Part 9

Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song, And dear the languid dream; The music mingled all day long With paces of the dancing throng, And murmur of the stream.

An hour ago, an hour ago, We rested in the shade; And now, why should we seek to know What way the wilful waters flow? There is no fairer glade.

LUI.

Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, And seek him everywhere; Perchance in sunset’s golden pale He listens to the nightingale, Amid the perfumed air.

Come, he has fled; you are not you, And I no more am I; Delight is changeful as the hue Of heaven, that is no longer blue In yonder sunset sky.

ELLE.

Nay, if we seek we shall not find, If we knock none openeth; Nay, see, the sunset fades behind The mountains, and the cold night wind Blows from the house of Death.

NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.

‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non. Derrière chez mon père Il est un bois taillis, Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. Il chante pour les filles Qui n’ont pas d’ami; Il ne chant pas pour moi, J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old French.

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I’LL never be a nun, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow, But far more fair to see; I’ll never wear nun’s black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree.

Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail, Within the apple tree; He singeth of the sore distress Of many ladies loverless; Thank God, no song for me.

For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate; Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night’s noon bring thee!

Between lark’s song and nightingale’s A silent space, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, ’twixt him and me.

LOVE AND WISDOM.

‘When last we gathered roses in the garden I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’

The Broken Heart.

JULY and June brought flowers and love To you, but I would none thereof, Whose heart kept all through summer time A flower of frost and winter rime. Yours was true wisdom—was it not? Even love; but I had clean forgot, Till seasons of the falling leaf, All loves, but one that turned to grief. At length at touch of autumn tide When roses fell, and summer died, All in a dawning deep with dew, Love flew to me, Love fled from you. The roses drooped their weary heads, I spoke among the garden beds; You would not hear, you could not know, Summer and love seemed long ago, As far, as faint, as dim a dream, As to the dead this world may seem. Ah sweet, in winter’s miseries, Perchance you may remember this, How Wisdom was not justified In summer time or autumn tide, Though for this once below the sun, Wisdom and Love were made at one; But Love was bitter-bought enough, And Wisdom light of wing as Love.

GOOD-BYE.

KISS me, and say good-bye; Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry; Kiss me, and say, good-bye.

Farewell, be glad, forget; There is no need to say ‘forget,’ I know, For youth is youth, and time will have it so, And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, Farewell, you must forget.

You shall bring home your sheaves, Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined Of memories that go not out of mind; Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves When you bring home your sheaves.

In garnered loves of thine, The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears; It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine Of life, this love of mine.

This sheaf was spoiled in spring, And over-long was green, and early sere, And never gathered gold in the late year From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, But failed in frosts of spring.

Yet was it thine, my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn withered, Whereof no man may gather and make bread; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; Forget not quite, my sweet.

AN OLD PRAYER.

Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηρας Ελθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται.

Odyssey, XIII.