Part 9

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour.

The leaves forget to whisper Of soft and secret things, And every bird is silent, With folded eyes and wings.

O blessed hour of midnight, Of sleep and of release, Thou yieldest to the toiler The wages of thy peace.

And I, who have not laboured, Nor borne the heat of noon, Receive thy tranquil quiet-- An undeserved boon.

Yes, truly God is gracious, Who makes His sun to shine Upon the good and evil, And idle lives like mine.

Upon the just and unjust He sends His rain to fall, And gives this hour of blessing Freely alike to all.

WHERE'S THE USE

Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money? And where's the use of singing, when there's no one wants to hear? It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey, But where's the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?

A MAY-DAY MADRIGAL

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright, Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew, Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.

Because you are a princess, a princess of the land, You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand, A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes; But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

'Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring, Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing. They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command, Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

SONG IS NOT DEAD

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say, Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red, While still the morning gold and grey, While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay, And honour crowns the hoary head, While men and women love and pray Song is not dead.

A SONG OF TRUCE

Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown street Of the little town shall come, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang, While the bugles do not clang, While is hushed the clamorous drum, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death, While the sword is in its sheath, While the cannon's mouth is dumb, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be. Soon enough, to Death and thee, The assembly call shall come. Soldier, rest awhile at home.

ONE TEAR

Last night, when at parting Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting, There fell on my hand

Something that burned it, Something that shone In the moon as I turned it, And then it was gone.

One bright stray jewel-- What made it stray? Was I cold or cruel, At the close of day?

Oh, do not cry, lass! What is crying worth? There is no lass like my lass In the whole wide earth.

A LOVER'S CONFESSION

When people tell me they have loved But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved To speak the truth?