must sever, love,
Since some dim hour we part,
I have no time to give thee much
But quickly take my heart,
“For ever thine,” and “thine my love,”—
O Death may come apace,
What more of love could life bestow,
Dearest, than this embrace.
IV
Now drops in the abyss a day of life:
I count my twelve hours’ gain;—
Tired senses? vain desires? a baffled strife,
Vexed heart and beating brain?
Ten pages traversed by a languid eye?
—Nay, but one moment’s space
I gazed into the soul of the blue sky;
Rare day! O day of grace!
V
She kissed me on the forehead,
She spoke not any word,
The silence flowed between us,
And I nor spoke nor stirred.
So hopeless for my sake it was,
So full of ruth, so sweet,
My whole heart rose and blessed her,
—Then died before her feet.
VI
Nay, more! yet more, for my lips are fain;
No cups for a babe; I ask the whole
Deep draught that a God could hardly drain,
—Wine of your soul.
Pour! for the goblet is great I bring,
Not worthless, rough with youths at strife,
And men that toil and women that sing,
—It is all my life.
VII
Look forward with those steadfast eyes
O Pilot of our star!
It sweeps through rains and driving snows,
Strong Angel, gaze afar!
Seest thou a zone of golden air?
Hearest thou the March-winds ring?
Or is thy heart prophetic yet
With stirrings of the Spring?
VIII
Words for my song like sighing of dim seas,
Words with no thought in them,—a piping reed,
An infant’s cry, a moan low-uttered,—these
Are all the words I need.
Others have song for broad-winged winds that pass,
For stars and sun, for standing men around;
I put my mouth low down into the grass,
And whisper to the ground.
HERE END THE POEMS
WHICH WERE FIRST
PUBLISHED IN
A VOLUME
IN 1876