XXXI HAMPSTEAD
Reading edition
i
Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill! (All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still). O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls! Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget! Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear. Under the golden moon, when the sun has set, Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!
ii
I love those small old houses, with bright front doors, And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay: Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores!) And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say. Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit, In autumn and winter. In summer a rose Climbs in through the open window, caressing it; And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.
iii
Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes, Bloom all to beauty of sweet look and word. Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.
iv
Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right When you reach the top, which climb to a walk Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height; And there are seats there, where lovers talk. And all in front is a valley, wide and deep— In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs: In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep, Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....
v
It rained, the wet poured from the leaves; They by the churchyard; entered in And sheltered underneath the eaves; So sweetly close: yet firm her chin. Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood; And she—half frightened and half kind— Whispered the warning words “be good,” But left his venturous arm entwined. When the shower stopped his hopes sank low, —Farewell kind walls and darkling spire! They walked forlornly down Church Row; Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire. Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green— There parted, by a watery moon. His heart went throbbing “Might have been,” But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”
vi
At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head Who howls unheeded warnings to the night: Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed. Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro And search the passing faces—some find mates; Against the railings leans a giggling row; An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits. The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam; Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips, While couples meet and glance, and leave the stream, And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.
vii
So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky, Stretching strange roadways to the inner view. See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....