NEIGES D’ANTAN

In light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever passion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood.

Was beauty once a thing that died? Was pleasure never satisfied? Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in vapid rest again? All this was quite forgotten, there No winter brought us cold and care, Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the heavy summer killed, The languid days droop autumnwards. So magical a season guards The constant prime of a green June. So slumbrous is the river’s tune, That knows no thunder of rushing rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer-time In lands far from the fairy clime.

Alas! no words can bring the bloom Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. The sweet low light, the magic air, To minds of who have not been there: Alas! no words, nor any spell Can lull the heart that knows too well The towers that by the river stand, The lost fair world of Fairyland.

Ah, would that I had never been The lover of the Fairy Queen. Or would that I again might be Asleep below the Eildon Tree, And see her ride the forest way As on that morning of the May!

Or would that through the little town, The grey old place of Ercildoune, And all along the sleepy street The soft fall of the white deer’s feet Came, with the mystical command, That I must back to Fairy Land!

I laved my hands By the water-side, With willow leaves My hands I dried.

The nightingale sang On the bough of a tree, Sing, sweet nightingale, It is well with thee.

Thou hast heart’s delight, I have sad heart’s sorrow, For a false false maid That will wed to-morrow.

It is all for a rose That I gave her not, And I would that it grew In the garden plot,

And I would the rose-tree Were still to set, That my love Marie Might love me yet!

The moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea, ‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water, But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack, and my old sword, For I have never a son, And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone.

But you must take my old broadsword, And cut the green boughs of the tree, And strew the green boughs on the ground, To make a soft death-bed for me.

And you must bring the holy priest, That I may sainèd be, For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

And you shall make a grave for me, And dig it deep and wide, That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side.

And leave a window to the east And the swallows will bring the spring, And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.’

The year has changed his mantle cold Of wind, of rain, of bitter air, And he goes clad in cloth of gold Of laughing suns and season fair; No bird or beast of wood or wold But doth in cry or song declare ‘The year has changed his mantle cold!’ All founts, all rivers seaward rolled Their pleasant summer livery wear With silver studs on broidered vair, The world puts off its raiment old, The year has changed his mantle cold.

Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade,

Since it was given to me to hear one happy while The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;

Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always, Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime’s stream Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;

I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old. Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold.

Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet, My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill. My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.

Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon, So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on thy breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.

Thou know’st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love. ’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.

As in the gardens, all through May, the Rose, Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; Graces and Loves within her breast repose, The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose,—

So this, the perfect beauty of our days, When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise, The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes: And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses.

No, the Muse has gone away, Does not haunt me much to-day. Everything she had to say Has been said! ’Twas not much at any time She could hitch into a rhyme, Never was the Muse sublime, Who has fled!

Any one who takes her in May observe she’s rather thin; Little more than bone and skin Is the Muse; Scanty sacrifice she won When her very best she’d done, And at her they poked their fun, In Reviews.

‘Rhymes,’ in truth, ‘are stubborn things.’ And to Rhyme she clung, and clings, But whatever song she sings Scarcely sells. If her tone be grave, they say ‘Give us something rather gay.’ If she’s skittish, then they pray ‘Something else!’

Much she loved, for wading shod, To go forth with line and rod, Loved the heather, and the sod, Loved to rest On the crystal river’s brim Where she saw the fishes swim, And she heard the thrushes’ hymn, By the Test!

She, whatever way she went, Friendly was and innocent, Little need the Bard repent Of her lay. Of the babble and the rhyme, And the imitative chime That amused him on a time,— Now he’s grey.