SONGS

Bitter cold the winter street, Cold and grey the sky: Bitter cold the veil of sleet The winds drive by. Warm and bright the fireside, Red the flames with cheer; What can winter’s woe betide Us, Dear? On my hand I feel your palm As a bird lie warm: Oh the fireside is calm! It hears no storm. Bleak the winter street and cold; Red the flames with cheer; Love and firelight enfold Us, Dear.

Love, where you go December’s air grows warm, Birds bend the barren branches to their song And flowers spring, your coming steps to charm. Bursting the band of ice, and frosty thong. Over the highways prisoned in by snow They fling a garden in old winter’s scorn! Saying, “The lovely spring is here ... we know!” The sombre heart of midnight pales to morn Love— where you go.— Love, where you go, grows my heart glad enow, My being’s pulse is tune with ecstasy. I find a ballad on each bending bough. I take my lute from off the greenwood tree To wake the dearest melody I know. I’ll fling my songs broadcast, to heaven’s blue Where the stars think your eyes are stars below.... My soul finds its one paradise with you— Love— where you go.

My Love is a rider! (and life’s at its pace!) He rides to the battle—he rides to the chase. His armour is burnished, his nodding plume’s curled. (And would I could follow him over the world!) Nor distance, nor danger can keep us apart. He comes with the shadows and lies on my heart. He’s gone when the midnight its pinions has furled. (And would I could follow him over the world!) I’d gladly arise—don bonnet and sword, And follow the steps of my Love and my Lord. I’d stand by his side when the lances are hurled. (And would I could follow him over the world!)

When I go a Maying—Maying— There his wanton wishes go! Spring, like flowers, to meet me straying.... I must pluck them—will, or no! I must break each pale stalk slender: I must lift each flower fair; For I know they are the tender Thoughts of love that greet me there.... I will wear them on my bosom.... In the night, when he comes home He shall see his thoughts in blossom, Oh Beloved Spring-time, Come!

In among the tall weeds There lives a brier rose. Bright among the rugged reeds She bends and blooms and blows. The ragged bloom around her grows, And rough and rude her bed: But kisses of the wind she knows, And blushes warm and red. The sunny moor before her lies The stream runs bright and clear. She does not reck o’ sombre skies, Nor knows the changing year. She has no ken o’ winter drear, Nor dreads the frost and storm: For summer winds have called her Dear, She blushes red and warm.

My heart is in the hawthorn tree. I left it in the lovely house, Hidden among the blooming boughs. And every little crimson rose, That blushes, reddens, pales or glows, Shall give its secret up to thee! My heart is in the hawthorn tree. My heart is in the hawthorn tree! It wears a fragile, rose-red dress: A robe of spring-time loveliness. It has forgot its songs to sing, And sleepeth like a tired thing,— To dream new songs, to sing to thee.— My heart is in the hawthorn-tree.

O darling— “My darling!” And this is all you say? And what are words of love and cheer When one is far away? O darling— “My darling!” A word is more than none And if you say what I would hear You’ll fill the world with sun O darling— “My darling!”

Where is all the sunlight gone Dearest heart and dearest? Will it come again with dawn Dearest heart and dearest? Will it, stealing after night, Fold the waking hours, till bright To-morrow breaks the clearest, Best, of every day we’ve had Fresh and gay and good and glad? Dearest heart—and dearest!

I’m pining away for the way I’d go, I’m pining away for the things I’ve seen, For the joy of the fall of the first white snow, And the sweep of the forest green. But it’s not for the home-land, broad and fair; The house on the hill, or the old ways spread;— For why should I wander here or there, Since you went down to the dead? I’m pining away for the love you gave, For the world that you made, when your life lay here. And the path to the country beyond the grave Is the way that I pine for, dear!

Dearest, give your love to me,— I will keep it well, Cradle it, as does the sea Hold the shell— Deep, unseen, and secretly. Dearest, give your kiss to me,— I will keep tho’ all assail: As the temple prayerfully Holds the Grail. Altars then my lips shall be! Dearest, give to me your trust,— I will not betray.... Hold it, as the beacon must Hold the ray, Till the lighthouse stones are dust.

When to-night, the shining snow Fell on forest brown and lea, Hanging diamonds on the tree;— When the dazzling world below Lifted up, all brilliantly, Stars again, to stars to throw;— Then I thought of thee...! White the winter forests sweep Down to meet the midnight sea,— Dearest, break thy charmèd sleep, Dream a winter dream of me.

The rose that comes on winter’s day It is the rarest rose—(they say) To venture forth so bright and bold, With velvet leaves and heart of gold, To wear so brave array:— Daring the icy atmosphere, Your winter roses, greet me—Dear And love, all warm amid the snows, Comes with the rose.

As the days Go their ways; And the months, and the years, Bring their laughter and their tears,— And their range Of turn and change— All the old, Away we fold,— With the moth, And the dust; Nothing loth Since we must Have the new! As the days Go their ways One thing stays— My love for you.

When the low flying wind, awake, Brushes the lilies, and the low Blue flowers hidden in the brake,— When the sighing Alders bend and shake,— When the owl’s whirring,—Hush thee, dear! For all the elfin lights aglow Will guide the slumber fairies here, Naught is stirring For my child to fear. When the strange sighing tree-tops sing, Dance all the fairies to and fro And white dreams from their mantles fling, While the flying Winds thy cradle swing. When the low crooning insects cry Creep the white elves soft, and slow, Hush thee, Sweet! and hear the merry Pipes a-tuning For thy lullaby!

I hear the fluttering wind, I see The shadows on the grass. I wish that you would come to me! I would not let you pass! But springing up from where I lie, I take you in my arms, would I! I’d tell you where white heather grows, I’d kiss you, and I’d hold you close, I would not let you pass! Here, by my side, you’d watch with me Cloud shadows on the grass. If chance that you should come may be, I will not let you pass! Where the lost faerie kingdoms lie, I’ll tell in wonder-tales—will I! And as the brilliant fancy grows, I’ll kiss you, and I’ll hold you close, I will not let you pass!