On the Downs. CLOUDLAND lay over downland, Grey was the cloudland, Shadows of cloudland Lay on the sea. Pasture of dreams for me. Red Roses. "I LOVE red roses," so she said. I brought her one to wear : She laughed and blushed and bent her head, And wore it in her hair. "I love red roses," so she said, My roses could not bring the red "I love red roses." Ah! soon dead Were those I long since "I love red roses," so she said : These grew beside her grave. A Canticle of Common Things. I PRAISE Thee, Father, for the sky, For large and level plains that swell For elms that break in cloudy green, For water, wayward sprite, that runs For thundering weirs and silent wells, For autumn, and his flaming hand For summer indolently fair, For winter with her keener air, I praise Thee, Father, for the prize For motions of bewildering grace, That screens them; for that lost embrace! For sessions leisurely and sweet, For music-ah, the gracious thing!— Or throbbing from the tremulous string! When, in the hushed and crowded choir, For jests that instantly beguile The saddest brows to unbend and smile; For masters of melodious style. For mighty minds to cheer me bent, More keen than mine, more eloquent, For all illusions, trebly sweet, Fond dreams of pleasure made complete, And harbourage for weary feet. For stubborn hopes that will not die, Though flouted by the sullen sky, And based on saddest memory, For faith that, when my need is sore, For truth herself, that, howsoe'er For wholesome shame, that strongly schools, The raging impulses of fools. For love, that, when my spirit trips, Through the cold throng towards me slips, And rains soft kisses on my lips. I praise Thee, Father, though Thou thrust Me crying in the common dust, Not as I will but as I must. |