Puslapio vaizdai
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THE loves that doubted, the loves that dissembled,

That still mistrusted themselves and trembled,

That held back their hands and would not touch;

Who strained sad eyes to look more nearly, And saw too curiously and clearly

What others blindly clutch;

To whom their passion seemed only seeming, Who dozed and dreamed they were only dreaming,

And fell in a dusk of dreams on sleep; When dreams and darkness are rent asunder,

And morn makes mock of their doubts and wonder,

What should they do but weep?

A PASTORAL

My love and I among the mountains strayed When heaven and earth in summer heat

were still,

Aware anon that at our feet were laid

Within a sunny hollow of the hill A long-haired shepherd-lover and a maid.

They saw nor heard us, who a space above, With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his,

Marked how the gentle golden sunlight

strove

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DAWN-ANGELS

Mrs. Darmesteter

(A. MARY F. ROBINSON)

ALL night I watched awake for morning,
At last the East grew all aflame,
The birds for welcome sang, or warning,
And with their singing morning came.

Along the gold-green heavens drifted

Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted,

Had beat the bars of Heaven all night.

These clustered round the moon, but higher
A troop of shining spirits went,
Who were not made of wind or fire,
But some divine dream-element.

Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-colored wings, A faint unusual music raining, (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things.

They sang, and as a mighty river

Their voices washed the night away, From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day.

COCKAYNE COUNTRY
NEAR where yonder evening star

Makes a glory in the air,
Lies a land dream-found and far
Where it is light alway.
There those lovely ghosts repair

Who in Sleep's enchantment are,
In Cockayne dwell all things fair.
(But it is far away.)

Through the gates—a goodly sight-
Troops of men and maidens come,
There shut out from Heaven at night
Belated angels stray;

Down those wide-arched groves they roam
Through a land of great delight,
Dreaming they are safe at home.

(But it is far away.)

There the leaves of all the trees Written are with a running rhyme, There all poets live at peace,

And lovers are true, they say.

Earth in that unwintered clime
Like a star incarnate sees
The glory of her future time.
(But it is far away.)

Hard to find as it is far!

Dark nights shroud its brilliance rare, Crouching round the cloudy bar Under the wings of day. But if thither ye will fare,

Love and Death the pilots are, Might either one convey me there! (But it is far away.)

CELIA'S HOME-COMING

MAIDENS, kilt your skirts and go
Down the stormy garden-ways,
Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow,
Gather roses, gather bays,
Since our Celia comes to-day
That has been too long away.

Crowd her chamber with your sweets
Not a flower but grows for her!
Make her bed with linen sheets

That have lain in lavender; Light a fire before she come Lest she find us chill at home.

Ah, what joy when Celia stands
By the leaping blaze at last,
Stooping down to warm her hands
All benumbed with the blast,
While we hide her cloak away
To assure us she shall stay.

Cyder bring and cowslip wine,

Fruits and flavors from the East, Pears and pippins too, and fine

Saffron loaves to make a feast: China dishes, silver cups,

For the board where Celia sups!

Then, when all the feasting's done,

She shall draw us round the blaze, Laugh, and tell us every one

Of her far triumphant days—
Celia, out of doors a star,
By the hearth a holier Lar!

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Until in him at length there stirred The old, unchanged, remote distress,

Nor dream that it shall mock thee any day That pierced his world of wind and bird

Asleep within my own,

By any sign or tone.

With some divine unhappiness.

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THE frost will bite us soon;
His tooth is on the leaves :
Beneath the golden moon

We bear the golden sheaves:
We care not for the winter's spite,
We keep our Harvest-home to-night.

Hurrah for the English yeoman!
Fill full, fill the cup!
Hurrah! he yields to no man!
Drink deep; drink it up!

The pleasure of a king

Is tasteless to the mirth
Of peasants when they bring
The harvest of the earth.
With pipe and tabor hither roam
All ye who love our Harvest-home.

The thresher with his flail,

The shepherd with his crook, The milkmaid with her pail, The reaper with his hookTo-night the dullest blooded clods Are kings and queens, are demigods. Hurrah for the English yeoman ! Fill full; fill the cup! Hurrah! he yields to no man! Drink deep; drink it up!

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