Part 25

IN the glad springtime when leaves were green, O merrily the throstle sings! I sought, amid the tangled sheen, Love whom mine eyes had never seen, O the glad dove has golden wings!

Between the blossoms red and white, O merrily the throstle sings! My love first came into my sight, O perfect vision of delight, O the glad dove has golden wings!

The yellow apples glowed like fire, O merrily the throstle sings! O Love too great for lip or lyre, Blown rose of love and of desire, O the glad dove has golden wings!

But now with snow the tree is grey, Ah, sadly now the throstle sings! My love is dead: ah! well-a-day, See at her silent feet I lay A dove with broken wings! Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain— Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!

TRISTITÆ

Αἴλινον, αἴλινον εἰπέ, τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω

O WELL for him who lives at ease With garnered gold in wide domain, Nor heeds the splashing of the rain, The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne’er hath known The travail of the hungry years, A father grey with grief and tears, A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose foot hath trod The weary road of toil and strife, Yet from the sorrows of his life. Builds ladders to be nearer God.

THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

. . . ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν, καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή.

THOU knowest all; I seek in vain What lands to till or sow with seed— The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait With blinded eyes and hands that fail, Till the last lifting of the veil And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see. I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity.

IMPRESSIONS

I LE JARDIN

THE lily’s withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.

II LA MER

A WHITE mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion’s eye Out of a mane of tawny clouds.

The muffled steersman at the wheel Is but a shadow in the gloom;— And in the throbbing engine-room Leap the long rods of polished steel.

The shattered storm has left its trace Upon this huge and heaving dome, For the thin threads of yellow foam Float on the waves like ravelled lace.

UNDER THE BALCONY

O BEAUTIFUL star with the crimson mouth! O moon with the brows of gold! Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south! And light for my love her way, Lest her little feet should stray On the windy hill and the wold! O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! O moon with the brows of gold!

O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! O ship with the wet, white sail! Put in, put in, to the port to me! For my love and I would go To the land where the daffodils blow In the heart of a violet dale! O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! O ship with the wet, white sail!

O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! O bird that sits on the spray! Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat! And my love in her little bed Will listen, and lift her head From the pillow, and come my way! O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! O bird that sits on the spray!

O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! O blossom with lips of snow! Come down, come down, for my love to wear! You will die on her head in a crown, You will die in a fold of her gown, To her little light heart you will go! O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! O blossom with lips of snow!