SPRING REPLY

Behold! the radiant Spring, In splendour decked anew, Down from her heaven of blue Returns on sunlit wing: The zephyrs of her train In fleecy clouds disport, And birds to greet her reign Summon their sylvan court. For even in street and square Her tardy trees relent, As some far-travell’d scent Kindles the morning air; And forth their buds provoke, Forgetting winter brown, And all the mire and smoke That wrapped the dingy town. Now he that loves indeed His pleasure must awake, Lest any pleasure take Its flight, and he not heed; For of his few short years Another now invites His hungry soul, and cheers His life with new delights. And who loves Nature more Than he, whose painful art Has taught and skilled his heart To read her skill and lore? Whose spirit leaps more high, Plucking the pale primrose, Than his whose feet must fly The pasture where it grows? One long in city pent Forgets, or must complain: But think not I can stain My heaven with discontent; Nor wallow with that sad, Backsliding herd, who cry That Truth must make man bad, And pleasure is a lie. Rather while Reason lives To mark me from the beast, I’ll teach her serve at least To heal the wound she gives: Nor need she strain her powers Beyond a common flight, To make the passing hours Happy from morn till night. Since health our toil rewards, And strength is labour’s prize, I hate not, nor despise The work my lot accords; Nor fret with fears unkind The tender joys, that bless My hard-won peace of mind, In hours of idleness. Then what charm company Can give, know I,—if wine Go round, or throats combine To set dumb music free. Or deep in wintertide When winds without make moan, I love my own fireside Not least when most alone. Then oft I turn the page In which our country’s name, Spoiling the Greek of fame, Shall sound in every age: Or some Terentian play Renew, whose excellent Adjusted folds betray How once Menander went. Or if grave study suit The yet unwearied brain, Plato can teach again, And Socrates dispute; Till fancy in a dream Confront their souls with mine, Crowning the mind supreme, And her delights divine. While pleasure yet can be Pleasant, and fancy sweet, I bid all care retreat From my philosophy; Which, when I come to try Your simpler life, will find, I doubt not, joys to vie With those I leave behind.

I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight,— A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour:— My song be like a flower! I have loved airs, that die Before their charm is writ Upon the liquid sky Trembling to welcome it. Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit’s desire, Then die, and are nowhere:— My song be like an air! Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom: Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb! Fly with delight, fly hence! ’Twas thine love’s tender sense To feast, now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear.

Wherefore to-night so full of care, My soul, revolving hopeless strife, Pointing at hindrance, and the bare Painful escapes of fitful life? Shaping the doom that may befall By precedent of terror past: By love dishonoured, and the call Of friendship slighted at the last? By treasured names, the little store That memory out of wreck could save Of loving hearts, that gone before Call their old comrade to the grave? O soul be patient: thou shalt find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss. Again shall pleasure overflow Thy cup with sweetness, thou shalt taste Nothing but sweetness, and shalt grow Half sad for sweetness run to waste. O happy life! I hear thee sing, O rare delight of mortal stuff! I praise my days for all they bring, Yet are they only not enough.

Thou didst delight my eyes: Yet who am I? nor first Nor last nor best that durst Once dream of thee for prize; Nor this the only time Thou shalt set love to rhyme. Thou didst delight my ear: Ah! little praise; thy voice Makes other hearts rejoice, Makes all ears glad that hear; And short my joy: but yet, O song, do not forget. For what wert thou to me? How shall I say? The moon, That poured her midnight noon Upon his wrecking sea;— A sail, that for a day Has cheered the castaway.

When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and failing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, Its clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, “O look at the trees!” they cried, “O look at the trees!” With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul’s high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths as towards their toil they go: But even for them no cares awhile encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

I stand on the cliff and watch the veiled sun paling A silver field afar in the mournful sea, The scourge of the surf, and plaintive gulls sailing At ease on the gale that smites the shuddering lea: Whose smile severe and chaste June never hath stirred to vanity, nor age defaced. In lofty thought strive, O spirit, for ever: In courage and strength pursue thine own endeavour. Ah! if it were only for thee, thou restless ocean Of waves that follow and roar, the sweep of the tides; Were’t only for thee, impetuous wind, whose motion Precipitate all o’errides, and turns, nor abides: For you sad birds and fair, Or only for thee, bleak cliff, erect in the air; Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature. But far away, I think, in the Thames valley, The silent river glides by flowery banks: And birds sing sweetly in branches that arch an alley Of cloistered trees, moss-grown in their ancient ranks: Where if a light air stray, ’Tis laden with hum of bees and scent of may. Love and peace be thine, O spirit, for ever: Serve thy sweet desire: despise endeavour. And if it were only for thee, entrancèd river, That scarce dost rock the lily on her airy stem, Or stir a wave to murmur, or a rush to quiver; Were’t but for the woods, and summer asleep in them: For you my bowers green, My hedges of rose and woodbine, with walks between, Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature.

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wonderous joy; to be Thy father’s pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or a gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if ’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

Joy, sweetest lifeborn joy, where dost thou dwell? Upon the formless moments of our being Flitting, to mock the ear that heareth well, To escape the trained eye that strains in seeing, Dost thou fly with us whither we are fleeing; Or home in our creations, to withstand Blackwingèd death, that slays the making hand? The making mind, that must untimely perish Amidst its work which time may not destroy, The beauteous forms which man shall love to cherish, The glorious songs that combat earths annoy? Thou dost dwell here, I know, divinest Joy: But they who build thy towers fair and strong, Of all that toil, feel most of care and wrong. Sense is so tender, O and hope so high, That common pleasures mock their hope and sense; And swifter than doth lightning from the sky The ecstasy they pine for flashes hence, Leaving the darkness and the woe immense, Wherewith it seems no thread of light was woven, Nor doth the track remain where once ’twas cloven. And heaven and all the stable elements That guard God’s purpose mock us, though the mind Be spent in searching: for his old intents We see were never for our joy designed: They shine as doth the bright sun on the blind, Or like his pensioned stars, that hymn above His praise, but not toward us, that God is Love. For who so well hath wooed the maiden hours As quite to have won the worth of their rich show, To rob the night of mystery, or the flowers Of their sweet delicacy ere they go? Nay, even the dear occasion when we know We miss the joy, and on the gliding day The special glories float and pass away, Only life’s common plod: still to repair The body and the thing which perisheth: The soil, the smutch, the toil and ache and wear, The grinding enginry of blood and breath, Pain’s random darts, the heartless spade of death: All is but grief, and heavily we call On the last terror for the end of all. Then comes the happy moment: not a stir In any tree, no portent in the sky: The morn doth neither hasten nor defer, The morrow hath no name to call it by, But life and joy are one,—we know not why,— As though our very blood long breathless lain Had tasted of the breath of God again. And having tasted it I speak of it, And praise him telling how I trembled then When his touch strengthened me, as now I sit In wonder, reaching out beyond my ken, Reaching to turn the day back, and my pen Urging to tell a tale which told would seem The witless phantasy of them that dream. But O most blessèd truth, for truth thou art, Abide thou with me till my life shall end. Divinity hath surely touched my heart; I have possessed more joy than earth can lend: I may attain what time shall never spend. Only let not my duller days destroy The memory of thy witness and my joy.

O my vague desires! Ye lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires: That are my soul herself in pangs sublime Rising and flying to heaven before her time: What doth tempt you forth To drown in the south or shiver in the frosty north? What seek ye or find ye in your random flying, Ever soaring aloft, soaring and dying? Joy, the joy of flight! They hide in the sun, they flare and dance in the night; Gone up, gone out of sight: and ever again Follow fresh tongues of fire, fresh pangs of pain. Ah! they burn my soul, The fires, devour my soul that once was whole: She is scattered in fiery phantoms day by day, But whither, whither? ay whither? away, away! Could I but control These vague desires, these leaping flames of the soul: Could I but quench the fire: ah! could I stay My soul that flieth, alas, and dieth away!

The full moon from her cloudless skies Turneth her face, I think, on me; And from the hour when she doth rise Till when she sets, none else will see. One only other ray she hath, That makes an angle close with mine, And glancing down its happy path Upon another spot doth shine. But that ray too is sent to me, For where it lights there dwells my heart: And if I were where I would be, Both rays would shine, love, where thou art.

I praise the tender flower, That on a mournful day Bloomed in my garden bower And made the winter gay. Its loveliness contented My heart tormented. I praise the gentle maid Whose happy voice and smile To confidence betrayed My doleful heart awhile: And gave my spirit deploring Fresh wings for soaring. The maid for very fear Of love I durst not tell: The rose could never hear, Though I bespake her well: So in my song I bind them For all to find them.

Awake my heart to be loved, awake, awake! The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake The o’ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake! She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,— She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamèd herself forsake: Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! Awake, the land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, “O sun now bring him to me. Come more adored, O adored, for his coming’s sake, And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!”

Who that hath ever shot a shaft at heaven Whether of wonder, praise or humble prayer, But hath not straight received his answer given, And been made strong with comforting, aware Of strength and beauty for his purpose meant, Whether it were a lark’s song or a scent That wanders on the quavering paths of the air? The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumber With music through the thought-exalting night, Among forgotten fancies without number Transfigured sorrow to a heart’s delight. And uninvited memories, that stole With haunting trouble to their slavèd soul Were turned to wondrous joys and aspects bright. So intimate a part are we of Nature That even to call us best part doth us wrong, Being her mind, the meaning of her feature, To whom her varied forms wholly belong. So that what were not ours were worthless quite, And thus to me it happened on that night To be the love and joy of this bird’s song. As it came leaping on the dark unguarded Silence of midnight to the door of the ear: And finding the warm passages unwarded Sped up the spiral stair, and mounted near To where in unseen rooms the delicate sprite That never sleeps sat watching through the night Weaving the time in fancies strange and drear. Nor was it that the heavenly music fluttered The quick electric atoms; rarer far, The melody this bird of passion uttered Coloured the firmament where all thoughts are: As in the characters a poet’s hand Has traced, there lie—for poets understand— Heart-thrills that shoot through blackness like a star. And so, as summer eve will sweetly soften The wayward thoughts of all who forth may fare, To me there came the spirit who haunts not often My heart for sorrow of the sadness there: But now her face was lit with joy, her eyes Were eager messengers of her surprise That she was quit of her profound despair. Clothed was she like a nun, and yet her vesture Did sad despite unto her merry grace, As gaily she came forward with a gesture As gamesome as the childhood in her face, That I had seen so long downcast and sad, Robbed of the happy birthright which she had, Which earth may steal away but not replace. There is no sorrow like the slow heart-searing, When phantoms bred of earth spring up between Two loving hearts, who grew to their endearing, When all their pushing tendrils yet were green: No time-struck ruin is so sad to see As youth’s disease: than thus, O Love, to be, ’Twere better for thy honour not to have been. Had I not seen the servitude of folly, The mínute-measuring of days and nights, With superstition preaching melancholy And pleasure counterfeiting her own rights; Afraid to turn again and look behind, Lest truth should flame and overwhelm the mind, Fanning her red regret of old delights. The mimicry of woe that is a trouble To them that practise it, but which to those To whom the joy is owed makes sorrow double Seeing the debtor destitute that owes. The tinselling of cruel bars, to blind The cagèd bird to think the hand is kind Which liberty denies and food bestows. From which I hurried as a beast from burning, Nor cared in flying where my terror led; Only beyond recall and past returning, Nor now repent if then too far I fled.— So long, dear life, as in my flesh thou reign’st I will sin with thee rather than against, Let me die living rather than live dead. But neither is there human pleasure rarer Than love’s renewal after long disdain, Nor any touching tale for telling fairer Than that wherein lost lovers meet again: Such joy must happy souls beyond the grave, If once again they meet, in Heaven have, Without which all the joys of Heaven were vain. ’Twas even thus she came and in my dreaming, My pleasure was not less than Heaven’s may be: The spiritual and unearthly seeming So far outdid a touched reality: As glances sent in love do more than tell What words can never phrase or utter well, And which ’tis shame and blindness not to see. But now the joy was mine, for gentle pity Of her who wearily lived long alone With mopes and mummers in a sensuous city That held no passion equal to her own, For gentle pity, I say, constrained me well, As pains those separated souls they tell Prepare for Heaven, and mould their hearts of stone. But their sweet ecstasy is all abiding And cannot pall with time nor tire nor fade, Nor any more can day of death, dividing Their earthborn loves, those happy haunts invade. But joy for ever—if that joy compare With my best joy on earth, may I be there! Though even from that I shrink and am afraid. Now when I woke and thought upon this vision, Wherein she smiled on me and I on her, I could not quite be clear of all misprision Who of us most was changed: or if it were The song I heard not—sleeping as I heard— That shaped our empty dream, while sang the bird Regardless of his fond interpreter.

O youth whose hope is high, Who dost to Truth aspire, Whether thou live or die, O look not back nor tire. Thou that art bold to fly Through tempest, flood and fire, Nor dost not shrink to try Thy heart in torments dire: If thou canst Death defy, If thy Faith is entire, Press onward, for thine eye Shall see thy heart’s desire. Beauty and love are nigh, And with their deathless quire Soon shall their eager cry Be numbered and expire.