Part 7

Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air, Upon their easy road I tripped and fell, And still I sickened of the wholesome fare On which they nourished well.

I was a stranger in that company, A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed, And when they lifted up their songs of glee, My voice sad discord made.

Peace for mine own self I could never find, And still my presence marred the general peace, And when I parted, leaving them behind, They felt, and I, release.

So will I follow now my spirit's bent, Not scorning those who walk the beaten track, Yet not despising mine own banishment, Nor often looking back.

Their way is best for them, but mine for me. And there is comfort for my lonely heart, To think perhaps our journeys' ends may be Not very far apart.

TO ALFRED TENNYSON--1883

Familiar with thy melody, We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hour, Contemn the skylark's minstrelsy--

As shepherds on a Highland lea Think lightly of the heather flower Which makes the moorland's purple dower, As far away as eye can see.

Let churl or shepherd change his sky, And labour in the city dark, Where there is neither air nor room-- How often will the exile sigh To hear again the unwearied lark, And see the heather's lavish bloom!

ICHABOD

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills The misty twilight atmosphere, In which familiar things appear Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, The pearl of all the twenty-four. Erelong the winter gales shall blow, Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze-- And oh, that it were June once more!

AT A HIGH CEREMONY

Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress Outshining not her loveliness,

A loveliness not born of art, But growing outwards from her heart, Illuminating all her face, And filling all her form with grace.

Said I, of dress the borrowed light Could rival not her beauty bright? Yet, looking round, 'tis truth to tell, No damsel here is dressed so well.

Only in them the dress one sees, Because more greatly it doth please Than any other charm that's theirs, Than all their manners, all their airs.

But dress in her, although indeed It perfect be, we do not heed, Because the face, the form, the air Are all so gentle and so rare.

THE WASTED DAY

Another day let slip! Its hours have run, Its golden hours, with prodigal excess, All run to waste. A day of life the less; Of many wasted days, alas, but one!

Through my west window streams the setting sun. I kneel within my chamber, and confess My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress, In place of honest joy for work well done.

At noon I passed some labourers in a field. The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face, Which shone like copper in the ardent glow. And one looked up, with envy unconcealed, Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace, Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

INDOLENCE

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand, Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.

How can I work, when that seductive sky Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland, And seems to half entreat and half command My presence out of doors beneath its eye?

Will not the air be fresh, the water blue, The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore, Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers? Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you! And think it strange if I return before The sea grows purple in the evening hours.

DAWN SONG