Songs of Three Counties, and Other Poems

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

Reading edition

WHEN THE WIND COMES UP THE HILL

Oh! the wind among the trees,

How it stirs their wood to song!

Little whispered melodies,

All the winding road along.

Was there ever such a sound,

Breaking through a noontide still,

As this tune the trees have found,

When the wind comes up the hill!

PEACE (Sidmouth)

Evening upon the calm sweet sea,

A little wind asleep,

Dim sails that drift as tranquilly

As dreams in slumber deep.

A seagull on the water’s breast

Folds up his wings of white;

As peaceful and as much at rest

As is my heart to-night.

LIME-TREES

Lime-trees meeting overhead,

Many lovers cold and dead,

Kissed and loved, and kissed again,

In the sunshine and the rain,

Underneath your scented green.

When we two, in Earth’s kind breast,

Fall a-sleeping with the rest,

Then to us, who loved our fill,

Sweet to know you whisper still,

Happy leaves—of all that’s been!

A LITTLE SONG

A ripple and a rush, and a mating thrush,

And, oh! the month must be at May.

A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee,

And, oh! it’s such a perfect day!

A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile,

And, oh! the world is very young.

Come winter, storm or cold,

Love never can grow old,

And oh! my little song is sung!

THE SONG OF THE WATCHER

At the early break of day,

When the river mists grow pink,

And the moon begins to sink,

Down along the southern way;

When the gold mimosa tree

Rustles low and pleasantly,

To the little singing bird

That within her heart has stirred;

I, the watcher at the window,

Thank the gods who made dawn lovely,

By creating you for me!

When the stately night steps down,

Silent footed, from the west,

With the moon against her breast

Folded in her cloudy gown;

When the endless, sighing sea

Stretches to eternity,

Yearning for the pale-eyed star,

40Long beloved, and yet so far;

I, the watcher at the window,

Thank the gods who made night lovely,

By creating you for me!

BY THE RIVER

Through the rustling river grasses

Warm and sweet the young wind passes,

Blowing shyly soft caresses

To their dewy emerald tresses.

All along the silver sands

Little ripples joining hands,

Dance a quaint fantastic measure,

Making liquid sounds of pleasure.

While away beyond the weir

Calls the cuckoo loud and clear,

Something mystic and remote,

Ringing in his fairy note.

How I wish that I were small,

Swinging on the rushes tall,

Just a humble happy thing,

Born to live a while in Spring!

THE ROAD TO COLLA

The blossoms of a Judas tree

Deep pink against an azure sea,

A silver moth on thoughtless wing,

A hidden bird that lights to sing,

A little cloud that wanders by,

Across the endless field of sky.

A city in the far away,

Upon the hills beyond the bay,

And over all, the sun divine,

Pouring his stream of burning wine

Like nectar strong with youth and mirth,

Into this goblet of the earth!

PRAYER

If I should pray, my prayer would be

For gratitude unlimited:

For gratitude so vast and deep,

That it would move my soul to weep

Great tears, and all the words I said

To be as organ notes sublime,

Full-throated flowing words of rhyme,

Whose like no mortal eye hath read.

Then would I kneel before the God

Whose matchless genius made the earth;

The Poet-God, who sows the hours

With all the scented hosts of flowers,

Who gives the little winds their birth,

Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might

To shake the very stars at night,

And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth.

Whose mind is fragrant as a grove

Of cedar trees in summer rain,

44Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up,

And poured within the brimming cup

They offered to the world in vain.

Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote

Into their music note by note,

Immortal, haunting, strain on strain.

Whose image is revealed to all

Great lovers in the loved one’s face,

Whose passion mystical and deep

Kindles the holy fires that sleep

Within the heart’s most secret place.

Whose breath is incense on the shrine

Of earthly love, burning divine

And changeless, through all time and space!

DAWN

It is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour

Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir

Within the womb of possibility.

A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea,

Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower.

The lights still glimmer all along the quay:

And overhead a flight of hurried stars

Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be.

Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships,

Gliding away towards their destiny.

The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait

For some loved being; through the eastern gate

Red clouds come floating. Oh! that I were day,

Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire,

Filled with the glory of my own desire,

And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me!

TO THE EARTH

Oh! hadst thou kindly arms that could enfold me

While yet I live, sweet Earth, console and hold me

Unto thy bosom, thou, my fruitful Mother.

Oh! hadst thou human lips for soft caresses,

To meet mine own in some pure kiss that blesses,

Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none other.

For I am weary of the city’s sorrow,

Captive and weary, longing for a morrow

That shall release me from these walls, my prison;

My eyes are sickened with the surging faces,

And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces,

Seeking the happy lark but newly risen.

My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating

Along the streets, monotonous, repeating

Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending.

Would I could hear cool water running seaward,

Or sigh of wind at daybreak sweeping leeward,

Through purple pines whose happy boughs are bending.

47O Earth, dear Mother, as my spirit passes,

Make thou sweet fetters of thy flowers and grasses,

To bind it surely, lest it wander lonely

In some far sphere where never wild bird singeth,

Where never leaf at breath of Summer springeth,

For thou indeed art Heaven, O Earth, thou only!

DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES

Along the hills the olives grow,

And almonds bloom in early Spring,

And many are the streams that flow,

And countless are the birds that sing;

The air is cool with distant snow,

And musical with bells that ring.

Beneath my feet the road winds down

In deepening shadow, far away

To where a little peaceful town

Lies sleeping by the quiet bay;

A distant sail, now white, now brown,

Shows phantomlike against the day.

While gradually the Eastern skies

Grow flushed and bright, the late stars flee,

And eager clouds appear, and rise

Above the waves expectantly;

Till lo! before my wondering eyes,

The great sun steps from out the sea!

SILENT PLACES

Sweet are the silent places of the earth,

Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass,

Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass,

Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth.

Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings,

Stretching above the silent palisade,

Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade.

O’er which the dusk still hangs with starlit wings.

The hush of mid-day in the languid south,

Where marble borders rim the limpid pools,

In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools

Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth.

And above all things, silent and at rest,

I mind me of a little quiet bay,

Set like a sapphire in the golden day,

With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast.

Oh! happy waters of that quiet bay,

So near my heart—and yet so far away!

ONE EVENING NEAR NICE

Pale depth of sky, serene and wonderful,

Within whose fold the lamps of early stars

Shine far away and faintly luminous;

Whose pensive tones merge from the afterglow

Into this colour indescribable;

This blending of the sea and earth and clouds,

Soft and yet poignant, passionate yet calm.

I know not what the spirit in me feels,

When it beholds thee through my human eyes:

Nor what strange craving for forgotten things

Has stirred my soul to this disquietude!

THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO

Kind Earth, upon whose mother breast

The fruitful trees in time of spring,

Put forth their endless blossoming

From North to South, from East to West,

Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest

With striving seeds and budding flowers,

And all the potent toil of hours,

From sunrise until even’s rest—

Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn,

And touch me, compass me around,

Fill me with scent of upturned ground,

Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.

The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn,

Poor though they must be while I live,

For in my hour of death I give

My heart, that one rose may be born!

THREE CHILD-SONGS

I THE THRUSH’S SONG

“Oh! bother,” sang the thrush,

“I’m in an awful rush,

For I’ve got to get ready for the Spring.

With feathers from my breast,

I’ll line a cosy nest,

A terribly difficult thing!

“Before it is too late,

I’ll have to find a mate,

And she must be dainty and small,

Obedient and sweet,

In jacket brown and neat,

And ready to come when I call.

“The robins are all wed

(Or so I’ve heard it said),

And the wind from the South it does blow.

The ice has felt the sun,

And winter must be done,

For a primrose is growing in the snow!”

53II WILLOW WAND

Willow wand, willow wand,

Change this little slender frond

To a Princess tall and fair,

With a mass of golden hair,

Of golden hair.

Willow wand, willow wand,

Change this shallow meadow pond

To a deep and crystal pool,

Where she bathes at even cool,

At even cool.

Wand cut from the willow tree,

Build a fairy home for me,

Build a home of light and shade,

Sun and shadow deftly made,

Most deftly made.

54There where nothing comes to part,

With the ladye of my heart

I will dwell for ever—ever;

We will quarrel never—never,

Oh! never—never!

55III A WINTER SONG

“Swift away, swift away,”

Sang the fickle swallow,

Oh! the fickle swallow,

Flying to the sun!

“Come, my little brothers,

Bring your feathered mothers,

Come away, come away,

Each and every one.”

“Only stay, only stay,”

Sang the lonely poet,

Oh! the lonely poet,

All among the snow!

Robin Redbreast heard, and said,

“I am here though summer’s dead;

Cheer up, cheer up,

I will never go!”

AUTUMN IN SUSSEX

A glory is this autumn day,

That stretches far across the land,

To where the sea along the sand

Sings kindly, with a gentle lay

Upon its lips. The gleam and sway

Of burning leaves ignites the air

To strange soft fire; serene and bare

The wide fields lie on either hand.

More lovely than the timid Spring

Who tells her beads of humble flowers,

More perfect than the sun-warmed hours

Of summer, gay with birds that sing,

Is this fulfilment earth doth bring

To offer up to God; this deep

Vast prayer before the winter sleep,

This final tribute to His powers!

SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE MAGNIS

In the bowl of a shell

Sings the wonderful song of the sea,

All the ebb and the swell,

In the bowl of a shell.

In the heart of a pool

Drifts the fathomless smile of the sky,

All the clouds white and cool,

In the heart of a pool.

In the beam of a star

Shines the light of a far away world,

Out of space, dim and far,

In the beam of a star.

In the cup of a rose

Dwells the languor and passion of June,

Eager life, warm repose,

In the cup of a rose.

58In the throat of a bird

Lives the message of God to His earth,

Lo! the mystical word

In the throat of a bird!

TO ITALY

O Italy of chiming bells,

Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells,

Of incense mist and secret prayers,

Profound and sweet as scented airs

Blown from a field of lily flowers!

O Italy of pagan vine,

That thrills with sap of sun-born wine,

Drenching the Christian soul with red

Warm liquid of a faith long dead,

Wafting it back to sensuous hours.

No mortal woman ever held

Such sweet inconstancies, or welled

With such hot springs of turbid fire;

No being throbbed with such desire,

Thy very air is ecstacy!

O pagan goddess, from whose lips

The gentle Christian worship slips,

I fear thee, knowing what thou art

Yet I adore thee; take my heart

I am thy lover, Italy!

SUNDAY IN LIGURIA

This is the Sabbath day, the day of rest,

That breathes so gently in this quiet place,

With such insistent peace that for a space

The silver olives on the mountain’s crest

Forget to whisper, folded in the grace

Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon.

The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon

Slips out among them, calm and pale of face.

O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing

That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea;

This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy,

That like a great white bird on sunlit wing

Hovers above the world; ’tis given thee

To merge thyself in this harmonious whole,

And be content, seeking no higher goal;

The earth is God’s, to-day eternity!

GEORGETOWN, U.S.A.

If you would hear the thrushes sing,

Then go to Georgetown in the spring,

And wander slowly at your ease

Along the avenues of trees.

The sunshine and the shadows meet

To weave a web across the street,

And in and out its magic strands

Play little children, joining hands.

The sky is washed with showers and dew,

Until it looks the palest blue,

And in the gardens down below

You almost see the grasses grow.

There’s something very very old

About the place, so we are told,

And yet it’s marvellously gay

And young, when seen on such a day!

62The silent corners all around

Break up in waves of pleasant sound,

The mansions of Colonial days

Allow the sun to gild their greys.

The paving-stones, with earth between,

Are fringed with shoots of emerald green,

And oh! the song the thrushes sing

In Georgetown, when the year’s at spring!

ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, U.S.A.

At close of June’s most burning day,

We took a ship and sailed away:

In mid-Potomac stream sailed we,

To Old Point Comfort by the sea.

The heavy hanging air of dusk

Was thick with scent of fainting musk,

And through the tired willow trees

Stirred never sound or breath of breeze.

So still it was, that from afar

We seemed to hear a falling star,

And every drop we heard, that dript

From off the paddle as it dipped.

The fireflies lit their yellow lamps,

And danced along the marshy damps;

They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again,

While beetles droned a dance-refrain.

64The old ship pushed the mists apart,

And crawled along with throbbing heart,

Pausing from time to time for breath

Beside some jetty, still as death.

The moon rose up all reddish gold,

And lit the swirling misty fold

Of fog along the river bank,

Where grew the creepers dark and rank.

Sometimes the lonely “look-out” cried

“All’s well”: the water swished and sighed

An endless and protesting song,

As stealthily we crept along.

Until at last the wind blew free,

Where the Potomac met the sea;

And not so very far away

The shores of Old Point Comfort lay.

THE LOST WORD

High above a waveless sea,

On the hills of long ago,

There you lived awhile with me,

And we loved—I know.

For your hair I made a crown,

Twined it with these hands of mine,

Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown,

From the happy vine.

You were like some woodland thing,

Fear and rapture in your eyes,

Tender as a breath of Spring

Blown from April skies.

Then I called you, and you heard,

To your lover’s arms you came:

Ah! what was that magic word,

Your forgotten name!

COMPARISONS

A field of scented clover

That honey-bees hang over,

A hazel-wood in Spring,

Where thrush and robin sing.

A stream that seaward flows,

Rejoicing as it goes,

A little tower where dwells

The sound of happy bells.

A morning fresh and blue,

Flower-decked, and wet with dew,

All these my love she minds me of—

And other sweet things too.

A FRAGMENT

The clustering grapes of purple vine

Are crushed to make the crimson wine.

The poppies in the grasses deep

Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep.

The roses, when their glories bloom

Are crushed to yield their soul’s perfume.

And hearts, perchance of these the least,

Are crushed for nectar at Love’s feast!