Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Poems

• A Baby's Cradle With No Baby In It Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A baby's cradle with no baby in it,
  A baby's grave where autumn leaves drop sere;
  The sweet soul gathered home to Paradise,
  The body waiting here.

• A Ballad Of Boding Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;
  What seems is not always as it seems.
  
  I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,
  And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning
  Went sailing toward the East:
  The first had sails like fire,
  The next like glittering wire,
  But sackcloth were the sails of the least;
  And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.
  
  The first choir breathed in flutes,
  And fingered soft guitars;
  The second won from lutes
  Harmonious chords and jars,
  With drums for stormy bars:
  But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;
  Notes of triumph, then
  An alarm again,
  As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,
  Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.
  
  The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;
  The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;
  The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.
  
  The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;
  The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;
  The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.
  
  Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;
  Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;
  Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.
  
  Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,
  Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:
  Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;
  Sighs, but scarce of woe;
  All the sighing
  Wooed such sweet replying;
  All the sighing, sweet and low,
  Used to come and go
  For more pleasure, merely so.
  
  Yet at intervals some one grew tired
  Of everything desired,
  And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,
  Out of sight.
  
  The second crew seemed ever
  Wider-visioned, graver,
  More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;
  With heads erect and proud,
  And voices sometimes loud;
  With endless tacking, counter-tacking,
  All things grasping, all things lacking,
  It would seem;
  Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,
  Drifting on as in a dream.
  
  Hoarding to their utmost bent,
  Feasting to their fill,
  Yet gnawed by discontent,
  Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.
  
  Their freight was not a treasure,
  Their music not a pleasure;
  The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,
  Sceptre and crown changed hands.
  
  The third crew as they went
  Seemed mostly different;
  They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,
  As all the world might see.
  
  They labored at the oar,
  While on their heads they bore
  The fiery stress of sunshine more and more.
  
  They labored at the oar hand-sore,
  Till rain went splashing,
  And spray went dashing,
  Down on them, and up on them, more and more.
  
  Their sails were patched and rent,
  Their masts were bent,
  In peril of their lives they worked and went.
  
  For them no feast was spread,
  No soft luxurious bed
  Scented and white,
  No crown or sceptre hung in sight;
  In weariness and painfulness,
  In thirst and sore distress,
  They rowed and steered from left to right
  With all their might.
  
  Their trumpeters and harpers round about
  Incessantly played out,
  And sometimes they made answer with a shout;
  But oftener they groaned or wept,
  And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.
  
  I wept for pity watching them, but more
  I wept heart-sore
  Once and again to see
  Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim
  To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:
  And there all welcomed him.
  
  The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,
  Yet all the crews were interchangeable;
  Now one man, now another,
  —Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,—
  Changed openly, or changed by stealth,
  Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.
  
  The most left Love ship, hauling wealth
  Up Worm ship's side;
  While some few hollow-eyed
  Left either for the sack-sailed boat;
  But this, though not remote,
  Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once
  Scarce ever came again,
  But seemed to loathe his erst companions,
  And wish and work them bane.
  
  Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,
  Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,
  Whence a waterspout
  Instantaneously leaped out,
  Roaring as it reared its head.
  
  Soon I spied a something dim,
  Many-handed, grim,
  That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;
  It puffed their sails full out
  With puffs of smoky breath
  From a smouldering lip,
  And cleared the waterspout
  Which reeled roaring round about
  Threatening death.
  
  With a horny hand it steered,
  And a horn appeared
  On its sneering head upreared
  Haughty and high
  Against the blackening lowering sky.
  
  With a hoof it swayed the waves;
  They opened here and there,
  Till I spied deep ocean graves
  Full of skeletons
  That were men and women once
  Foul or fair;
  Full of things that creep
  And fester in the deep
  And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.
  
  The third bark held aloof
  From the Monster with the hoof,
  Despite his urgent beck,
  And fraught with guile
  Abominable his smile;
  Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.
  
  Then full of awe,
  With these same eyes I saw
  His head incredible retract its horn
  Rounding like babe's new born,
  While silvery phosphorescence played
  About his dis-horned head.
  
  The sneer smoothed from his lip,
  He beamed blandly on the ship;
  All winds sank to a moan,
  All waves to a monotone
  (For all these seemed his realm),
  While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.
  
  Then a cry well nigh of despair
  Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.
  
  The harpers harped no more,
  While the trumpeters sounded sore
  An alarm to wake the dead from their bed:
  To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,
  To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,
  Or no more help or hope for ever!—
  The planks strained as though they must part asunder,
  The masts bent as though they must dip under,
  And the winds and the waves at length
  Girt up their strength,
  And the depths were laid bare,
  And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder
  Through the rain-choked air,
  And sea and sky seemed to kiss
  In the horror and the hiss
  Of the whole world shuddering everywhere.
  
  Lo! a Flyer swooping down
  With wings to span the globe,
  And splendor for his robe
  And splendor for his crown.
  
  He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,
  And spun the Monster overboard:
  And that monstrous thing abhorred,
  Gnashing with balked desire,
  Wriggled like a worm infirm
  Up the Worm
  Of the loathly figurehead.
  
  There he crouched and gnashed;
  And his head re-horned, and gashed
  From the other's grapple, dripped bloody red.
  
  I saw that thing accurst
  Wreak his worst
  On the first and second crew:
  Some with baited hook
  He angled for and took,
  Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,
  Some he did to death
  With hoof or horn or blasting breath.
  
  I heard a voice of wailing
  Where the ships went sailing,
  A sorrowful voice prevailing
  Above the sound of the sea,
  Above the singers' voices,
  And musical merry noises;
  All songs had turned to sighing,
  The light was failing,
  The day was dying—
  Ah me,
  That such a sorrow should be!
  There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
  When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand
  To its grave in the bitter wave.
  
  There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
  When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,
  And the bitter wave was its grave.
  
  But land and sea waxed hoary
  In whiteness of a glory
  Never told in story
  Nor seen by mortal eye,
  When the third ship crossed the bar
  Where whirls and breakers are,
  And steered into the splendors of the sky;
  That third bark and that least
  Which had never seemed to feast,
  Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.

• A Better Ressurection Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I have no wit, no words, no tears;
  My heart within me like a stone
  Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
  
  Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
  I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
  No everlasting hills I see;
  My life is in the falling leaf:
  O Jesus, quicken me.
  
  My life is like a faded leaf,
  My harvest dwindled to a husk:
  Truly my life is void and brief
  And tedious in the barren dusk;
  My life is like a frozen thing,
  No bud nor greenness can I see:
  Yet rise it shall—the sap of spring;
  O Jesus, rise in me.
  
  My life is like a broken bowl,
  A broken bowl that cannot hold
  One drop of water for my soul
  Or cordial in the searching cold;
  Cast in the fire the perished thing;
  Melt and remould it, till it be
  A royal cup for Him, my King:
  O Jesus, drink of me.

• A Bird’s-Eye View Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Croak, croak, croak,'
  Thus the Raven spoke,
  Perched on his crooked tree
  As hoarse as hoarse could be.
  
  Shun him and fear him,
  Lest the Bridegroom hear him;
  Scout him and rout him
  With his ominous eye about him.
  
  Yet, 'Croak, croak, croak,'
  Still tolled from the oak;
  From that fatal black bird,
  Whether heard or unheard:
  'O ship upon the high seas,
  Freighted with lives and spices,
  Sink, O ship,' croaked the Raven:
  'Let the Bride mount to heaven.
  
  '
  In a far foreign land,
  Upon the wave-edged sand,
  Some friends gaze wistfully
  Across the glittering sea.
  
  'If we could clasp our sister,'
  Three say, 'now we have missed her!'
  'If we could kiss our daughter!'
  Two sigh across the water.
  
  Oh, the ship sails fast
  With silken flags at the mast,
  And the home-wind blows soft;
  But a Raven sits aloft,
  Chuckling and choking,
  Croaking, croaking, croaking:—
  Let the beacon-fire blaze higher;
  Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.
  
  On a sloped sandy beach,
  Which the spring-tide billows reach,
  Stand a watchful throng
  Who have hoped and waited long:
  'Fie on this ship, that tarries
  With the priceless freight it carries.
  
  The time seems long and longer:
  O languid wind, wax stronger;'—
  Whilst the Raven perched at ease
  Still croaks and does not cease,
  One monotonous note
  Tolled from his iron throat:
  'No father, no mother,
  But I have a sable brother:
  He sees where ocean flows to,
  And he knows what he knows, too.
  
  '
  A day and a night
  They kept watch worn and white;
  A night and a day
  For the swift ship on its way:
  For the Bride and her maidens
  —Clear chimes the bridal cadence—
  For the tall ship that never
  Hove in sight for ever.
  
  On either shore, some
  Stand in grief loud or dumb
  As the dreadful dread
  Grows certain though unsaid.
  
  For laughter there is weeping,
  And waking instead of sleeping,
  And a desperate sorrow
  Morrow after morrow.
  
  Oh, who knows the truth,
  How she perished in her youth,
  And like a queen went down
  Pale in her royal crown:
  How she went up to glory
  From the sea-foam chill and hoary,
  From the sea-depth black and riven
  To the calm that is in Heaven?
  
  They went down, all the crew,
  The silks and spices too,
  The great ones and the small,
  One and all, one and all.
  
  Was it through stress of weather,
  Quicksands, rocks, or all together?
  
  Only the Raven knows this,
  And he will not disclose this.
  
  —
  After a day and year
  The bridal bells chime clear;
  After a year and a day
  The Bridegroom is brave and gay:
  Love is sound, faith is rotten;
  The old Bride is forgotten:—
  Two ominous Ravens only
  Remember, black and lonely.

• A Birthday Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My heart is like a singing bird
  Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
  My heart is like an apple-tree
  Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
  My heart is like a rainbow shell
  That paddles in a halcyon sea;
  My heart is gladder than all these
  Because my love is come to me.
  
  Raise me a dais of silk and down;
  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
  Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
  Work it in gold and silver grapes,
  In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
  Because the birthday of my life
  Is come, my love is come to me.

• A Bruised Reed Shall He Not Break Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I will accept thy will to do and be,
  Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,
  Thy will at least to love, that burns within
  And thirsteth after Me:
  So will I render fruitful, blessing still,
  The germs and small beginnings in thy heart,
  Because thy will cleaves to the better part.
  
  —
  Alas, I cannot will.
  
  Dost not thou will, poor soul?
  
  Yet I receive
  The inner unseen longings of the soul,
  I guide them turning towards Me; I control
  And charm hearts till they grieve:
  If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,
  Though thou but wish indeed to choose My love;
  For I have power in earth and heaven above.
  
  —
  I cannot wish, alas!
  What, neither choose nor wish to choose?
  
  and yet
  I still must strive to win thee and constrain:
  For thee I hung upon the cross in pain,
  How then can I forget?
  
  If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate,
  Nor choose, nor wish,—resign thyself, be still
  Till I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.
  
  —
  I do not deprecate.

• A Chill Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What can lambkins do
  All the keen night through?
  
  Nestle by their woolly mother
  The careful ewe.
  
  What can nestlings do
  In the nightly dew?
  
  Sleep beneath their mother's wing
  Till day breaks anew.
  
  If in a field or tree
  There might only be
  Such a warm soft sleeping-place
  Found for me!

• A Chilly Night Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I rose at the dead of night
  And went to the lattice alone
  To look for my Mother's ghost
  Where the ghostly moonlight shone.
  
  My friends had failed one by one,
  Middleaged, young, and old,
  Till the ghosts were warmer to me
  Than my friends that had grown cold.
  
  I looked and I saw the ghosts
  Dotting plain and mound:
  They stood in the blank moonlight
  But no shadow lay on the ground;
  They spoke without a voice
  And they leapt without a sound.
  
  I called: ' O my Mother dear, ' —
  I sobbed: ' O my Mother kind,
  Make a lonely bed for me
  And shelter it from the wind:
  ' Tell the others not to come
  To see me night or day;
  But I need not tell my friends
  To be sure to keep away.
  
  '
  My Mother raised her eyes,
  They were blank and could not see;
  Yet they held me with their stare
  While they seemed to look at me.
  
  She opened her mouth and spoke,
  I could not hear a word
  While my flesh crept on my bones
  And every hair was stirred.
  
  She knew that I could not hear
  The message that she told
  Whether I had long to wait
  Or soon should sleep in the mould:
  I saw her toss her shadowless hair
  And wring her hands in the cold.
  
  I strained to catch her words
  And she strained to make me hear,
  But never a sound of words
  Fell on my straining ear.
  
  From midnight to the cockcrow
  I kept my watch in pain
  While the subtle ghosts grew subtler
  In the sad night on the wane.
  
  From midnight to the cockcrow
  I watched till all were gone,
  Some to sleep in the shifting sea
  And some under turf and stone:
  Living had failed and dead had failed
  And I was indeed alone.

• A Christmas Carol Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In the bleak mid-winter
  Frosty wind made moan,
  Earth stood hard as iron,
  Water like a stone;
  Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
  Snow on snow,
  In the bleak mid-winter
  Long ago.
  
  Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him,
  Nor earth sustain;
  Heaven and earth shall flee away
  When He comes to reign:
  In the bleak mid-winter
  A stable-place sufficed
  The Lord God Almighty
  Jesus Christ.
  
  Enough for Him whom cherubim
  Worship night and day,
  A breastful of milk
  And a mangerful of hay;
  Enough for Him whom angels
  Fall down before,
  The ox and ass and camel
  Which adore.
  
  Angels and archangels
  May have gathered there.
  
  Cherubim and seraphim
  Thronged the air,
  But only His mother
  In her maiden bliss
  Worshipped the Beloved
  With a kiss.
  
  What can I give Him,
  Poor as I am?
  
  If I were a shepherd
  I would bring a lamb,
  If I were a wise man
  I would do my part, -
  Yet what I can I give Him,
  Give my heart

• A City Plum Is Not A Plum Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A city plum is not a plum;
  A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb;
  A party rat is not a rat;
  A sailor's cat is not a cat;
  A soldier's frog is not a frog;
  A captain's log is not a log.

• A Daughter Of Eve Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A fool I was to sleep at noon,
  And wake when night is chilly
  Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
  A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
  A fool to snap my lily.
  
  My garden-plot I have not kept;
  Faded and all-forsaken,
  I weep as I have never wept:
  Oh it was summer when I slept,
  It's winter now I waken.
  
  Talk what you please of future spring
  And sun-warmed sweet to-morrow: -
  Stripped bare of hope and everything,
  No more to laugh, no more to sing,
  I sit alone with sorrow.

• A Diamond Or A Coal? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A diamond or a coal?
  
  A diamond, if you please:
  Who cares about a clumsy coal
  Beneath the summer trees?
  
  A diamond or a coal?
  
  A coal, sir, if you please:
  One comes to care about the coal
  What time the waters freeze.

• A Dirge Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Why were you born when the snow was falling?
  
  You should have come to the cuckoo's calling
  Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
  Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
  For their far off flying
  From summer dying.
  
  Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
  
  You should have died at the apples' dropping,
  When the grasshopper comes to trouble,
  And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble,
  And all winds go sighing
  For sweet things dying.

• A Dream Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
  We stood together in an open field;
  Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
  Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
  
  When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
  Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
  Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
  So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
  
  Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
  Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
  I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
  But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
  Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
  Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.

• A Farm Walk Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The year stood at its equinox
  And bluff the North was blowing,
  A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
  Green hardy things were growing;
  I met a maid with shining locks
  Where milky kine were lowing.
  
  She wore a kerchief on her neck,
  Her bare arm showed its dimple,
  Her apron spread without a speck,
  Her air was frank and simple.
  
  She milked into a wooden pail
  And sang a country ditty,
  An innocent fond lovers' tale,
  That was not wise nor witty,
  Pathetically rustical,
  Too pointless for the city.
  
  She kept in time without a beat
  As true as church-bell ringers,
  Unless she tapped time with her feet,
  Or squeezed it with her fingers;
  Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
  As many a practised singer's.
  
  I stood a minute out of sight,
  Stood silent for a minute
  To eye the pail, and creamy white
  The frothing milk within it;
  To eye the comely milking maid
  Herself so fresh and creamy:
  'Good day to you,' at last I said;
  She turned her head to see me:
  'Good day,' she said with lifted head;
  Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,
  And all the while she milked and milked
  The grave cow heavy-laden:
  I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
  But not a sweeter maiden;
  But not a sweeter fresher maid
  Than this in homely cotton,
  Whose pleasant face and silky braid
  I have not yet forgotten.
  
  Seven springs have passed since then, as I
  Count with a sober sorrow;
  Seven springs have come and passed me by,
  And spring sets in to-morrow.
  
  I've half a mind to shake myself
  Free just for once from London,
  To set my work upon the shelf
  And leave it done or undone;
  To run down by the early train,
  Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
  And feel the bluff North blow again,
  And mark the sprouting thistle
  Set up on waste patch of the lane
  Its green and tender bristle.
  
  And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
  Crisp primrose leaves and others,
  And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
  And butt their patient mothers.
  
  Alas, one point in all my plan
  My serious thoughts demur to:
  Seven years have passed for maid and man,
  Seven years have passed for her too;
  Perhaps my rose is overblown,
  Not rosy or too rosy;
  Perhaps in farmhouse of her own
  Some husband keeps her cosy,
  Where I should show a face unknown.
  
  Good-bye, my wayside posy.

• A Frisky Lamb Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A frisky lamb
  And a frisky child
  Playing their pranks
  In a cowslip meadow:
  The sky all blue
  And the air all mild
  And the fields all sun
  And the lanes half shadow.

• A Frog's Fate Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Contemptuous of his home beyond
  The village and the village-pond,
  A large-souled Frog who spurned each byway
  Hopped along the imperial highway.
  
  Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
  Could disconcert so great a Frog.
  
  The morning dew was lingering yet,
  His sides to cool, his tongue to wet:
  The night-dew, when the night should come,
  A travelled Frog would send him home.
  
  Not so, alas! The wayside grass
  Sees him no more: not so, alas!
  A broad-wheeled waggon unawares
  Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
  
  From dying choke one feeble croak
  The Frog's perpetual silence broke: -
  ‘Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
  Even I am mortal after all!
  My road to fame turns out a wry way;
  I perish on the hideous highway;
  Oh for my old familiar byway!’
  The choking Frog sobbed and was gone;
  The Waggoner strode whistling on.
  
  Unconscious of the carnage done,
  Whistling that Waggoner strode on -
  Whistling (it may have happened so)
  ‘A froggy would a-wooing go.
  
  ’
  A hypothetic frog trolled he,
  Obtuse to a reality.
  
  O rich and poor, O great and small,
  Such oversights beset us all.
  
  The mangled Frog abides incog,
  The uninteresting actual frog:
  The hypothetic frog alone
  Is the one frog we dwell upon.

• A Green Cornfield Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The earth was green, the sky was blue:
  I saw and heard one sunny morn
  A skylark hang between the two,
  A singing speck above the corn;
  A stage below, in gay accord,
  White butterflies danced on the wing,
  And still the singing skylark soared,
  And silent sank and soared to sing.
  
  The cornfield stretched a tender green
  To right and left beside my walks;
  I knew he had a nest unseen
  Somewhere among the million stalks.
  
  And as I paused to hear his song
  While swift the sunny moments slid,
  Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
  And listened longer than I did.

• A Hope Carol Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A night was near, a day was near,
  Between a day and night
  I heard sweet voices calling clear,
  Calling me:
  I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
  But could not see the sight;
  I long to see my birds that sing,
  I long to see.
  
  Below the stars, beyond the moon,
  Between the night and day
  I heard a rising falling tune
  Calling me:
  I long to see the pipes and strings
  Whereon such minstrels play;
  I long to see each face that sings,
  I long to see.
  
  Today or may be not today,
  Tonight or not tonight,
  All voices that command or pray
  Calling me,
  Shall kindle in my soul such fire
  And in my eyes such light
  That I shall see that heart's desire
  I long to see.

• A House Of Cards Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A house of cards
  Is neat and small:
  Shake the table,
  It must fall.
  
  Find the Court cards
  One by one;
  Raise it, roof it, -
  Now it's done: -
  Shake the table!
  That's the fun.

• A Linnet In A Gilded Cage Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A linnet in a gilded cage, -
  A linnet on a bough, -
  In frosty winter one might doubt
  Which bird is luckier now.
  
  But let the trees burst out in leaf,
  And nests be on the bough,
  Which linnet is the luckier bird,
  Oh who could doubt it now?

• A Motherless Soft Lambkin Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A motherless soft lambkin
  Along upon a hill;
  No mother's fleece to shelter him
  And wrap him from the cold: -
  I'll run to him and comfort him,
  I'll fetch him, that I will;
  I'll care for him and feed him
  Until he's strong and bold.

• A Pause Read Poem Log in to favourite

  They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves,
  And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay;
  While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way.
  
  I did not hear the birds about the eaves,
  Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves:
  Only my soul kept watch from day to day,
  My thirsty soul kept watch for one away:—
  Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves.
  
  At length there came the step upon the stair,
  Upon the lock the old familiar hand:
  Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air
  Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand
  Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair
  Put on a glory,and my soul expand.

• A Pause Of Thought Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
  And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth:
  But years must pass before a hope of youth
  Is resigned utterly.
  
  I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
  And though the object seemed to flee away
  That I so longed for, ever day by day
  I watched and waited still.
  
  Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more;
  My expectation wearies and shall cease;
  I will resign it now and be at peace:
  Yet never gave it o'er.
  
  Sometimes I said: It is an empty name
  I long for; to a name why should I give
  The peace of all the days I have to live?
  
  —
  Yet gave it all the same.
  
  Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit
  For healthy joy and salutary pain:
  Thou knowest the chase useless, and again
  Turnest to follow it.

• A Peal Of Bells Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Strike the bells wantonly,
  Tinkle tinkle well;
  Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
  Ring the silver bell.
  
  All my lamps burn scented oil,
  Hung on laden orange-trees,
  Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
  To golden lamps and oranges.
  
  Heap my golden plates with fruit,
  Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
  Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
  Shut out showers from summer hours—
  Silence that complaining lute—
  Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
  From hours that cannot come again.
  
  Strike the bells solemnly,
  Ding dong deep:
  My friend is passing to his bed,
  Fast asleep;
  There's plaited linen round his head,
  While foremost go his feet—
  His feet that cannot carry him.
  
  My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
  Be still, your music is not sweet,—
  There is no music more for him:
  His lights are out, his feast is done;
  His bowl that sparkled to the brim
  Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
  My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
  His death is full, and mine begun.

• A Pin Has A Head, But Has No Hair Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A pin has a head, but has no hair;
  A clock has a face, but no mouth there;
  Needles have eyes, but they cannot see;
  A fly has a trunk without lock or key;
  A timepiece may lose, but cannot win;
  A corn-field dimples without a chin;
  A hill has no leg, but has a foot;
  A wine-glass a stem, but not a root;
  A watch has hands, but no thumb or finger;
  A boot has a tongue, but is no singer;
  Rivers run, though they have no feet;
  A saw has teeth, but it does not eat;
  Ash-trees have keys, yet never a lock;
  And baby crows, without being a cock.

• A Pocket Handkerchief To Hem Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A pocket handkerchief to hem -
  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
  How many stitches it will take
  Before it's done, I fear.
  
  Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
  And stitch and stitch away,
  Till stitch by stitch the hem is done -
  And after work is play!

• A Portrait Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  She gave up beauty in her tender youth,
  Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways;
  She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze
  On vanity, and chose the bitter truth.
  
  Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth,
  Servant of servants, little known to praise,
  Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days:
  She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth
  That with the poor and stricken she might make
  A home, until the least of all sufficed
  Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake,
  Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss.
  
  So with calm will she chose and bore the cross
  And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.
  
  II
  They knelt in silent anguish by her bed,
  And could not weep; but calmly there she lay.
  
  All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray
  Shone through upon her, warming into red
  The shady curtains.
  
  In her heart she said:
  'Heaven opens; I leave these and go away;
  The Bridegroom calls,—shall the Bride seek to stay?
  
  '
  Then low upon her breast she bowed her head.
  
  O lily flower, O gem of priceless worth,
  O dove with patient voice and patient eyes,
  O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth,
  O maid replete with loving purities,
  Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth
  To raise it with the saints in Paradise.

• A Ring Posy Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Jess and Jill are pretty girls,
  Plump and well to do,
  In a cloud of windy curls:
  Yet I know who
  Loves me more than curls or pearls.
  
  I'm not pretty, not a bit—
  Thin and sallow-pale;
  When I trudge along the street
  I don't need a veil:
  Yet I have one fancy hit.
  
  Jess and Jill can trill and sing
  With a flute-like voice,
  Dance as light as bird on wing,
  Laugh for careless joys:
  Yet it's I who wear the ring.
  
  Jess and Jill will mate some day,
  Surely, surely:
  Ripen on to June through May,
  While the sun shines make their hay,
  Slacken steps demurely:
  Yet even there I lead the way.

• A Ring Upon Her Finger Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A ring upon her finger,
  Walks the bride,
  With the bridegroom tall and handsome
  At her side.
  
  A veil upon her forehead
  Walks the bride,
  With the bridegroom proud and merry
  At her side.
  
  Fling flowers beneath the footsteps
  Of the bride;
  Fling flowers before the bridegroom
  At her side.

• A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A rose has thorns as well as honey,
  I'll not have her for love or money;
  An iris grows so straight and fine,
  That she shall be no friend of mine;
  Snowdrops like the snow would chill me;
  Nightshade would caress and kill me;
  Crocus like a spear would fright me;
  Dragon's-mouth might bark or bite me;
  Convolvulus but blooms to die;
  A wind-flower suggests a sigh;
  Love-lies-bleeding makes me sad;
  And poppy-juice would drive me mad: -
  But give me holly, bold and jolly,
  Honest, prickly, shining holly;
  Pluck me holly leaf and berry
  For the day when I make merry.

• A Royal Princess Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,
  Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,
  For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.
  
  Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,
  Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;
  Me, poor dove, that must not coo—eagle that must not soar.
  
  All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow
  Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow
  That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.
  
  All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace
  Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,
  Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.
  
  Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,
  Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne;
  There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.
  
  Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;
  My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend—
  O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?
  
  As I am a lofty princess, so my father is
  A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties,
  Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.
  
  He has quarrelled with his neighbours, he has scourged his foes;
  Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes,
  Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,
  On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state
  To break the strength of armies and topple down the great:
  Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.
  
  My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen
  So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;
  These for slaughter, these for breeding, with the how and when.
  
  Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;
  Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips;
  Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.
  
  Once it came into my heart, and whelmed me like a flood,
  That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;
  Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.
  
  Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay:
  On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of grey,
  My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.
  
  I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place,
  My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais:
  A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;
  It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon,
  Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known,
  They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?
  
  The singing men and women sang that night as usual,
  The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall,
  A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.
  
  Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;
  My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept
  To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.
  
  I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on,
  They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon,
  They lit my shaded silver lamp, and left me there alone.
  
  A day went by, a week went by.
  
  One day I heard it said:
  'Men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed;
  Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread.
  
  '
  So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,
  Vulgar naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;
  Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.
  
  But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:
  'There are families out grazing like cattle in the park.
  
  '
  'A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark.
  
  '
  A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;
  One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;
  One was my youngest maid as sweet and white as cream in May.
  
  Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp;
  Voices said: 'Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp
  To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp.
  
  '
  'Howl and stamp?
  
  ' one answered: 'They made free to hurl a stone
  At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.
  
  '
  'There's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.
  
  '
  'One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,
  Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:
  Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.
  
  '
  'After us the deluge,' was retorted with a laugh:
  'If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff.
  
  '
  'While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff.
  
  '
  These passed.
  
  The king: stand up.
  
  Said my father with a smile:
  'Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile,
  She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?
  
  '
  He too left me.
  
  Shall I touch my harp now while I wait,—
  (I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate—)
  Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;
  Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,
  There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;
  Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?
  
  Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:
  'Charge!' a clash of steel: 'Charge again, the rebels stand.
  
  Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand.
  
  '
  There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;
  A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;
  I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.
  
  'Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,
  You who sat to see us starve,' one shrieking woman said:
  'Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head.
  
  '
  Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,
  I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,
  I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;
  With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,
  I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand
  Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.
  
  They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;
  I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;
  I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:
  Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show
  The lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know.
  
  I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

• A Study (A Soul) Read Poem Log in to favourite

  She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
  Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
  And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
  And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
  
  Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
  For dim beyond it looms the light of day;
  Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
  That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.
  
  She stands there like a beacon thro' the night,
  A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
  She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;
  She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
  Indomitable in her feebleness,
  Her face and will athirst against the light.

• A Summer Wish Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Live all thy sweet life through,
  Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
  Drop down thine evening dew
  To gather it anew
  When day is bright:
  I fancy thou wast meant
  Chiefly to give delight.
  
  Sing in the silent sky,
  Glad soaring bird;
  Sing out thy notes on high
  To sunbeam straying by
  Or passing cloud;
  Heedless if thou art heard
  Sing thy full song aloud.
  
  Oh that it were with me
  As with the flower;
  Blooming on its own tree
  For butterfly and bee
  Its summer morns:
  That I might bloom mine hour
  A rose in spite of thorns.
  
  Oh that my work were done
  As birds' that soar
  Rejoicing in the sun:
  That when my time is run
  And daylight too,
  I so might rest once more
  Cool with refreshing dew.

• A Testimony Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I said of laughter: it is vain.
  
  Of mirth I said: what profits it?
  
  Therefore I found a book, and writ
  Therein how ease and also pain,
  How health and sickness, every one
  Is vanity beneath the sun.
  
  Man walks in a vain shadow; he
  Disquieteth himself in vain.
  
  The things that were shall be again;
  The rivers do not fill the sea,
  But turn back to their secret source;
  The winds too turn upon their course.
  
  Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,
  Or thieves break through and steal, or they
  Make themselves wings and fly away.
  
  One man made merry as he supped,
  Nor guessed how when that night grew dim,
  His soul would be required of him.
  
  We build our houses on the sand
  Comely withoutside and within;
  But when the winds and rains begin
  To beat on them, they cannot stand;
  They perish, quickly overthrown,
  Loose from the very basement stone.
  
  All things are vanity, I said:
  Yea vanity of vanities.
  
  The rich man dies; and the poor dies:
  The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.
  
  Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:
  All in the end shall have but dust.
  
  The one inheritance, which best
  And worst alike shall find and share:
  The wicked cease from troubling there,
  And there the weary are at rest;
  There all the wisdom of the wise
  Is vanity of vanities.
  
  Man flourishes as a green leaf,
  And as a leaf doth pass away;
  Or as a shade that cannot stay,
  And leaves no track, his course is brief:
  Yet doth man hope and fear and plan
  Till he is dead:—oh foolish man!
  Our eyes cannot be satisfied
  With seeing, nor our ears be filled
  With hearing: yet we plant and build
  And buy and make our borders wide;
  We gather wealth, we gather care,
  But know not who shall be our heir.
  
  Why should we hasten to arise
  So early, and so late take rest?
  
  Our labour is not good; our best
  Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:
  Verily, we sow wind; and we
  Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.
  
  He who hath little shall not lack;
  He who hath plenty shall decay:
  Our fathers went; we pass away;
  Our children follow on our track:
  So generations fail, and so
  They are renewed, and come and go.
  
  The earth is fattened with our dead;
  She swallows more and doth not cease:
  Therefore her wine and oil increase
  And her sheaves are not numbered;
  Therefore her plants are green, and all
  Her pleasant trees lusty and tall.
  
  Therefore the maidens cease to sing,
  And the young men are very sad;
  Therefore the sowing is not glad,
  And mournful is the harvesting.
  
  Of high and low, of great and small,
  Vanity is the lot of all.
  
  A King dwelt in Jerusalem;
  He was the wisest man on earth;
  He had all riches from his birth,
  And pleasures till he tired of them;
  Then, having tested all things, he
  Witnessed that all are vanity.

• A Toadstool Comes Up In A Night Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A toadstool comes up in a night, -
  Learn the lesson, little folk: -
  An oak grows on a hundred years,
  But then it is an oak.

• A Triad Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Three sang of love together: one with lips
  Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
  Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
  And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
  Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
  And one was blue with famine after love,
  Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
  The burden of what those were singing of.
  
  One shamed herself in love; one temperately
  Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
  One famished died for love.
  
  Thus two of three
  Took death for love and won him after strife;
  One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
  All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

• A White Hen Sitting Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A white hen sitting
  On white eggs three:
  Next, three speckled chickens
  As plump as plump can be.
  
  An owl, and a hawk,
  And a bat come to see:
  But chicks beneath their mother's wing
  Squat safe as safe can be.

• A Year’s Windfalls Read Poem Log in to favourite

  On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
  Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow.
  
  Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
  Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.
  
  On the wind in February
  Snowflakes float still,
  Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill.
  
  Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:—
  If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be!
  In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
  Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown.
  
  With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
  We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.
  
  With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
  On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall.
  
  Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink,
  Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.
  
  Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
  While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours.
  
  Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
  Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat.
  
  In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
  Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
  White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
  And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.
  
  On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail,
  From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
  
  Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
  Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.
  
  In the parching August wind
  Corn-fields bow the head,
  Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread.
  
  Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
  First fruits of the year's decay
  From the withering trees.
  
  In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
  Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
  Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked,
  Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.
  
  In strong blast of October
  At the equinox,
  Stirred up in his hollow bed
  Broad ocean rocks;
  Plunge the ships on his bosom,
  Leaps and plunges the foam,—
  It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,
  That they were safe at home.
  
  In slack wind of November
  The fog forms and shifts;
  All the world comes out again
  When the fog lifts.
  
  Loosened from their sapless twigs
  Leaves drop with every gust;
  Drifting, rustling, out of sight
  In the damp or dust.
  
  Last of all, December,
  The year's sands nearly run,
  Speeds on the shortest day,
  Curtails the sun;
  With its bleak raw wind
  Lays the last leaves low,
  Brings back the nightly frosts,
  Brings back the snow.

• Advent Read Poem Log in to favourite

  This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
  These Advent nights are long;
  Our lamps have burned year after year
  And still their flame is strong.
  
  'Watchman, what of the night?
  
  ' we cry,
  Heart-sick with hope deferred:
  'No speaking signs are in the sky,'
  Is still the watchman's word.
  
  The Porter watches at the gate,
  The servants watch within;
  The watch is long betimes and late,
  The prize is slow to win.
  
  'Watchman, what of the night?
  
  ' But still
  His answer sounds the same:
  'No daybreak tops the utmost hill,
  Nor pale our lamps of flame.
  
  '
  One to another hear them speak
  The patient virgins wise:
  'Surely He is not far to seek'—
  'All night we watch and rise.
  
  '
  'The days are evil looking back,
  The coming days are dim;
  Yet count we not His promise slack,
  But watch and wait for Him.
  
  '
  One with another, soul with soul,
  They kindle fire from fire:
  'Friends watch us who have touched the goal.
  
  '
  'They urge us, come up higher.
  
  '
  'With them shall rest our waysore feet,
  With them is built our home,
  With Christ.
  
  '—'They sweet, but He most sweet,
  Sweeter than honeycomb.
  
  '
  There no more parting, no more pain,
  The distant ones brought near,
  The lost so long are found again,
  Long lost but longer dear:
  Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
  Nor heart conceived that rest,
  With them our good things long deferred,
  With Jesus Christ our Best.
  
  We weep because the night is long,
  We laugh for day shall rise,
  We sing a slow contented song
  And knock at Paradise.
  
  Weeping we hold Him fast, Who wept
  For us, we hold Him fast;
  And will not let Him go except
  He bless us first or last.
  
  Weeping we hold Him fast to-night;
  We will not let Him go
  Till daybreak smite our wearied sight
  And summer smite the snow:
  Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove
  Shall coo the livelong day;
  Then He shall say, 'Arise, My love,
  My fair one, come away.
  
  '

• After Death Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
  And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
  Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
  Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
  
  He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
  And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
  'Poor child, poor child:' and as he turned away
  Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
  
  He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
  That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
  Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
  He did not love me living; but once dead
  He pitied me; and very sweet it is
  To know he still is warm though I am cold.

• After This The Judgement Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As eager homebound traveller to the goal,
  Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,
  Or martyr panting for an aureole,
  My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attain
  That hidden mansion of perpetual peace
  Where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain:
  That gate stands open of perennial ease;
  I view the glory till I partly long,
  Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these.
  
  O passing Angel, speed me with a song,
  A melody of heaven to reach my heart
  And rouse me to the race and make me strong;
  Till in such music I take up my part
  Swelling those Hallelujahs full of rest,
  One, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art,
  Fulfilling north and south and east and west,
  Thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable,
  All blent in one yet each one manifest;
  Each one distinguished and beloved as well
  As if no second voice in earth or heaven
  Were lifted up the Love of God to tell.
  
  Ah, Love of God, which Thine own Self hast given
  To me most poor, and made me rich in love,
  Love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven,
  Draw Thou mine eyes, draw Thou my heart above,
  My treasure ad my heart store Thou in Thee,
  Brood over me with yearnings of a dove;
  Be Husband, Brother, closest Friend to me;
  Love me as very mother loves her son,
  Her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee:
  Yea, more than mother loves her little one;
  For, earthly, even a mother may forget
  And feel no pity for its piteous moan;
  But thou, O Love of God, remember yet,
  Through the dry desert, through the waterflood
  (Life, death) until the Great White Throne is set.
  
  If now I am sick in chewing the bitter cud
  Of sweet past sin, though solaced by Thy grace
  And ofttimes strengthened by Thy Flesh and Blood,
  How shall I then stand up before Thy face
  When from Thine eyes repentance shall be hid
  And utmost Justice stand in Mercy's place:
  When every sin I thought or spoke or did
  Shall meet me at the inexorable bar,
  And there be no man standing in the mid
  To plead for me; while star fallen after star
  With heaven and earth are like a ripened shock,
  And all time's mighty works and wonders are
  Consumed as in a moment; when no rock
  Remains to fall on me, no tree to hide,
  But I stand all creation's gazing-stock
  Exposed and comfortless on every side,
  Placed trembling in the final balances
  Whose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried?
  
  —
  Ah Love of God, if greater love than this
  Hath no man, that a man die for his friend,
  And if such love of love Thine Own Love is,
  Plead with Thyself, with me, before the end;
  Redeem me from the irrevocable past;
  Pitch Thou Thy Presence round me to defend;
  Yea seek with pierced feet, yea hold me fast
  With pierced hands whose wounds were made by love;
  Not what I am, remember what Thou wast
  When darkness hid from Thee Thy heavens above,
  And sin Thy Father's Face, while thou didst drink
  The bitter cup of death, didst taste thereof
  For every man; while Thou wast nigh to sink
  Beneath the intense intolerable rod,
  Grown sick of love; not what I am, but think
  Thy Life then ransomed mine, my God, my God.

• All The Bells Were Ringing Read Poem Log in to favourite

  All the bells were ringing
  And all the birds were singing,
  When Molly sat down crying
  For her broken doll:
  O you silly Moll!
  Sobbing and sighing
  For a broken doll,
  When all the bells are ringing
  And all the birds are singing.

• Aloof Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THE irresponsive silence of the land,
  The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
  Speak both one message of one sense to me:—
  Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
  Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band
  Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
  But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
  
  What heart shall touch thy heart?
  
  What hand thy hand?
  
  And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
  And sometimes I remember days of old
  When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,
  And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,
  And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
  And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

• Amen Read Poem Log in to favourite

  It is over.
  
  What is over?
  
  Nay, now much is over truly!—
  Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
  Now the sheaves are gathered newly,
  Now the wheat is garnered duly.
  
  It is finished.
  
  What is finished?
  
  Much is finished known or unknown:
  Lives are finished; time diminished;
  Was the fallow field left unsown?
  
  Will these buds be always unblown?
  
  It suffices.
  
  What suffices?
  
  All suffices reckoned rightly:
  Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
  Roses make the bramble sightly,
  And the quickening sun shine brightly,
  And the latter wind blow lightly,
  And my garden teem with spices.
  
  Maiden-Song
  Long ago and long ago,
  And long ago still,
  There dwelt three merry maidens
  Upon a distant hill.
  
  One was tall Meggan,
  And one was dainty May,
  But one was fair Margaret,
  More fair than I can say,
  Long ago and long ago.
  
  When Meggan plucked the thorny rose,
  And when May pulled the brier,
  Half the birds would swoop to see,
  Half the beasts draw nigher;
  Half the fishes of the streams
  Would dart up to admire:
  But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,
  Or poppy hot aflame,
  All the beasts and all the birds
  And all the fishes came
  To her hand more soft than snow.
  
  Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  In brisk morning air,
  Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  Make maidens fair.
  
  'I go for strawberry leaves,'
  Meggan said one day:
  'Fair Margaret can bide at home,
  But you come with me, May;
  Up the hill and down the hill,
  Along the winding way
  You and I are used to go.
  
  '
  So these two fair sisters
  Went with innocent will
  Up the hill and down again,
  And round the homestead hill:
  While the fairest sat at home,
  Margaret like a queen,
  Like a blush-rose, like the moon
  In her heavenly sheen,
  Fragrant-breathed as milky cow
  Or field of blossoming bean,
  Graceful as an ivy bough
  Born to cling and lean;
  Thus she sat to sing and sew.
  
  When she raised her lustrous eyes
  A beast peeped at the door;
  When she downward cast her eyes
  A fish gasped on the floor;
  When she turned away her eyes
  A bird perched on the sill,
  Warbling out its heart of love,
  Warbling warbling still,
  With pathetic pleadings low.
  
  Light-foot May with Meggan
  Sought the choicest spot,
  Clothed with thyme-alternate grass:
  Then, while day waxed hot,
  Sat at ease to play and rest,
  A gracious rest and play;
  The loveliest maidens near or far,
  When Margaret was away,
  Who sat at home to sing and sew.
  
  Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks,
  Wind-play tossed their hair,
  Creeping things among the grass
  Stroked them here and there;
  Meggan piped a merry note,
  A fitful wayward lay,
  While shrill as bird on topmost twig
  Piped merry May;
  Honey-smooth the double flow.
  
  Sped a herdsman from the vale,
  Mounting like a flame,
  All on fire to hear and see,
  With floating locks he came.
  
  Looked neither north nor south,
  Neither east nor west,
  But sat him down at Meggan's feet
  As love-bird on his nest,
  And wooed her with a silent awe,
  With trouble not expressed;
  She sang the tears into his eyes,
  The heart out of his breast:
  So he loved her, listening so.
  
  She sang the heart out of his breast,
  The words out of his tongue;
  Hand and foot and pulse he paused
  Till her song was sung.
  
  Then he spoke up from his place
  Simple words and true:
  'Scanty goods have I to give,
  Scanty skill to woo;
  But I have a will to work,
  And a heart for you:
  Bid me stay or bid me go.
  
  '
  Then Meggan mused within herself:
  'Better be first with him,
  Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits,
  Who shines my brightness dim,
  For ever second where she sits,
  However fair I be:
  I will be lady of his love,
  And he shall worship me;
  I will be lady of his herds
  And stoop to his degree,
  At home where kids and fatlings grow.
  
  '
  Sped a shepherd from the height
  Headlong down to look,
  (White lambs followed, lured by love
  Of their shepherd's crook):
  He turned neither east nor west,
  Neither north nor south,
  But knelt right down to May, for love
  Of her sweet-singing mouth;
  Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks
  In parching hill-side drouth;
  Forgot himself for weal or woe.
  
  Trilled her song and swelled her song
  With maiden coy caprice
  In a labyrinth of throbs,
  Pauses, cadences;
  Clear-noted as a dropping brook,
  Soft-noted like the bees,
  Wild-noted as the shivering wind
  Forlorn through forest trees:
  Love-noted like the wood-pigeon
  Who hides herself for love,
  Yet cannot keep her secret safe,
  But coos and coos thereof:
  Thus the notes rang loud or low.
  
  He hung breathless on her breath;
  Speechless, who listened well;
  Could not speak or think or wish
  Till silence broke the spell.
  
  Then he spoke, and spread his hands,
  Pointing here and there:
  'See my sheep and see the lambs,
  Twin lambs which they bare.
  
  All myself I offer you,
  All my flocks and care,
  Your sweet song hath moved me so.
  
  '
  In her fluttered heart young May
  Mused a dubious while:
  'If he loves me as he says'—
  Her lips curved with a smile:
  'Where Margaret shines like the sun
  I shine but like a moon;
  If sister Meggan makes her choice
  I can make mine as soon;
  At cockcrow we were sister-maids,
  We may be brides at noon.
  
  '
  Said Meggan, 'Yes;' May said not 'No.
  
  '
  Fair Margaret stayed alone at home,
  Awhile she sang her song,
  Awhile sat silent, then she thought:
  'My sisters loiter long.
  
  '
  That sultry noon had waned away,
  Shadows had waxen great:
  'Surely,' she thought within herself,
  'My sisters loiter late.
  
  '
  She rose, and peered out at the door,
  With patient heart to wait,
  And heard a distant nightingale
  Complaining of its mate;
  Then down the garden slope she walked,
  Down to the garden gate,
  Leaned on the rail and waited so.
  
  The slope was lightened by her eyes
  Like summer lightning fair,
  Like rising of the haloed moon
  Lightened her glimmering hair,
  While her face lightened like the sun
  Whose dawn is rosy white.
  
  Thus crowned with maiden majesty
  She peered into the night,
  Looked up the hill and down the hill,
  To left hand and to right,
  Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.
  
  Waiting thus in weariness
  She marked the nightingale
  Telling, if any one would heed,
  Its old complaining tale.
  
  Then lifted she her voice and sang,
  Answering the bird:
  Then lifted she her voice and sang,
  Such notes were never heard
  From any bird when Spring's in blow.
  
  The king of all that country
  Coursing far, coursing near,
  Curbed his amber-bitted steed,
  Coursed amain to hear;
  All his princes in his train,
  Squire, and knight, and peer,
  With his crown upon his head,
  His sceptre in his hand,
  Down he fell at Margaret's knees
  Lord king of all that land,
  To her highness bending low.
  
  Every beast and bird and fish
  Came mustering to the sound,
  Every man and every maid
  From miles of country round:
  Meggan on her herdsman's arm,
  With her shepherd May,
  Flocks and herds trooped at their heels
  Along the hill-side way;
  No foot too feeble for the ascent,
  Not any head too grey;
  Some were swift and none were slow.
  
  So Margaret sang her sisters home
  In their marriage mirth;
  Sang free birds out of the sky,
  Beasts along the earth,
  Sang up fishes of the deep—
  All breathing things that move
  Sang from far and sang from near
  To her lovely love;
  Sang together friend and foe;
  Sang a golden-bearded king
  Straightway to her feet,
  Sang him silent where he knelt
  In eager anguish sweet.
  
  But when the clear voice died away,
  When longest echoes died,
  He stood up like a royal man
  And claimed her for his bride.
  
  So three maids were wooed and won
  In a brief May-tide,
  Long ago and long ago.
  
  JESSIE CAMERON
  'Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
  Hear me but this once,' quoth he.
  
  'Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
  But I'm no mate for you,' quoth she.
  
  Day was verging toward the night
  There beside the moaning sea,
  Dimness overtook the light
  There where the breakers be.
  
  'O Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
  I have loved you long and true.
  
  '—
  'Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
  But I'm no mate for you.
  
  '
  She was a careless, fearless girl,
  And made her answer plain,
  Outspoken she to earl or churl,
  Kindhearted in the main,
  But somewhat heedless with her tongue,
  And apt at causing pain;
  A mirthful maiden she and young,
  Most fair for bliss or bane.
  
  'Oh, long ago I told you so,
  I tell you so to-day:
  Go you your way, and let me go
  Just my own free way.
  
  '
  The sea swept in with moan and foam,
  Quickening the stretch of sand;
  They stood almost in sight of home;
  He strove to take her hand.
  
  'Oh, can't you take your answer then,
  And won't you understand?
  
  For me you're not the man of men,
  I've other plans are planned.
  
  You're good for Madge, or good for Cis,
  Or good for Kate, may be:
  But what's to me the good of this
  While you're not good for me?
  
  '
  They stood together on the beach,
  They two alone,
  And louder waxed his urgent speech,
  His patience almost gone:
  'Oh, say but one kind word to me,
  Jessie, Jessie Cameron.
  
  '—
  'I'd be too proud to beg,' quoth she,
  And pride was in her tone.
  
  And pride was in her lifted head,
  And in her angry eye
  And in her foot, which might have fled,
  But would not fly.
  
  Some say that he had gipsy blood;
  That in his heart was guile:
  Yet he had gone through fire and flood
  Only to win her smile.
  
  Some say his grandam was a witch,
  A black witch from beyond the Nile,
  Who kept an image in a niche
  And talked with it the while.
  
  And by her hut far down the lane
  Some say they would not pass at night,
  Lest they should hear an unked strain
  Or see an unked sight.
  
  Alas, for Jessie Cameron!—
  The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher:
  She should have hastened to begone,—
  The sea swept higher, breaking by her:
  She should have hastened to her home
  While yet the west was flushed with fire,
  But now her feet are in the foam,
  The sea-foam, sweeping higher.
  
  O mother, linger at your door,
  And light your lamp to make it plain,
  But Jessie she comes home no more,
  No more again.
  
  They stood together on the strand,
  They only, each by each;
  Home, her home, was close at hand,
  Utterly out of reach.
  
  Her mother in the chimney nook
  Heard a startled sea-gull screech,
  But never turned her head to look
  Towards the darkening beach:
  Neighbours here and neighbours there
  Heard one scream, as if a bird
  Shrilly screaming cleft the air:—
  That was all they heard.
  
  Jessie she comes home no more,
  Comes home never;
  Her lover's step sounds at his door
  No more forever.
  
  And boats may search upon the sea
  And search along the river,
  But none know where the bodies be:
  Sea-winds that shiver,
  Sea-birds that breast the blast,
  Sea-waves swelling,
  Keep the secret first and last
  Of their dwelling.
  
  Whether the tide so hemmed them round
  With its pitiless flow,
  That when they would have gone they found
  No way to go;
  Whether she scorned him to the last
  With words flung to and fro,
  Or clung to him when hope was past,
  None will ever know:
  Whether he helped or hindered her,
  Threw up his life or lost it well,
  The troubled sea, for all its stir
  Finds no voice to tell.
  
  Only watchers by the dying
  Have thought they heard one pray
  Wordless, urgent; and replying
  One seem to say him nay:
  And watchers by the dead have heard
  A windy swell from miles away,
  With sobs and screams, but not a word
  Distinct for them to say:
  And watchers out at sea have caught
  Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there,
  Come and gone as quick as thought,
  Which might be hand or hair.

• Amor Mundi Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Oh, where are you going with your love-locks flowing
  On the west wind blowing along this valley track?
  
  '
  'The downhill path is easy, come with me an' it please ye,
  We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.
  
  '
  So they two went together in glowing August weather,
  The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
  And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on
  The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
  
  'Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,
  Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?
  
  '
  'Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,—
  An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.
  
  '
  'Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,
  Their scent comes rich and sickly?
  
  '—'A scaled and hooded worm.
  
  '
  'Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?
  
  '
  'Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits th' eternal term.
  
  '
  'Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:
  This way whereof thou weetest I fear is hell's own track.
  
  '
  'Nay, too steep for hill-mounting,—nay, too late for cost-counting:
  This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.
  
  '

• An Apple-Gathering Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
  And wore them all that evening in my hair:
  Then in due season when I went to see
  I found no apples there.
  
  With dangling basket all along the grass
  As I had come I went the selfsame track:
  My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
  So empty-handed back.
  
  Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
  Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer;
  Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
  Their mother's home was near.
  
  Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
  A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
  A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool
  More sweet to me than song.
  
  Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
  Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
  
  I counted rosiest apples on the earth
  Of far less worth than love.
  
  So once it was with me you stooped to talk
  Laughing and listening in this very lane:
  To think that by this way we used to walk
  We shall not walk again!
  I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
  And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
  And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
  Fell fast I loitered still.

• An Echo from Willowood Read Poem Log in to favourite

  “Oh Ye, All Ye That Walk in Willowwood”
  Two gaz’d into a pool, he gaz’d and she,
  Not hand in hand, yet heart in heart, I think,
  Pale and reluctant on the water’s brink
  AS on the brink of parting which must be.
  
  Each eyed the other’s aspect, she and he,
  Each felt one hungering heart leap up and sink,
  Each tasted bitterness which both must drink,
  There on the brink of life’s dividing sea.
  
  Lilies upon the surface, deep below
  Two wistful faces craving each for each,
  Resolute and reluctant without speech:—
  A sudden ripple made the faces flow
  One moment join’d, to vanish out of reach:
  So these hearts join’d, and ah! were parted so.

• An Emerald Is As Green As Grass Read Poem Log in to favourite

  An emerald is as green as grass;
  A ruby red as blood;
  A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
  A flint lies in the mud.
  
  A diamond is a brilliant stone,
  To catch the world's desire;
  An opal holds a fiery spark;
  But a flint holds fire.

• An End Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Love, strong as Death, is dead.
  
  Come, let us make his bed
  Among the dying flowers:
  A green turf at his head;
  And a stone at his feet,
  Whereon we may sit
  In the quiet evening hours.
  
  He was born in the Spring,
  And died before the harvesting:
  On the last warm summer day
  He left us; he would not stay
  For Autumn twilight cold and grey.
  
  Sit we by his grave, and sing
  He is gone away.
  
  To few chords and sad and low
  Sing we so:
  Be our eyes fixed on the grass
  Shadow-veiled as the years pass
  While we think of all that was
  In the long ago.

• An October Garden Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In my Autumn garden I was fain
  To mourn among my scattered roses;
  Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
  To Autumn's languid sun and rain
  When all the world is on the wane!
  Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
  Nor heard the nightingale in tune.
  
  Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
  You are but coarse compared with roses:
  More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
  Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
  That least and last which cold winds balk;
  A rose it is though least and last of all,
  A rose to me though at the fall.

• Angels At The Foot Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Angels at the foot,
  And Angels at the head,
  And like a curly little lamb
  My pretty babe in bed.

• Another Spring Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If I might see another Spring
  I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
  I'd have my crocuses at once
  My leafless pink mezereons,
  My chill-veined snow-drops, choicer yet
  My white or azure violet,
  Leaf-nested primrose; anything
  To blow at once, not late.
  
  If I might see another Spring
  I'd listen to the daylight birds
  That build their nests and pair and sing,
  Nor wait for mateless nightingale;
  I'd listen to the lusty herds,
  The ewes with lambs as white as snow,
  I'd find out music in the hail
  And all the winds that blow.
  
  If I might see another Spring -
  Oh stinging comment on my past
  That all my past results in ‘if’ -
  If I might see another Spring
  I'd laugh today, today is brief
  I would not wait for anything:
  I'd use today that cannot last,
  Be glad today and sing.

• At Home Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I was dead, my spirit turned
  To seek the much-frequented house:
  I passed the door, and saw my friends
  Feasting beneath green orange boughs;
  From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
  They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
  They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
  For each was loved of each.
  
  I listened to their honest chat:
  Said one: ‘To-morrow we shall be
  Plod plod along the featureless sands,
  And coasting miles and miles of sea.
  
  ’
  Said one: ‘Before the turn of tide
  We will achieve the eyrie-seat.
  
  ’
  Said one: ‘To-morrow shall be like
  To-day, but much more sweet.
  
  ’
  ‘To-morrow,’ said they, strong with hope,
  And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
  ‘To-morrow,’ cried they, one and all,
  While no one spoke of yesterday.
  
  Their life stood full at blessed noon;
  I, only I, had passed away:
  ‘To-morrow and to-day,’ they cried;
  I was of yesterday.
  
  I shivered comfortless, but cast
  No chill across the table-cloth;
  I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
  To stay, and yet to part how loth:
  I passed from the familiar room,
  I who from love had passed away,
  Like the remembrance of a guest
  That tarrieth but a day.

• Autumn Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I dwell alone - I dwell alone, alone,
  Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
  Gilded with flashing boats
  That bring no friend to me:
  O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
  O love-pangs, let me be.
  
  Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
  And spices bear to sea:
  Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
  Love-promising, entreating -
  Ah! sweet, but fleeting -
  Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
  
  Hush! the wind flags and fails -
  Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand -
  Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
  Their songs wake singing echoes in my land -
  They cannot hear me moan.
  
  One latest, solitary swallow flies
  Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,
  Poor bird, shall it be lost?
  
  Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
  With no kind eyes
  To watch it while it dies,
  Unguessed, uncared for, free:
  Set free at last,
  The short pang past,
  In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
  
  Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
  Some rent by thunder strokes,
  Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;
  Fair fall my fertile trees,
  That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
  
  A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
  He catches down and foolish painted flies,
  That spider wary and wise.
  
  Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
  Betwixt boughs green with sap,
  So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
  I will not mar the web,
  Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
  
  It shakes - my trees shake - for a wind is roused
  In cavern where it housed:
  Each white and quivering sail,
  Of boats among the water leaves
  Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
  Each maiden sings again -
  Each languid maiden, whom the calm
  Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm
  Miles down my river to the sea
  They float and wane,
  Long miles away from me.
  
  Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves,
  Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.
  
  ’
  Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
  More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.
  
  ’
  Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
  More, and we stand,
  Face to face, hand in hand;
  Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’
  My trees are not in flower,
  I have no bower,
  And gusty creaks my tower,
  And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

• Autumn Violets Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
  Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
  Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
  Their own, and others dropped down withering;
  For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
  Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
  Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
  But when the green world buds to blossoming.
  
  Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
  Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
  Or if a later sadder love be born,
  Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
  But give itself, nor plead for answering truth—
  A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.

• Baby Cry Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Baby cry -
  Oh fie! -
  At the physic in the cup:
  Gulp it twice
  And gulp it thrice,
  Baby gulp it up.

• Baby Lies So Fast Asleep Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Baby lies so fast asleep
  That we cannot wake her:
  Will the angels clad in white
  Fly from heaven to take her?
  
  Baby lies so fast asleep
  That no pain can grieve her;
  Put a snowdrop in her hand,
  Kiss her once and leave her.

• Beauty Is Vain Read Poem Log in to favourite

  While roses are so red,
  While lilies are so white,
  Shall a woman exalt her face
  Because it gives delight?
  
  She's not so sweet as a rose,
  A lily's straighter than she,
  And if she were as red or white
  She'd be but one of three.
  
  Whether she flush in love's summer
  Or in its winter grow pale,
  Whether she flaunt her beauty
  Or hide it away in a veil,
  Be she red or white,
  And stand she erect or bowed,
  Time will win the race he runs with her
  And hide her away in a shroud.

• Before The Paling Of The Stars Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Before the winter morn,
  Before the earliest cock crow,
  Jesus Christ was born:
  Born in a stable,
  Cradled in a manger,
  In the world his hands had made
  Born a stranger.
  
  Priest and king lay fast asleep
  In Jerusalem;
  Young and old lay fast asleep
  In crowded Bethlehem;
  Saint and angel, ox and ass,
  Kept a watch together
  Before the Christmas daybreak
  In the winter weather.
  
  Jesus on his mother's breast
  In the stable cold,
  Spotless lamb of God was he,
  Shepherd of the fold:
  Let us kneel with Mary maid,
  With Joseph bent and hoary,
  With saint and angel, ox and ass,
  To hail the King of Glory.

• Beneath Thy Cross Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
  That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross,
  To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
  And yet not weep?
  
  Not so those women loved
  Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
  Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
  Not so the thief was moved;
  Not so the Sun and Moon
  Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
  A horror of great darkness at broad noon—
  I, only I.
  
  Yet give not o'er,
  But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
  Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
  And smite a rock.

• Bird Or Beast? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Did any bird come flying
  After Adam and Eve,
  When the door was shut against them
  And they sat down to grieve?
  
  I think not Eve's peacock
  Splendid to see,
  And I think not Adam's eagle;
  But a dove may be.
  
  Did any beast come pushing
  Through the thorny hedge
  Into the thorny thistly world,
  Out from Eden's edge?
  
  I think not a lion,
  Though his strength is such;
  But an innocent loving lamb
  May have done as much.
  
  If the dove preached from her bough
  and the lamb from his sod,
  The lamb and dove
  Were preachers sent from God.

• Bird Raptures Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
  The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
  
  Come darkness, moonrise, everything
  That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
  Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
  
  Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
  Make haste to wake the nightingale:
  Let silence set the world in tune
  To hearken to that wordless tale
  Which warbles from the nightingale.
  
  O herald skylark, stay thy flight
  One moment, for a nightingale
  Floods us with sorrow and delight.
  
  To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
  Leave us tonight the nightingale.

• Bitter For Sweet Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Summer is gone with all its roses,
  Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers,
  Its warm air and refreshing showers:
  And even Autumn closes.
  
  Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going,
  And winter comes which is yet colder;
  Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder,
  And the last buds cease blowing.

• Blind From My Birth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Blind from my birth,
  Where flowers are springing
  I sit on earth
  All dark.
  
  Hark! hark!
  A lark is singing.
  
  His notes are all for me,
  For me his mirth: -
  Till some day I shall see
  Beautiful flowers
  And birds in bowers
  Where all Joy Bells are ringing.

• Boats Sail On The Rivers Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Boats sail on the rivers,
  And ships sail on the seas;
  But clouds that sail across the sky
  Are prettier far than these.
  
  There are bridges on the rivers,
  As pretty as you please;
  But the bow that bridges heaven,
  And overtops the trees,
  And builds a road from earth to sky,
  Is prettier far than these.

• Bread And Milk For Breakfast Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Bread and milk for breakfast,
  And woollen frocks to wear,
  And a crumb for robin redbreast
  On the cold days of the year.

• Bride Song (From 'The Prince's Progress') Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Too late for love, too late for joy,
  Too late, too late!
  You loitered on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate:
  The enchanted dove upon her branch
  Died without a mate;
  The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
  Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.
  
  Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
  Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
  Then you had known her living face
  Which now you cannot know:
  The frozen fountain would have leaped,
  The buds gone on to blow,
  The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.
  
  Is she fair now as she lies?
  
  Once she was fair;
  Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair.
  
  Now there are poppies in her locks,
  White poppies she must wear;
  Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there:
  Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?
  
  We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
  Her bed seemed never soft to her,
  Though tossed of down;
  She little heeded what she wore,
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
  We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
  Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
  That used to be so brown.
  
  We never heard her speak in haste:
  Her tones were sweet,
  And modulated just so much
  As it was meet:
  Her heart sat silent through the noise
  And concourse of the street.
  
  There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
  There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.
  
  You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed:
  But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead?
  
  Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
  But crown her royal head.
  
  Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red:
  Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.

• Brown And Furry Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Brown and furry
  Caterpillar in a hurry,
  Take your walk
  To the shady leaf, or stalk,
  Or what not,
  Which may be the chosen spot.
  
  No toad spy you,
  Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
  Spin and die,
  To live again a butterfly.

• Brownie, Brownie, Let Down Your Milk Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Brownie, Brownie, let down your milk
  White as swansdown and smooth as silk,
  Fresh as dew and pure as snow:
  For I know where the cowslips blow,
  And you shall have a cowslip wreath
  No sweeter scented than your breath.

• By The Sea Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Why does the sea moan evermore?
  
  Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
  It frets against the boundary shore;
  All earth's full rivers cannot fill
  The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
  
  Sheer miracles of loveliness
  Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
  Anemones, salt, passionless,
  Blow flower-like; just enough alive
  To blow and multiply and thrive.
  
  Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
  Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
  All fair alike, yet all unlike,
  Are born without a pang, and die
  Without a pang, and so pass by.

• By The Waters Of Babylon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;
  The curse is come upon me, and I waste
  In penal torment powerless to atone.
  
  The curse is come on me, which makes no haste
  And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud
  Hard man and him the sinner double-faced.
  
  Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed
  Within me, as my body in this mire;
  My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed.
  
  As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire,
  As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,
  So we the elect ones perish in His ire.
  
  Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel
  With famished faces toward Jerusalem:
  His heart is shut against us not to feel,
  His ears against our cry He shutteth them,
  His hand He shorteneth that He will not save,
  His law is loud against us to condemn:
  And we, as unclean bodies in the grave
  Inheriting corruption and the dark,
  Are outcast from His presence which we crave.
  
  Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark,
  Our Glory hath departed from His rest,
  Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark
  Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest.
  
  Our very Father hath forsaken us,
  Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressed
  Unto our foes are even marvellous,
  A hissing and a butt for pointing hands,
  Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus;
  For He hath scattered us in alien lands,
  Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,
  And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.
  
  Here while I sit my painful heart takes wing
  Home to the home-land I must see no more,
  Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring
  And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore
  Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine,
  There where my parents dwelt at ease before:
  Now strangers press the olives that are mine,
  Reap all the corners of my harvest-field,
  And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine;
  To them my trees, to them my garden yield
  Their sweets and spices and their tender green,
  O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield.
  
  Yet these are they whose fathers had not been
  Housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote
  And with their blood washed their pollutions clean,
  Purging the land which spewed them from its throat;
  Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey,
  Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat.
  
  Now they in turn have led our own away;
  Our daughters and our sisters and our wives
  Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day,
  To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,
  Soothing their drunken masters with a song,
  Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves:
  Accurst if they remember through the long
  Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed
  If they forget and join the accursed throng.
  
  How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst
  When I remember that my way was plain,
  And that God's candle lit me at the first,
  Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain,
  Desiring but to find Him Who is lost,
  To find Him once again, but once again.
  
  His wrath came on us to the uttermost,
  His covenanted and most righteous wrath:
  Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast,
  Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path,
  Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet,
  Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath
  Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat
  Born of thy body, as the sun and moon
  'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete.
  
  O Lord, remember David, and that soon.
  
  The Glory hath departed, Ichabod!
  Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon,
  Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod,
  Before we go down quick into the pit,
  Remember us for good, O God, our God:—
  Thy Name will I remember, praising it,
  Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face,
  And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ;
  Thy Name will I remember in my praise
  And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old,
  Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days,
  And end me as a tale ends that is told.

• Child's Talk In April Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I wish you were a pleasant wren,
  And I your small accepted mate;
  How we'd look down on toilsome men!
  We'd rise and go to bed at eight
  Or it may be not quite so late.
  
  Then you should see the nest I'd build,
  The wondrous nest for you and me;
  The outside rough perhaps, but filled
  With wool and down; ah, you should see
  The cosy nest that it would be.
  
  We'd have our change of hope and fear,
  Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
  I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
  Or hop about on active feet,
  And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
  
  We'd be so happy by the day,
  So safe and happy through the night,
  We both should feel, and I should say,
  It's all one season of delight,
  And we'll make merry whilst we may,
  Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
  When spring had blossomed from the snow:
  I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
  Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
  To let our little neighbours know.
  
  Next you should sit and I would sing
  Through lengthening days of sunny spring;
  Till, if you wearied of the task,
  I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
  From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.
  
  Fancy the breaking of the shell,
  The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
  The untried proud paternal swell;
  And you with housewife-matron air
  Enacting choicer bills of fare.
  
  Fancy the embryo coats of down,
  The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
  Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
  With virgin warblings in their beak,
  They too go forth to soar and seek.
  
  So would it last an April through
  And early summer fresh with dew,
  Then should we part and live as twain:
  Love-time would bring me back to you
  And build our happy nest again.

• Christian And Jew Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A Dialogue
  'Oh happy happy land!
  Angels like rushes stand
  About the wells of light.
  
  '—
  'Alas, I have not eyes for this fair sight:
  Hold fast my hand.
  
  '—
  'As in a soft wind, they
  Bend all one blessed way,
  Each bowed in his own glory, star with star.
  
  '—
  'I cannot see so far,
  Here shadows are.
  
  '—
  'White-winged the cherubim,
  Yet whiter seraphim,
  Glow white with intense fire of love.
  
  '—
  'Mine eyes are dim:
  I look in vain above,
  And miss their hymn.
  
  '—
  'Angels, Archangels cry
  One to other ceaselessly
  (I hear them sing)
  One "Holy, Holy, Holy" to their King.
  
  '—
  'I do not hear them, I.
  
  '—
  'At one side Paradise
  Is curtained from the rest,
  Made green for wearied eyes;
  Much softer than the breast
  Of mother-dove clad in a rainbow's dyes.
  
  'All precious souls are there
  Most safe, elect by grace,
  All tears are wiped for ever from their face:
  Untired in prayer
  They wait and praise
  Hidden for a little space.
  
  'Boughs of the Living Vine
  They spread in summer shine
  Green leaf with leaf:
  Sap of the Royal Vine it stirs like wine
  In all both less and chief.
  
  'Sing to the Lord,
  All spirits of all flesh, sing;
  For He hath not abhorred
  Our low estate nor scorn'd our offering:
  Shout to our King.
  
  '—
  'But Zion said:
  My Lord forgetteth me.
  
  Lo, she hath made her bed
  In dust; forsaken weepeth she
  Where alien rivers swell the sea.
  
  'She laid her body as the ground,
  Her tender body as the ground to those
  Who passed; her harpstrings cannot sound
  In a strange land; discrowned
  She sits, and drunk with woes.
  
  '—
  'O drunken not with wine,
  Whose sins and sorrows have fulfilled the sum,—
  Be not afraid, arise, be no more dumb;
  Arise, shine,
  For thy light is come.
  
  '—
  'Can these bones live?
  
  '—
  'God knows:
  The prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skin;
  A wind blew on them and life entered in;
  They shook and rose.
  
  Hasten the time, O Lord, blot out their sin,
  Let life begin.
  
  '

• Christmas Eve Read Poem Log in to favourite

  CHRISTMAS hath darkness
  Brighter than the blazing noon,
  Christmas hath a chillness
  Warmer than the heat of June,
  Christmas hath a beauty
  Lovelier than the world can show:
  For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
  Brought for us so low.
  
  Earth, strike up your music,
  Birds that sing and bells that ring;
  Heaven hath answering music
  For all Angels soon to sing:
  Earth, put on your whitest
  Bridal robe of spotless snow:
  For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
  Brought for us so low.

• Clever Little Willie Wee Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Clever little Willie wee,
  Bright-eyed, blue-eyed little fellow;
  Merry little Margery
  With her hair all yellow.
  
  Little Willie in his heart
  Is a sailor on the sea,
  And he often cons a chart
  With sister Margery.

• Clouds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  White sheep, white sheep,
  On a blue hill,
  When the wind stops,
  You all stand still.
  
  When the wind blows,
  You walk away slow.
  
  White sheep, white sheep,
  Where do you go?

• Cobwebs Read Poem Log in to favourite

  It is a land with neither night nor day,
  Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain,
  Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain
  Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away:
  While through the sluggish air a twilight grey
  Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane,
  No ebb and flow are there among the main,
  No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye,
  No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand,
  No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space,
  And loveless sea: no trace of days before,
  No guarded home, no time-worn resting place
  No future hope, no fear forevermore.

• Color Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What is pink?
  
  a rose is pink
  By a fountain's brink.
  
  What is red?
  
  a poppy's red
  In its barley bed.
  
  What is blue?
  
  the sky is blue
  Where the clouds float thro'.
  
  What is white?
  
  a swan is white
  Sailing in the light.
  
  What is yellow?
  
  pears are yellow,
  Rich and ripe and mellow.
  
  What is green?
  
  the grass is green,
  With small flowers between.
  
  What is violet?
  
  clouds are violet
  In the summer twilight.
  
  What is orange?
  
  Why, an orange,
  Just an orange!

• Come Unto Me Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh, for the time gone by, when thought of Christ
  Made His Yoke easy and His Burden light;
  When my heart stirred within me at the sight
  Of Altar spread for awful Eucharist;
  When all my hopes His promises sufficed,
  When my Soul watched for Him by day, by night,
  When my lamp lightened and my robe was white,
  And all seemed loss, except the Pearl unpriced.
  
  Yet, since He calls me still with tender Call,
  Since He remembers Whom I half forgot,
  I even will run my race and bear my lot:
  For Faith the walls of Jericho cast down,
  And Hope to whoso runs holds forth a Crown,
  And Love is Christ, and Christ is All in all.

• Conference Between Christ, The Saints, And The Soul Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I am pale with sick desire,
  For my heart is far away
  From this world's fitful fire
  And this world's waning day;
  In a dream it overleaps
  A world of tedious ills
  To where the sunshine sleeps
  On th' everlasting hills.
  
  Say the Saints—There Angels ease us
  Glorified and white.
  
  They say—We rest in Jesus,
  Where is not day nor night.
  
  My Soul saith—I have sought
  For a home that is not gained,
  I have spent yet nothing bought,
  Have laboured but not attained;
  My pride strove to rise and grow,
  And hath but dwindled down;
  My love sought love, and lo!
  Hath not attained its crown.
  
  Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us,
  None languish nor recede.
  
  They say—We love our Jesus,
  And He loves us indeed.
  
  I cannot rise above,
  I cannot rest beneath,
  I cannot find out Love,
  Nor escape from Death;
  Dear hopes and joys gone by
  Still mock me with a name;
  My best beloved die
  And I cannot die with them.
  
  Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us,
  Where our rest is glorious.
  
  They say—We live in Jesus,
  Who once died for us.
  
  Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings
  And pants to fly away
  Up to immortal Things
  In the Heavenly day:
  Yet she flags and almost faints;
  Can such be meant for me?
  
  Come and see—say the Saints.
  
  Saith Jesus—Come and see.
  
  Say the Saints—His Pleasures please us
  Before God and the Lamb.
  
  Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus—
  Be with Me where I am.

• Consider Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Consider
  The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—
  We are as they;
  Like them we fade away,
  As doth a leaf.
  
  Consider
  The sparrows of the air of small account:
  Our God doth view
  Whether they fall or mount,—
  He guards us too.
  
  Consider
  The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
  Yet are most fair:—
  What profits all this care
  And all this coil?
  
  Consider
  The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
  God gives them food:—
  Much more our Father seeks
  To do us good.
  
  Helen Grey
  Because one loves you, Helen Grey,
  Is that a reason you should pout,
  And like a March wind veer about,
  And frown, and say your shrewish say?
  
  Don't strain the cord until it snaps,
  Don't split the sound heart with your wedge,
  Don't cut your fingers with the edge
  Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps.
  
  Because you're handsome, Helen Grey,
  Is that a reason to be proud?
  
  Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud,
  Your steps go mincing on their way;
  But so you miss that modest charm
  Which is the surest charm of all:
  Take heed, you yet may trip and fall,
  And no man care to stretch his arm.
  
  Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey,
  Come down, and take a lowlier place;
  Come down, to fill it now with grace;
  Come down you must perforce some day:
  For years cannot be kept at bay,
  And fading years will make you old;
  Then in their turn will men seem cold,
  When you yourself are nipped and grey.

• Consider The Lilies Of The Field Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Flowers preach to us if we will hear:—
  The rose saith in the dewy morn:
  I am most fair;
  Yet all my loveliness is born
  Upon a thorn.
  
  The poppy saith amid the corn:
  Let but my scarlet head appear
  And I am held in scorn;
  Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
  Within my cup of curious dyes.
  
  The lilies say: Behold how we
  Preach without words of purity.
  
  The violets whisper from the shade
  Which their own leaves have made:
  Men scent our fragrance on the air,
  Yet take no heed
  Of humble lessons we would read.
  
  But not alone the fairest flowers:
  The merest grass
  Along the roadside where we pass,
  Lichen and moss and sturdy weed,
  Tell of His love who sends the dew,
  The rain and sunshine too,
  To nourish one small seed.

• Cousin Kate Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I was a cottage maiden
  Hardened by sun and air
  Contented with my cottage mates,
  Not mindful I was fair.
  
  Why did a great lord find me out,
  And praise my flaxen hair?
  
  Why did a great lord find me out,
  To fill my heart with care?
  
  He lured me to his palace home -
  Woe's me for joy thereof-
  To lead a shameless shameful life,
  His plaything and his love.
  
  He wore me like a silken knot,
  He changed me like a glove;
  So now I moan, an unclean thing,
  Who might have been a dove.
  
  O Lady kate, my cousin Kate,
  You grew more fair than I:
  He saw you at your father's gate,
  Chose you, and cast me by.
  
  He watched your steps along the lane,
  Your work among the rye;
  He lifted you from mean estate
  To sit with him on high.
  
  Because you were so good and pure
  He bound you with his ring:
  The neighbors call you good and pure,
  Call me an outcast thing.
  
  Even so I sit and howl in dust,
  You sit in gold and sing:
  Now which of us has tenderer heart?
  
  You had the stronger wing.
  
  O cousin Kate, my love was true,
  Your love was writ in sand:
  If he had fooled not me but you,
  If you stood where I stand,
  He'd not have won me with his love
  Nor bought me with his land;
  I would have spit into his face
  And not have taken his hand.
  
  Yet I've a gift you have not got,
  And seem not like to get:
  For all your clothes and wedding-ring
  I've little doubt you fret.
  
  My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
  Cling closer, closer yet:
  Your father would give his lands for one
  To wear his coronet.

• Crimson Curtains Round My Mother's Bed Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Crimson curtains round my mother's bed,
  Silken soft as may be;
  Cool white curtains round about my bed,
  For I am but a baby.

• Crying, My Little One, Footsore And Weary? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Crying, my little one, footsore and weary?
  
  Fall asleep, pretty one, warm on my shoulder:
  I must tramp on through the winter night dreary,
  While the snow falls on me colder and colder.
  
  You are my one, and I have not another;
  Sleep soft, my darling, my trouble and treasure;
  Sleep warm and soft in the arms of your mother,
  Dreaming of pretty things, dreaming of pleasure.

• Currants On A Bush Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Currants on a bush,
  And figs upon a stem,
  And cherries on a bending bough,
  And Ned to gather them.

• Dancing On The Hill-Tops Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Dancing on the hill-tops,
  Singing in the valleys,
  Laughing with the echoes,
  Merry little Alice.
  
  Playing games with lambkins
  In the flowering valleys,
  Gathering pretty posies,
  Helpful little Alice.
  
  If her father's cottage
  Turned into a palace,
  And he owned the hill-tops
  And the flowering valleys,
  She’d be none the happier,
  Happy little Alice.

• De Profundis Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh why is heaven built so far,
  Oh why is earth set so remote?
  
  I cannot reach the nearest star
  That hangs afloat.
  
  I would not care to reach the moon,
  One round monotonous of change;
  Yet even she repeats her tune
  Beyond my range.
  
  I never watch the scattered fire
  Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
  But all my heart is one desire,
  And all in vain:
  For I am bound with fleshly bands,
  Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
  I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
  And catch at hope.

• Dead Before Death Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold,
  With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:
  Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;
  This was the promise of the days of old!
  Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,
  Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:
  We hoped for better things as years would rise,
  But it is over as a tale once told.
  
  All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,
  All lost the present and the future time,
  All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:
  So lost till death shut-to the opened door,
  So lost from chime to everlasting chime,
  So cold and lost for ever evermore.

• Dead Hope Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hope new born one pleasant morn
  Died at even;
  Hope dead lives nevermore.
  
  No, not in heaven.
  
  If his shroud were but a cloud
  To weep itself away;
  Or were he buried underground
  To sprout some day!
  But dead and gone is dead and gone
  Vainly wept upon.
  
  Nought we place above his face
  To mark the spot,
  But it shows a barren place
  In our lot.
  
  Hope has birth no more on earth
  Morn or even;
  Hope dead lives nevermore,
  No, not in heaven.

• Dead In The Cold, A Song-Singing Thrush Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
  Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush, -
  Weave him a coffin of rush,
  Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
  Raise him a tombstone of snow.

• Death’s Chill Between Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Chide not; let me breathe a little,
  For I shall not mourn him long;
  Though the life-cord was so brittle,
  The love-cord was very strong.
  
  I would wake a little space
  Till I find a sleeping-place.
  
  You can go,—I shall not weep;
  You can go unto your rest.
  
  My heart-ache is all too deep,
  And too sore my throbbing breast.
  
  Can sobs be, or angry tears,
  Where are neither hopes nor fears?
  
  Though with you I am alone
  And must be so everywhere,
  I will make no useless moan,—
  None shall say 'She could not bear:'
  While life lasts I will be strong,—
  But I shall not struggle long.
  
  Listen, listen! Everywhere
  A low voice is calling me,
  And a step is on the stair,
  And one comes ye do not see,
  Listen, listen! Evermore
  A dim hand knocks at the door.
  
  Hear me; he is come again,—
  My own dearest is come back.
  
  Bring him in from the cold rain;
  Bring wine, and let nothing lack.
  
  Thou and I will rest together,
  Love, until the sunny weather.
  
  I will shelter thee from harm,—
  Hide thee from all heaviness.
  
  Come to me, and keep thee warm
  By my side in quietness.
  
  I will lull thee to thy sleep
  With sweet songs:—we will not weep.
  
  Who hath talked of weeping?
  
  —Yet
  There is something at my heart,
  Gnawing, I would fain forget,
  And an aching and a smart.
  
  —Ah! my mother, 'tis in vain,
  For he is not come again.

• Despised And Rejected Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My sun has set, I dwell
  In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
  And none remains, not one, that I should tell
  To him mine evil plight
  This bitter night.
  
  I will make fast my door
  That hollow friends may trouble me no more.
  
  'Friend, open to Me.
  
  '—Who is this that calls?
  
  Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
  Cease crying, for I will not hear
  Thy cry of hope or fear.
  
  Others were dear,
  Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
  That I should heed
  Thy lamentable need?
  
  Hungry should feed,
  Or stranger lodge thee here?
  
  'Friend, My Feet bleed.
  
  Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.
  
  '
  I will not open, trouble me no more.
  
  Go on thy way footsore,
  I will not rise and open unto thee.
  
  'Then is it nothing to thee?
  
  Open, see
  Who stands to plead with thee.
  
  Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
  One day entreat My Face
  And howl for grace,
  And I be deaf as thou art now.
  
  Open to Me.
  
  '
  Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
  Leave me in peace:
  Fear not that I should crave
  Aught thou mayst have.
  
  Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
  Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
  
  What, shall I not be let
  Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?
  
  But all night long that voice spake urgently:
  'Open to Me.
  
  '
  Still harping in mine ears:
  'Rise, let Me in.
  
  '
  Pleading with tears:
  'Open to Me that I may come to thee.
  
  '
  While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
  'My Feet bleed, see My Face,
  See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
  My Heart doth bleed for thee,
  Open to Me.
  
  '
  So till the break of day:
  Then died away
  That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
  Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
  Passed me by,
  Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
  
  On the morrow
  I saw upon the grass
  Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
  The mark of blood for evermore.

• Ding A Ding Read Poem Log in to favourite

  ‘Ding a ding,’
  The sweet bells sing,
  And say:
  ‘Come, all be gay’
  For a wedding day.
  
  ‘Dong a dong,’
  The bells sigh long,
  And call:
  ‘Weep one, weep all’
  For a funeral.

• Dost Thou Not Care? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
  To love and not to love.
  
  Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart
  Into Thy shrine, which is above,
  Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care
  For this mine ill?
  
  —
  I love thee here or there,
  I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.
  
  Lord, it was well with me in time gone by
  That cometh not again,
  When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?
  
  I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain
  Now, out of sight and out of heart;
  O Lord, how long?
  
  —
  I watch thee as thou art,
  I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.
  
  'Lie still,' 'be strong,' to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,
  What of to-morrow, Lord?
  
  Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,
  Be living green upon the sward
  Now but a barren grave to me,
  Be joy for sorrow?
  
  —
  Did I not die for thee?
  
  Did I not live for thee?
  
  Leave Me to-morrow.

• Dream Land Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Where sunless rivers weep
  Their waves into the deep,
  She sleeps a charmèd sleep:
  Awake her not.
  
  Led by a single star,
  She came from very far
  To seek where shadows are
  Her pleasant lot.
  
  She left the rosy morn,
  She left the fields of corn,
  For twilight cold and lorn
  And water springs.
  
  Through sleep, as through a veil,
  She sees the sky look pale,
  And hears the nightingale
  That sadly sings.
  
  Rest, rest, a perfect rest
  Shed over brow and breast;
  Her face is toward the west,
  The purple land.
  
  She cannot see the grain
  Ripening on hill and plain;
  She cannot feel the rain
  Upon her hand.
  
  Rest, rest, for evermore
  Upon a mossy shore;
  Rest, rest at the heart's core
  Till time shall cease:
  Sleep that no pain shall wake;
  Night that no morn shall break
  Till joy shall overtake
  Her perfect peace.

• Dream-Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Young Love lies sleeping
  In May-time of the year,
  Among the lilies,
  Lapped in the tender light:
  White lambs come grazing,
  White doves come building there:
  And round about him
  The May-bushes are white.
  
  Soft moss the pillow
  For oh, a softer cheek;
  Broad leaves cast shadow
  Upon the heavy eyes:
  There winds and waters
  Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
  There twilight lingers
  The longest in the skies.
  
  Young Love lies dreaming;
  But who shall tell the dream?
  
  A perfect sunlight
  On rustling forest tips;
  Or perfect moonlight
  Upon a rippling stream;
  Or perfect silence,
  Or song of cherished lips.
  
  Burn odours round him
  To fill the drowsy air;
  Weave silent dances
  Around him to and fro;
  For oh, in waking
  The sights are not so fair,
  And song and silence
  Are not like these below.
  
  Young Love lies dreaming
  Till summer days are gone,—
  Dreaming and drowsing
  Away to perfect sleep:
  He sees the beauty
  Sun hath not looked upon,
  And tastes the fountain
  Unutterably deep.
  
  Him perfect music
  Doth hush unto his rest,
  And through the pauses
  The perfect silence calms:
  Oh, poor the voices
  Of earth from east to west,
  And poor earth's stillness
  Between her stately palms.
  
  Young Love lies drowsing
  Away to poppied death;
  Cool shadows deepen
  Across the sleeping face:
  So fails the summer
  With warm, delicious breath;
  And what hath autumn
  To give us in its place?
  
  Draw close the curtains
  Of branched evergreen;
  Change cannot touch them
  With fading fingers sere:
  Here the first violets
  Perhaps will bud unseen,
  And a dove, may be,
  Return to nestle here.

• Easter Even Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There is nothing more that they can do
  For all their rage and boast;
  Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew,
  Herod with his host,
  Pontius Pilate in his Judgement-hall
  Judging their Judge and his,
  Or he who led them all and passed them all,
  Arch-Judas with his kiss.
  
  The sepulchre made sure with ponderous Stone,
  Seal that same stone, O Priest;
  It may be thou shalt block the holy One
  From rising in the east:
  Set a watch about the sepulchre
  To watch on pain of death;
  They must hold fast the stone if One should stir
  And shake it from beneath.
  
  God Almighty, He can break a seal
  And roll away a Stone,
  Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel,
  And crush the mighty one.
  
  *
  There is nothing more that they can do
  For all their passionate care,
  Those who sit in dust, the blessed few,
  And weep and rend their hair:
  Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalene,
  The Virgin unreproved,
  Joseph, with Nicodemus, foremost men,
  And John the Well-beloved,
  Bring your finest linen and your spice,
  Swathe the sacred Dead,
  Bind with careful hands and piteous eyes
  The napkin round His head;
  Lay Him in the garden-rock to rest;
  Rest you the Sabbath length:
  The Sun that went down crimson in the west
  Shall rise renewed in strength.
  
  God Almighty shall give joy for pain,
  Shall comfort him who grieves:
  Lo! He with joy shall doubtless come again,
  And with Him bring His sheaves.

• Echo Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Come to me in the silence of the night;
  Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
  Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
  As sunlight on a stream;
  Come back in tears,
  O memory, hope, love of finished years.
  
  Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet,
  Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
  Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet;
  Where thirsting longing eyes
  Watch the slow door
  That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
  
  Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
  My very life again though cold in death:
  Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
  Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
  Speak low, lean low,
  As long ago, my love, how long ago.

• Eight O'clock Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Eight o'clock;
  The postman's knock!
  Five letters for Papa;
  One for Lou,
  And none for you,
  And three for dear Mamma.

• Endure Hardness Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A cold wind stirs the blackthorn
  To burgeon and to blow,
  Besprinkling half-green hedges
  With flakes and sprays of snow.
  
  Through coldness and through keenness,
  Dear hearts, take comfort so:
  Somewhere or other doubtless
  These make the blackthorn blow.

• Eve Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'While I sit at the door
  Sick to gaze within
  Mine eye weepeth sore
  For sorrow and sin:
  As a tree my sin stands
  To darken all lands;
  Death is the fruit it bore.
  
  'How have Eden bowers grown
  Without Adam to bend them!
  How have Eden flowers blown
  Squandering their sweet breath
  Without me to tend them!
  The Tree of Life was ours,
  Tree twelvefold-fruited,
  Most lofty tree that flowers,
  Most deeply rooted:
  I chose the tree of death.
  
  'Hadst thou but said me nay,
  Adam, my brother,
  I might have pined away;
  I, but none other:
  God might have let thee stay
  Safe in our garden,
  By putting me away
  Beyond all pardon.
  
  'I, Eve, sad mother
  Of all who must live,
  I, not another
  Plucked bitterest fruit to give
  My friend, husband, lover—
  O wanton eyes, run over;
  Who but I should grieve?
  
  —
  Cain hath slain his brother:
  Of all who must die mother,
  Miserable Eve!'
  Thus she sat weeping,
  Thus Eve our mother,
  Where one lay sleeping
  Slain by his brother.
  
  Greatest and least
  Each piteous beast
  To hear her voice
  Forgot his joys
  And set aside his feast.
  
  The mouse paused in his walk
  And dropped his wheaten stalk;
  Grave cattle wagged their heads
  In rumination;
  The eagle gave a cry
  From his cloud station;
  Larks on thyme beds
  Forbore to mount or sing;
  Bees drooped upon the wing;
  The raven perched on high
  Forgot his ration;
  The conies in their rock,
  A feeble nation,
  Quaked sympathetical;
  The mocking-bird left off to mock;
  Huge camels knelt as if
  In deprecation;
  The kind hart's tears were falling;
  Chattered the wistful stork;
  Dove-voices with a dying fall
  Cooed desolation
  Answering grief by grief.
  
  Only the serpent in the dust
  Wriggling and crawling,
  Grinned an evil grin and thrust
  His tongue out with its fork.

• Fata Morgana Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A blue-eyed phantom far before
  Is laughing, leaping toward the sun:
  Like lead I chase it evermore,
  I pant and run.
  
  It breaks the sunlight bound on bound:
  Goes singing as it leaps along
  To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound
  A dreamy song.
  
  I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;
  It is so far before, I weep:
  I hope I shall lie down some day,
  Lie down and sleep.

• Ferry Me Across The Water Read Poem Log in to favourite

  ‘Ferry me across the water,
  Do, boatman, do.
  
  ’
  ‘If you've a penny in your purse
  I'll ferry you.
  
  ’
  ‘I have a penny in my purse,
  And my eyes are blue;
  So ferry me across the water,
  Do, boatman, do.
  
  ’
  ‘Step into my ferry-boat,
  Be they black or blue,
  And for the penny in your purse
  I'll ferry you.
  
  ’

• Fluttered Wings Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The splendour of the kindling day,
  The splendor of the setting sun,
  These move my soul to wend its way,
  And have done
  With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
  
  The paling roses of a cloud,
  The fading bow that arches space,
  These woo my fancy toward my shroud,
  Toward the place
  Of faces veil’d, and heads discrown’d and bow’d.
  
  The nation of the awful stars,
  The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
  These make me beat against the bars
  Of my grief;
  My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
  
  O fretted heart toss’d to and fro,
  So fain to flee, so fain to rest!
  All glories that are high or low,
  East or west,
  Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.

• Fly Away, Fly Away Over The Sea Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Fly away, fly away over the sea,
  Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done;
  Come again, come again, come back to me,
  Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.

• From House To House Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The first was like a dream through summer heat,
  The second like a tedious numbing swoon,
  While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat
  Beneath a winter moon.
  
  'But,' says my friend, 'what was this thing and where?
  
  '
  It was a pleasure-place within my soul;
  An earthly paradise supremely fair
  That lured me from the goal.
  
  The first part was a tissue of hugged lies;
  The second was its ruin fraught with pain:
  Why raise the fair delusion to the skies
  But to be dashed again?
  
  My castle stood of white transparent glass
  Glittering and frail with many a fretted spire,
  But when the summer sunset came to pass
  It kindled into fire.
  
  My pleasaunce was an undulating green,
  Stately with trees whose shadows slept below,
  With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between
  Like flame or sky or snow.
  
  Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease,
  With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife;
  All singing-birds rejoicing in those trees
  Fulfilled their careless life.
  
  Woodpigeons cooed there, stockdoves nestled there;
  My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit,
  Their branches spread a city to the air
  And mice lodged in their root.
  
  My heath lay farther off, where lizards lived
  In strange metallic mail, just spied and gone;
  Like darted lightnings here and there perceived
  But nowhere dwelt upon.
  
  Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plod
  And propagate in peace, an uncouth crew,
  Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nod
  And spill the morning dew.
  
  All caterpillars throve beneath my rule,
  With snails and slugs in corners out of sight;
  I never marred the curious sudden stool
  That perfects in a night.
  
  Safe in his excavated gallery
  The burrowing mole groped on from year to year;
  No harmless hedgehog curled because of me
  His prickly back for fear.
  
  Oft times one like an angel walked with me,
  With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire,
  But deep as the unfathomed endless sea,
  Fulfilling my desire:
  And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair,
  And sometimes like a sunset glorious red,
  And sometimes he had wings to scale the air
  With aureole round his head.
  
  We sang our songs together by the way,
  Calls and recalls and echoes of delight;
  So communed we together all the day,
  And so in dreams by night.
  
  I have no words to tell what way we walked.
  
  What unforgotten path now closed and sealed;
  I have no words to tell all things we talked,
  All things that he revealed:
  This only can I tell: that hour by hour
  I waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad;
  I felt no thorn-prick when I plucked a flower,
  Felt not my friend was sad.
  
  'To-morrow,' once I said to him with smiles:
  'To-night,' he answered gravely and was dumb,
  But pointed out the stones that numbered miles
  And miles to come.
  
  'Not so,' I said: 'to-morrow shall be sweet;
  To-night is not so sweet as coming days.
  
  '
  Then first I saw that he had turned his feet,
  Had turned from me his face:
  Running and flying miles and miles he went,
  But once looked back to beckon with his hand
  And cry: 'Come home, O love, from banishment:
  Come to the distant land.
  
  '
  That night destroyed me like an avalanche;
  One night turned all my summer back to snow:
  Next morning not a bird upon my branch,
  Not a lamb woke below,—
  No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing;
  No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn,
  No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing
  And fled before that dawn.
  
  Azure and sun were starved from heaven above,
  No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar:
  O love, I knew that I should meet my love,
  Should find my love no more.
  
  'My love no more,' I muttered stunned with pain:
  I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand,
  Till something whispered: 'You shall meet again,
  Meet in a distant land.
  
  '
  Then with a cry like famine I arose,
  I lit my candle, searched from room to room,
  Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze
  Swept through the blank of gloom.
  
  I searched day after day, night after night;
  Scant change there came to me of night or day:
  'No more,' I wailed, 'no more:' and trimmed my light,
  And gnashed but did not pray,
  Until my heart broke and my spirit broke:
  Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell,
  And moaned: 'It is enough: withhold the stroke.
  
  Farewell, O love, farewell.
  
  '
  Then life swooned from me.
  
  And I heard the song
  Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me:
  One cried: 'Our sister, she hath suffered long.
  
  '—
  One answered: 'Make her see.
  
  '—
  One cried: 'Oh blessed she who no more pain,
  Who no more disappointment shall receive.
  
  '—
  One answered: 'Not so: she must live again;
  Strengthen thou her to live.
  
  '
  So while I lay entranced a curtain seemed
  To shrivel with crackling from before my face;
  Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed
  And showed a certain place.
  
  I saw a vision of a woman, where
  Night and new morning strive for domination;
  Incomparably pale, and almost fair,
  And sad beyond expression.
  
  Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem,
  Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender;
  Her figure charmed me like a windy stem
  Quivering and drooped and slender.
  
  I stood upon the outer barren ground,
  She stood on inner ground that budded flowers;
  While circling in their never-slackening round
  Danced by the mystic hours.
  
  But every flower was lifted on a thorn,
  And every thorn shot upright from its sands
  To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn
  With cruel clapping hands.
  
  She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength
  Was strung up until daybreak of delight:
  She measured measureless sorrow toward its length,
  And breadth, and depth, and height.
  
  Then marked I how a chain sustained her form,
  A chain of living links not made nor riven:
  It stretched sheer up through lighting, wind, and storm,
  And anchored fast in heaven.
  
  One cried: 'How long?
  
  yet founded on the Rock
  She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.
  
  '—
  One answered: 'Faith quakes in the tempest shock:
  Strengthen her soul again.
  
  '
  I saw a cup sent down and come to her
  Brimfull of loathing and of bitterness:
  She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir
  The depth, not make it less.
  
  But as she drank I spied a hand distil
  New wine and virgin honey; making it
  First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until
  She tasted only sweet.
  
  Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young;
  Drinking she sang: 'My soul shall nothing want;'
  And drank anew: while soft a song was sung,
  A mystical slow chant.
  
  One cried: 'The wounds are faithful of a friend:
  The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.
  
  '—
  One answered: 'Rend the veil, declare the end,
  Strengthen her ere she goes.
  
  '
  Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll;
  Time and space, change and death, had passed away;
  Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole;
  The day had come, that day.
  
  Multitudes—multitudes—stood up in bliss,
  Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair;
  With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace
  And crowned and haloed hair.
  
  They sang a song, a new song in the height,
  Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True:
  They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light,
  Lo, all things were made new.
  
  Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose
  So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames:
  No man could number them, no tongue disclose
  Their secret sacred names.
  
  As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood
  Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced,
  They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood
  And worshipped and rejoiced.
  
  Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit,
  Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love;
  Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it
  And knew no end thereof.
  
  Glory touched glory on each blessed head,
  Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more:
  These were the new-begotten from the dead
  Whom the great birthday bore.
  
  Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest,
  Double against each other, filled, sufficed:
  All loving, loved of all; but loving best
  And best beloved of Christ.
  
  I saw that one who lost her love in pain,
  Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup;
  The lost in night, in day was found again;
  The fallen was lifted up.
  
  They stood together in the blessed noon,
  They sang together through the length of days;
  Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon
  New-lit with love and praise.
  
  Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might
  Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed
  One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white,
  Cast down but not destroyed.
  
  Therefore in patience I possess my soul;
  Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face,
  To pluck down, to build up again the whole—
  But in a distant place.
  
  These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them;
  This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet:
  My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem,
  My heart remembers it.
  
  I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees—
  I, precious more than seven times molten gold—
  Until the day when from his storehouses
  God shall bring new and old;
  Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief,
  Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness:
  Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,
  I languish and grow less.
  
  Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain,
  Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root:
  To-morrow I shall put forth buds again
  And clothe myself with fruit.
  
  Although to-day I walk in tedious ways,
  To-day His staff is turned into a rod,
  Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days
  And stay upon my God.

• From Sunset to Star Rise Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not:
  I am no summer friend, but wintry cold,
  A silly sheep benighted from the fold,
  A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
  
  Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot,
  Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold;
  Lest you with me should shiver on the wold,
  Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
  
  For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge,
  I live alone, I look to die alone:
  Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge,
  Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,
  My heart goes sighing after swallows flown
  On sometime summer's unreturning track.

• From the Antique Read Poem Log in to favourite

  It's a weary life, it is, she said:
  Doubly blank in a woman's lot:
  I wish and I wish I were a man:
  Or, better then any being, were not:
  Were nothing at all in all the world,
  Not a body and not a soul:
  Not so much as a grain of dust
  Or a drop of water from pole to pole.
  
  Still the world would wag on the same,
  Still the seasons go and come:
  Blossoms bloom as in days of old,
  Cherries ripen and wild bees hum.
  
  None would miss me in all the world,
  How much less would care or weep:
  I should be nothing, while all the rest
  Would wake and weary and fall asleep.

• From “Later Life” Read Poem Log in to favourite

  VI
  We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:
  Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.
  
  We see the things we do not yearn to see
  Around us: and what see we glancing back?
  
  Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the rack,
  Hopes that were never ours yet seem’d to be,
  For which we steer’d on life’s salt stormy sea
  Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.
  
  If thus to look behind is all in vain,
  And all in vain to look to left or right,
  Why face we not our future once again,
  Launching with hardier hearts across the main,
  Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible sight,
  And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain?
  
  IX
  Star Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar
  Beyond the drawings each of other’s strength:
  One blazes through the brief bright summer’s length
  Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car;
  While one unchangeable upon a throne
  Broods o’er the frozen heart of earth alone,
  Content to reign the bright particular star
  Of some who wander or of some who groan.
  
  They own no drawings each of other’s strength,
  Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy,
  Nor veer along their courses each toward
  Yet are their orbits pitch’d in harmony
  Of one dear heaven, across whose depth and length
  Mayhap they talk together without speech.

• Give Me Holly Read Poem Log in to favourite

  But give me holly, bold and jolly,
  Honest, prickly, shining holly;
  Pluck me holly leaf and berry
  For the day when I make merry

• Goblin Market Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Morning and evening
  Maids heard the goblins cry:
  "Come buy our orchard fruits,
  Come buy, come buy:
  Apples and quinces,
  Lemons and oranges,
  Plump unpecked cherries-
  Melons and raspberries,
  Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
  Swart-headed mulberries,
  Wild free-born cranberries,
  Crab-apples, dewberries,
  Pine-apples, blackberries,
  Apricots, strawberries—
  All ripe together
  In summer weather—
  Morns that pass by,
  Fair eves that fly;
  Come buy, come buy;
  Our grapes fresh from the vine,
  Pomegranates full and fine,
  Dates and sharp bullaces,
  Rare pears and greengages,
  Damsons and bilberries,
  Taste them and try:
  Currants and gooseberries,
  Bright-fire-like barberries,
  Figs to fill your mouth,
  Citrons from the South,
  Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
  Come buy, come buy.
  
  "
  Evening by evening
  Among the brookside rushes,
  Laura bowed her head to hear,
  Lizzie veiled her blushes:
  Crouching close together
  In the cooling weather,
  With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
  With tingling cheeks and finger-tips.
  
  "Lie close," Laura said,
  Pricking up her golden head:
  We must not look at goblin men,
  We must not buy their fruits:
  Who knows upon what soil they fed
  Their hungry thirsty roots?
  
  "
  "Come buy," call the goblins
  Hobbling down the glen.
  
  "O! cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura,
  You should not peep at goblin men.
  
  "
  Lizzie covered up her eyes
  Covered close lest they should look;
  Laura reared her glossy head,
  And whispered like the restless brook:
  "Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
  Down the glen tramp little men.
  
  One hauls a basket,
  One bears a plate,
  One lugs a golden dish
  Of many pounds' weight.
  
  How fair the vine must grow
  Whose grapes are so luscious;
  How warm the wind must blow
  Through those fruit bushes.
  
  "
  "No," said Lizzie, "no, no, no;
  Their offers should not charm us,
  Their evil gifts would harm us.
  
  "
  She thrust a dimpled finger
  In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
  Curious Laura chose to linger
  Wondering at each merchant man.
  
  One had a cat's face,
  One whisked a tail,
  One tramped at a rat's pace,
  One crawled like a snail,
  One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
  One like a ratel tumbled hurry-scurry.
  
  Lizzie heard a voice like voice of doves
  Cooing all together:
  They sounded kind and full of loves
  In the pleasant weather.
  
  Laura stretched her gleaming neck
  Like a rush-imbedded swan,
  Like a lily from the beck,
  Like a moonlit poplar branch,
  Like a vessel at the launch
  When its last restraint is gone.
  
  Backwards up the mossy glen
  Turned and trooped the goblin men,
  With their shrill repeated cry,
  "Come buy, come buy.
  
  "
  When they reached where Laura was
  They stood stock still upon the moss,
  Leering at each other,
  Brother with queer brother;
  Signalling each other,
  Brother with sly brother.
  
  One set his basket down,
  One reared his plate;
  One began to weave a crown
  Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
  (Men sell not such in any town);
  One heaved the golden weight
  Of dish and fruit to offer her:
  "Come buy, come buy," was still their cry.
  
  Laura stared but did not stir,
  Longed but had no money:
  The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
  In tones as smooth as honey,
  The cat-faced purr'd,
  The rat-paced spoke a word
  Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
  One parrot-voiced and jolly
  Cried "Pretty Goblin" still for "Pretty Polly";
  One whistled like a bird.
  
  But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
  "Good folk, I have no coin;
  To take were to purloin:
  I have no copper in my purse,
  I have no silver either,
  And all my gold is on the furze
  That shakes in windy weather
  Above the rusty heather.
  
  "
  "You have much gold upon your head,"
  They answered altogether:
  "Buy from us with a golden curl.
  
  "
  She clipped a precious golden lock,
  She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
  Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
  Sweeter than honey from the rock,
  Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
  Clearer than water flowed that juice;
  She never tasted such before,
  How should it cloy with length of use?
  
  She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
  Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
  She sucked until her lips were sore;
  Then flung the emptied rinds away,
  But gathered up one kernel stone,
  And knew not was it night or day
  As she turned home alone.
  
  Lizzie met her at the gate
  Full of wise upbraidings:
  "Dear, you should not stay so late,
  Twilight is not good for maidens;
  Should not loiter in the glen
  In the haunts of goblin men.
  
  Do you not remember Jeanie,
  How she met them in the moonlight,
  Took their gifts both choice and many,
  Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
  Plucked from bowers
  Where summer ripens at all hours?
  
  But ever in the moonlight
  She pined and pined away;
  Sought them by night and day,
  Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray;
  Then fell with the first snow,
  While to this day no grass will grow
  Where she lies low:
  I planted daisies there a year ago
  That never blow.
  
  You should not loiter so.
  
  "
  "Nay hush," said Laura.
  
  "Nay hush, my sister:
  I ate and ate my fill,
  Yet my mouth waters still;
  To-morrow night I will
  Buy more," and kissed her.
  
  "Have done with sorrow;
  I'll bring you plums to-morrow
  Fresh on their mother twigs,
  Cherries worth getting;
  You cannot think what figs
  My teeth have met in,
  What melons, icy-cold
  Piled on a dish of gold
  Too huge for me to hold,
  What peaches with a velvet nap,
  Pellucid grapes without one seed:
  Odorous indeed must be the mead
  Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink,
  With lilies at the brink,
  And sugar-sweet their sap.
  
  "
  Golden head by golden head,
  Like two pigeons in one nest
  Folded in each other's wings,
  They lay down, in their curtained bed:
  Like two blossoms on one stem,
  Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
  Like two wands of ivory
  Tipped with gold for awful kings.
  
  Moon and stars beamed in at them,
  Wind sang to them lullaby,
  Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
  Not a bat flapped to and fro
  Round their rest:
  Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
  Locked together in one nest.
  
  Early in the morning
  When the first cock crowed his warning,
  Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
  Laura rose with Lizzie:
  Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
  Aired and set to rights the house,
  Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
  Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
  Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
  Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
  Talked as modest maidens should
  Lizzie with an open heart,
  Laura in an absent dream,
  One content, one sick in part;
  One warbling for the mere bright day's delight,
  One longing for the night.
  
  At length slow evening came—
  They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
  Lizzie most placid in her look,
  Laura most like a leaping flame.
  
  They drew the gurgling water from its deep
  Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
  Then turning homeward said: "The sunset flushes
  Those furthest loftiest crags;
  Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
  No wilful squirrel wags,
  The beasts and birds are fast asleep.
  
  "
  But Laura loitered still among the rushes
  And said the bank was steep.
  
  And said the hour was early still,
  The dew not fallen, the wind not chill:
  Listening ever, but not catching
  The customary cry,
  "Come buy, come buy,"
  With its iterated jingle
  Of sugar-baited words:
  Not for all her watching
  Once discerning even one goblin
  Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
  Let alone the herds
  That used to tramp along the glen,
  In groups or single,
  Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
  
  Till Lizzie urged, "O Laura, come,
  I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look:
  You should not loiter longer at this brook:
  Come with me home.
  
  The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
  Each glow-worm winks her spark,
  Let us get home before the night grows dark;
  For clouds may gather even
  Though this is summer weather,
  Put out the lights and drench us through;
  Then if we lost our way what should we do?
  
  "
  Laura turned cold as stone
  To find her sister heard that cry alone,
  That goblin cry,
  "Come buy our fruits, come buy.
  
  "
  Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
  
  Must she no more such succous pasture find,
  Gone deaf and blind?
  
  Her tree of life drooped from the root:
  She said not one word in her heart's sore ache;
  But peering thro' the dimness, naught discerning,
  Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
  So crept to bed, and lay
  Silent 'til Lizzie slept;
  Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
  And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept
  As if her heart would break.
  
  Day after day, night after night,
  Laura kept watch in vain,
  In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
  
  She never caught again the goblin cry:
  "Come buy, come buy,"
  She never spied the goblin men
  Hawking their fruits along the glen:
  But when the noon waxed bright
  Her hair grew thin and gray;
  She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
  To swift decay, and burn
  Her fire away.
  
  One day remembering her kernel-stone
  She set it by a wall that faced the south;
  Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
  Watched for a waxing shoot,
  But there came none;
  It never saw the sun,
  It never felt the trickling moisture run:
  While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
  She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
  False waves in desert drouth
  With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
  And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
  
  She no more swept the house,
  Tended the fowls or cows,
  Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
  Brought water from the brook:
  But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
  And would not eat.
  
  Tender Lizzie could not bear
  To watch her sister's cankerous care,
  Yet not to share.
  
  She night and morning
  Caught the goblins' cry:
  "Come buy our orchard fruits,
  Come buy, come buy.
  
  "
  Beside the brook, along the glen
  She heard the tramp of goblin men,
  The voice and stir
  Poor Laura could not hear;
  Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
  But feared to pay too dear.
  
  She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
  Who should have been a bride;
  But who for joys brides hope to have
  Fell sick and died
  In her gay prime,
  In earliest winter-time,
  With the first glazing rime,
  With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.
  
  Till Laura, dwindling,
  Seemed knocking at Death's door:
  Then Lizzie weighed no more
  Better and worse,
  But put a silver penny in her purse,
  Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
  At twilight, halted by the brook,
  And for the first time in her life
  Began to listen and look.
  
  Laughed every goblin
  When they spied her peeping:
  Came towards her hobbling,
  Flying, running, leaping,
  Puffing and blowing,
  Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
  Clucking and gobbling,
  Mopping and mowing,
  Full of airs and graces,
  Pulling wry faces,
  Demure grimaces,
  Cat-like and rat-like,
  Ratel and wombat-like,
  Snail-paced in a hurry,
  Parrot-voiced and whistler,
  Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
  Chattering like magpies,
  Fluttering like pigeons,
  Gliding like fishes, —
  Hugged her and kissed her;
  Squeezed and caressed her;
  Stretched up their dishes,
  Panniers and plates:
  "Look at our apples
  Russet and dun,
  Bob at our cherries
  Bite at our peaches,
  Citrons and dates,
  Grapes for the asking,
  Pears red with basking
  Out in the sun,
  Plums on their twigs;
  Pluck them and suck them,
  Pomegranates, figs.
  
  "
  "Good folk," said Lizzie,
  Mindful of Jeanie,
  "Give me much and many"; —
  Held out her apron,
  Tossed them her penny.
  
  "Nay, take a seat with us,
  Honor and eat with us,"
  They answered grinning;
  "Our feast is but beginning.
  
  Night yet is early,
  Warm and dew-pearly,
  Wakeful and starry:
  Such fruits as these
  No man can carry;
  Half their bloom would fly,
  Half their dew would dry,
  Half their flavor would pass by.
  
  Sit down and feast with us,
  Be welcome guest with us,
  Cheer you and rest with us.
  
  "
  "Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
  At home alone for me:
  So, without further parleying,
  If you will not sell me any
  Of your fruits though much and many,
  Give me back my silver penny
  I tossed you for a fee.
  
  "
  They began to scratch their pates,
  No longer wagging, purring,
  But visibly demurring,
  Grunting and snarling.
  
  One called her proud,
  Cross-grained, uncivil;
  Their tones waxed loud,
  Their looks were evil.
  
  Lashing their tails
  They trod and hustled her,
  Elbowed and jostled her,
  Clawed with their nails,
  Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
  Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
  Twitched her hair out by the roots,
  Stamped upon her tender feet,
  Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
  Against her mouth to make her eat.
  
  White and golden Lizzie stood,
  Like a lily in a flood,
  Like a rock of blue-veined stone
  Lashed by tides obstreperously, —
  Like a beacon left alone
  In a hoary roaring sea,
  Sending up a golden fire, —
  Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
  White with blossoms honey-sweet
  Sore beset by wasp and bee, —
  Like a royal virgin town
  Topped with gilded dome and spire
  Close beleaguered by a fleet
  Mad to tear her standard down.
  
  One may lead a horse to water,
  Twenty cannot make him drink.
  
  Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
  Coaxed and fought her,
  Bullied and besought her,
  Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
  Kicked and knocked her,
  Mauled and mocked her,
  Lizzie uttered not a word;
  Would not open lip from lip
  Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
  But laughed in heart to feel the drip
  Of juice that syruped all her face,
  And lodged in dimples of her chin,
  And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
  
  At last the evil people,
  Worn out by her resistance,
  Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
  Along whichever road they took,
  Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
  
  Some writhed into the ground,
  Some dived into the brook
  With ring and ripple.
  
  Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
  Some vanished in the distance.
  
  In a smart, ache, tingle,
  Lizzie went her way;
  Knew not was it night or day;
  Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze,
  Threaded copse and dingle,
  And heard her penny jingle
  Bouncing in her purse, —
  Its bounce was music to her ear.
  
  She ran and ran
  As if she feared some goblin man
  Dogged her with gibe or curse
  Or something worse:
  But not one goblin skurried after,
  Nor was she pricked by fear;
  The kind heart made her windy-paced
  That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
  And inward laughter.
  
  She cried "Laura," up the garden,
  "Did you miss me ?
  
  Come and kiss me.
  
  Never mind my bruises,
  Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
  Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
  Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
  
  Eat me, drink me, love me;
  Laura, make much of me:
  For your sake I have braved the glen
  And had to do with goblin merchant men.
  
  "
  Laura started from her chair,
  Flung her arms up in the air,
  Clutched her hair:
  "Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
  For my sake the fruit forbidden?
  
  Must your light like mine be hidden,
  Your young life like mine be wasted,
  Undone in mine undoing,
  And ruined in my ruin;
  Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?
  
  "
  She clung about her sister,
  Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
  Tears once again
  Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
  Dropping like rain
  After long sultry drouth;
  Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
  She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
  
  Her lips began to scorch,
  That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
  She loathed the feast:
  Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
  Rent all her robe, and wrung
  Her hands in lamentable haste,
  And beat her breast.
  
  Her locks streamed like the torch
  Borne by a racer at full speed,
  Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
  Or like an eagle when she stems the light
  Straight toward the sun,
  Or like a caged thing freed,
  Or like a flying flag when armies run.
  
  Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart,
  Met the fire smouldering there
  And overbore its lesser flame,
  She gorged on bitterness without a name:
  Ah! fool, to choose such part
  Of soul-consuming care!
  Sense failed in the mortal strife:
  Like the watch-tower of a town
  Which an earthquake shatters down,
  Like a lightning-stricken mast,
  Like a wind-uprooted tree
  Spun about,
  Like a foam-topped water-spout
  Cast down headlong in the sea,
  She fell at last;
  Pleasure past and anguish past,
  Is it death or is it life ?
  
  Life out of death.
  
  That night long Lizzie watched by her,
  Counted her pulse's flagging stir,
  Felt for her breath,
  Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
  With tears and fanning leaves:
  But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
  And early reapers plodded to the place
  Of golden sheaves,
  And dew-wet grass
  Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
  And new buds with new day
  Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
  Laura awoke as from a dream,
  Laughed in the innocent old way,
  Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
  Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray,
  Her breath was sweet as May,
  And light danced in her eyes.
  
  Days, weeks, months,years
  Afterwards, when both were wives
  With children of their own;
  Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
  Their lives bound up in tender lives;
  Laura would call the little ones
  And tell them of her early prime,
  Those pleasant days long gone
  Of not-returning time:
  Would talk about the haunted glen,
  The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
  Their fruits like honey to the throat,
  But poison in the blood;
  (Men sell not such in any town
  Would tell them how her sister stood
  In deadly peril to do her good,
  And win the fiery antidote:
  Then joining hands to little hands
  Would bid them cling together,
  "For there is no friend like a sister,
  In calm or stormy weather,
  To cheer one on the tedious way,
  To fetch one if one goes astray,
  To lift one if one totters down,
  To strengthen whilst one stands.
  
  "

• Gone For Ever Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O happy rosebud blooming
  Upon thy parent tree,
  Nay, thou art too presuming
  For soon the earth entombing
  Thy faded charms shall be,
  And the chill damp consuming.
  
  O happy skylark springing
  Up to the broad blue sky,
  Too fearless in thy winging,
  Too gladsome in thy singing,
  Thou also soon shalt lie
  Where no sweet notes are ringing.
  
  And through life's shine and shower
  We shall have joy and pain;
  But in the summer bower,
  And at the morning hour,
  We still shall look in vain
  For the same bird and flower.

• Good Friday Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Am I a stone and not a sheep
  That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
  To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
  And yet not weep?
  
  Not so those women loved
  Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
  Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
  Not so the thief was moved;
  Not so the Sun and Moon
  Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
  A horror of great darkness at broad noon—
  I, only I.
  
  Yet give not o'er,
  But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
  Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
  And smite a rock.

• Goodbye In Fear, Goodbye In Sorrow, Read Poem Log in to favourite

  ‘Goodbye in fear, goodbye in sorrow,
  Goodbye, and all in vain,
  Never to meet again, my dear -’
  ‘Never to part again.
  
  ’
  ‘Goodbye today, goodbye tomorrow,
  Goodbye till earth shall wane,
  Never to meet again, my dear -’
  ‘Never to part again.
  
  ’

• Growing In The Vale Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Growing in the vale
  By the uplands hilly,
  Growing straight and frail,
  Lady Daffadowndilly.
  
  In a golden crown,
  And a scant green gown
  While the spring blows chilly,
  Lady Daffadown,
  Sweet Daffadowndilly.

• Grown And Flown Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I loved my love from green of Spring
  Until sere Autumn's fall;
  But now that leaves are withering
  How should one love at all?
  
  One heart's too small
  For hunger, cold, love, everything.
  
  I loved my love on sunny days
  Until late Summer's wane;
  But now that frost begins to glaze
  How should one love again ?
  
  Nay, love and pain
  Walk wide apart in diverse ways.
  
  I loved my love - alas to see
  That this should be, alas!
  I thought that this could scarcely be,
  Yet has it come to pass:
  Sweet sweet love was,
  Now bitter bitter grown to me.

• Hear What The Mournful Linnets Say Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hear what the mournful linnets say:
  ‘We built our nest compact and warm,
  But cruel boys came round our way
  And took our summerhouse by storm.
  
  ‘They crushed the eggs so neatly laid;
  So now we sit with drooping wing,
  And watch the ruin they have made,
  Too late to build, too sad to sing.
  
  ’

• Heartsease In My Garden Bed Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Heartsease in my garden bed,
  With sweetwilliam white and red,
  Honeysuckle on my wall: -
  Heartsease blossoms in my heart
  When sweet William comes to call,
  But it withers when we part,
  And the honey-trumpets fall.

• Heart’s Chill Between Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I did not chide him, though I knew
  That he was false to me.
  
  Chide the exhaling of the dew,
  The ebbing of the sea,
  The fading of a rosy hue,—
  But not inconstancy.
  
  Why strive for love when love is o'er?
  
  Why bind a restive heart?
  
  —
  He never knew the pain I bore
  In saying: 'We must part;
  Let us be friends and nothing more.
  
  '
  —Oh, woman's shallow art!
  But it is over, it is done,—
  I hardly heed it now;
  So many weary years have run
  Since then, I think not how
  Things might have been,—but greet each one
  With an unruffled brow.
  
  What time I am where others be,
  My heart seems very calm—
  Stone calm; but if all go from me,
  There comes a vague alarm,
  A shrinking in the memory
  From some forgotten harm.
  
  And often through the long, long night,
  Waking when none are near,
  I feel my heart beat fast with fright,
  Yet know not what I fear.
  
  Oh how I long to see the light,
  And the sweet birds to hear!
  To have the sun upon my face,
  To look up through the trees,
  To walk forth in the open space
  And listen to the breeze,—
  And not to dream the burial-place
  Is clogging my weak knees.
  
  Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray,
  But am half stupefied:
  And then all those who see me say
  Mine eyes are opened wide
  And that my wits seem gone away—
  Ah, would that I had died!
  Would I could die and be at peace,
  Or living could forget!
  My grief nor grows nor doth decrease,
  But ever is:—and yet
  Methinks, now, that all this shall cease
  Before the sun shall set.

• Herself A Rose Who Bore The Rose Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Herself a rose, who bore the Rose,
  She bore the Rose and felt its thorn.
  
  All loveliness new-born
  Took on her bosom its repose,
  And slept and woke there night and morn.
  
  Lily herself, she bore the one
  Fair Lily; sweeter, whiter, far
  Than she or others are:
  The Sun of Righteousness her Son,
  She was His morning star.
  
  She gracious, He essential Grace,
  He was the Fountain, she the rill:
  Her goodness to fulfil
  And gladness, with proportioned pace
  He led her steps through good and ill.
  
  Christ's mirror she of grace and love,
  Of beauty and of life and death:
  By hope and love and faith
  Transfigured to His likeness, 'Dove,
  Spouse, Sister, Mother,' Jesus saith.

• Holy Innocents Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Sleep, little Baby, sleep,
  The holy Angels love thee,
  And guard thy bed, and keep
  A blessed watch above thee.
  
  No spirit can come near
  Nor evil beast to harm thee:
  Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear
  Where nothing need alarm thee.
  
  The Love which doth not sleep,
  The eternal arms around thee:
  The shepherd of the sheep
  In perfect love has found thee.
  
  Sleep through the holy night,
  Christ-kept from snare and sorrow,
  Until thou wake to light
  And love and warmth to-morrow.

• Hop-O'-My-Thumb And Little Jack Horner Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hop-o'-my-thumb and little Jack Horner,
  What do you mean by tearing and fighting?
  
  Sturdy dog Trot close round the corner,
  I never caught him growling and biting.

• Hope Is Like A Harebell Trembling From Its Birth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth,
  Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth;
  Faith is like a lily lifted high and white,
  Love is like a lovely rose the world's delight;
  Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,
  But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

• Hopping Frog, Hop Here And Be Seen Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hopping frog, hop here and be seen,
  I'll not pelt you with stick or stone:
  Your cap is laced and your coat is green;
  Good bye, we'll let each other alone.
  
  Plodding toad, plod here and be looked at,
  You the finger of scorn is crooked at:
  But though you're lumpish, you're harmless too;
  You won't hurt me, and I won't hurt you.

• How Many Seconds In A Minute? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  How many seconds in a minute?
  
  Sixty, and no more in it.
  
  How many minutes in an hour?
  
  Sixty for sun and shower.
  
  How many hours in a day?
  
  Twenty-four for work and play.
  
  How many days in a week?
  
  Seven both to hear and speak.
  
  How many weeks in a month?
  
  Four, as the swift moon runneth.
  
  How many months in a year?
  
  Twelve the almanack makes clear.
  
  How many years in an age?
  
  One hundred says the sage.
  
  How many ages in time?
  
  No one knows the rhyme.

• Hurt No Living Thing Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hurt no living thing:
  Ladybird, nor butterfly,
  Nor moth with dusty wing,
  Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
  Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
  Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
  Nor harmless worms that creep.

• I Am A King Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I am a King,
  Or an Emperor rather,
  I wear crown-imperial
  And prince's-feather;
  Golden-rod is the sceptre
  I wield and wag,
  And a broad purple flag-flower
  Waves for my flag.
  
  Elder the pithy
  With old-man and sage,
  These are my councillors
  Green in old age;
  Lord-and-ladies in silence
  Stand round me and wait,
  While gay ragged-robin
  Makes bows at my gate.

• I Caught A Little Ladybird Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I caught a little ladybird
  That flies far away;
  I caught a little lady wife
  That is both staid and gay.
  
  Come back, my scarlet ladybird,
  Back from far away;
  I weary of my dolly wife,
  My wife that cannot play.

• I Dreamt I Caught A Little Owl Read Poem Log in to favourite

  ‘I dreamt I caught a little owl
  And the bird was blue -’
  ‘But you may hunt for ever
  And not find such a one.
  
  ’
  ‘I dreamt I set a sunflower,
  And red as blood it grew -’
  ‘But such a sunflower never
  Bloomed beneath the sun.
  
  ’

• I Dug And Dug Amongst The Snow Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I dug and dug amongst the snow,
  And thought the flowers would never grow;
  I dug and dug amongst the sand,
  And still no green thing came to hand.
  
  Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
  To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
  But all the winds from every land
  Will rear no blossom from the sand.

• I Have A Little Husband Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I have a little husband
  And he is gone to sea,
  The winds that whistle round his ship
  Fly home to me.
  
  The winds that sigh about me
  Return again to him;
  So I would fly, if only I
  Were light of limb.

• I Have A Poll Parrot Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I have a Poll parrot,
  And Poll is my doll,
  And my nurse is Polly,
  And my sister Poll.
  
  ‘Polly!’ cried Polly,
  ‘Don't tear Polly, dolly’ -
  While soft-hearted Poll
  Trembled for the doll.

• I Have But One Rose In The World Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I have but one rose in the world,
  And my one rose stands a-drooping:
  Oh, when my single rose is dead
  There'll be but thorns for stooping.

• I Know A Baby, Such A Baby Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I know a baby, such a baby, -
  Round blue eyes and cheeks of pink,
  Such an elbow furrowed with dimples,
  Such a wrist where creases sink.
  
  ‘Cuddle and love me, cuddle and love me,’
  Crows the mouth of coral pink:
  Oh, the bald head, and, oh, the sweet lips,
  And, oh, the sleepy eyes that wink!

• I Know You Not Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Christ, the Vine with living Fruit,
  The twelvefold-fruited Tree of Life,
  The Balm in Gilead after strife,
  The valley Lily and the Rose;
  Stronger than Lebanon, Thou Root;
  Sweeter than clustered grapes, Thou Vine;
  O Best, Thou Vineyard of red wine,
  Keeping thy best wine till the close.
  
  Pearl of great price Thyself alone,
  And ruddier than the ruby Thou;
  Most precious lightning Jasper stone,
  Head of the corner spurned before:
  Fair Gate of pearl, Thyself the Door;
  Clear golden Street, Thyself the Way;
  By Thee we journey toward Thee now,
  Through Thee shall enter Heaven one day.
  
  I thirst for Thee, full fount and flood;
  My heart calls Thine, as deep to deep:
  Dost Thou forget Thy sweat and pain,
  They provocation on the Cross?
  
  Heart-pierced for me, vouchsafe to keep
  The purchase of Thy lavished Blood:
  The gain is Thine, Lord, if I gain;
  Or if I lose, Thine own the loss.
  
  At midnight (saith the Parable)
  A cry was made, the Bridegroom came;
  Those who were ready entered in:
  The rest, shut out in death and shame,
  Strove all too late that Feast to win,
  Their die was cast, and fixed their lot;
  A gulf divided Heaven from Hell;
  The Bridegroom said—I know you not.
  
  But Who is this that shuts the door,
  And saith—I know you not—to them?
  
  I see the wounded hands and side,
  The brow thorn-tortured long ago:
  Yea; This Who grieved and bled and died,
  This same is He Who must condemn;
  He called, but they refused to know;
  So now He hears their cry no more.

• I loved you first: but afterwards your love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I loved you first: but afterwards your love,
  Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
  As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
  
  Which owes the other most?
  
  My love was long,
  And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
  I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
  And loved me for what might or might not be—
  Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
  
  For verily love knows not ‘mine' or ‘thine';
  With separate ‘I' and ‘thou' free love has done,
  For one is both and both are one in love:
  Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine';
  Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
  Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

• I Planted A Hand Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I planted a hand
  And there came up a palm,
  I planted a heart
  And there came up balm.
  
  Then I planted a wish,
  But there sprang a thorn,
  While heaven frowned with thunder
  And earth sighed forlorn.

• If Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day,
  O, what a day to-day would be!
  But now he's away, miles and miles away
  From me across the sea.
  
  O little bird, flying, flying, flying
  To your nest in the warm west,
  Tell him as you pass that I am dying,
  As you pass home to your nest.
  
  I have a sister, I have a brother,
  A faithful hound, a tame white dove;
  But I had another, once I had another,
  And I miss him, my love, my love!
  In this weary world it is so cold, so cold,
  While I sit here all alone;
  I would not like to wait and to grow old,
  But just to be dead and gone.
  
  Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed,
  Fair where I am lying:
  Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead—
  He for whom I am dying.
  
  Dig my grave for two, with a stone to show it,
  And on the stone write my name;
  If he never comes, I shall never know it,
  But sleep on all the same.

• If A Mouse Could Fly Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If a mouse could fly,
  Or if a crow could swim,
  Or if a sprat could walk and talk,
  I’d like to be like him.
  
  If a mouse could fly,
  He might fly away;
  Or if a crow could swim,
  It might turn him grey;
  Or if a sprat could walk and talk,
  What would he find to say?

• If A Pig Wore A Wig Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If a pig wore a wig,
  What could we say?
  
  Treat him as a gentleman,
  And say ‘Good day.
  
  ’
  If his tail chanced to fail,
  What could we do?
  
  -
  Send him to the tailoress
  To get one new.

• If All Were Rain And Never Sun Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If all were rain and never sun,
  No bow could span the hill;
  If all were sun and never rain,
  There’d be no rainbow still.

• If Hope Grew On A Bush Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If hope grew on a bush,
  And joy grew on a tree,
  What a nosegay for the plucking
  There would be!
  But oh! in windy autumn,
  When frail flowers wither,
  What should we do for hope and joy,
  Fading together?

• If I Were A Queen Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If I were a Queen,
  What would I do?
  
  I’d make you King,
  And I’d wait on you.
  
  If I were a King,
  What would I do?
  
  I’d make you Queen,
  For I’d marry you.

• If Only Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If I might only love my God and die!
  But now He bids me love Him and live on,
  Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,
  The pleasant half of life has quite gone by.
  
  My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high,
  And I forget how summer glowed and shone,
  While autumn grips me with its fingers wan
  And frets me with its fitful windy sigh.
  
  When autumn passes then must winter numb,
  And winter may not pass a weary while,
  But when it passes spring shall flower again;
  And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile,
  Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane,
  Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.

• If Stars Dropped Out Of Heaven Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If stars dropped out of heaven,
  And if flowers took their place,
  The sky would still look very fair,
  And fair earth's face.
  
  Winged angels might fly down to us
  To pluck the stars,
  Be we could only long for flowers
  Beyond the cloudy bars.

• If The Moon Came From Heaven Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If the moon came from heaven,
  Talking all the way,
  What could she have to tell us,
  And what could she say?
  
  ‘I've seen a hundred pretty things,
  And seen a hundred gay;
  But only think: I peep by night
  And do not peep by day!’

• If The Sun Could Tell Us Half Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If the sun could tell us half
  That he hears and sees,
  Sometimes he would make us laugh,
  Sometimes make us cry:
  Think of all the birds that make
  Homes among the trees;
  Think of cruel boys who take
  Birds that cannot fly.

• In an Artist's Studio Read Poem Log in to favourite

  One face looks out from all his canvases,
  One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
  We found her hidden just behind those screens,
  That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
  
  A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
  A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
  A saint, an angel — every canvas means
  The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
  
  He feeds upon her face by day and night,
  And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
  Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
  Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
  Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
  Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

• In Progress Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ten years ago it seemed impossible
  That she should ever grow so calm as this,
  With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
  And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
  
  Slow-speaking when she had some fact to tell,
  Silent with long-unbroken silences,
  Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
  Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
  
  Mindful of drudging daily common things,
  Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
  Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
  
  Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
  Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
  And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

• In the Bleak Midwinter Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
  Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
  Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
  In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
  
  Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
  Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
  
  In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
  The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
  
  Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
  Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
  Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
  The ox and ass and camel which adore.
  
  Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
  Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
  But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
  Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
  
  What can I give Him, poor as I am?
  
  If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
  If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
  Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

• In The Meadow - What In The Meadow? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In the meadow - what in the meadow?
  
  Bluebells, buttercups, meadowsweet,
  And fairy rings for the children's feet
  In the meadow.
  
  In the garden - what in the garden?
  
  Jacob's-ladder and Solomon's-seal,
  And Love-lies-bleeding beside All-heal
  In the garden.

• In The Round Tower At Jhansi Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A hundred, a thousand to one; even so;
  Not a hope in the world remained:
  The swarming howling wretches below
  Gained and gained and gained.
  
  Skene looked at his pale young wife:—
  'Is the time come?
  
  '—'The time is come!'—
  Young, strong, and so full of life:
  The agony struck them dumb.
  
  Close his arm about her now,
  Close her cheek to his,
  Close the pistol to her brow—
  God forgive them this!
  'Will it hurt much?
  
  '—'No, mine own:
  I wish I could bear the pang for both.
  
  '
  'I wish I could bear the pang alone:
  Courage, dear, I am not loth.
  
  '
  Kiss and kiss: 'It is not pain
  Thus to kiss and die.
  
  One kiss more.
  
  '—'And yet one again.
  
  '—
  'Good-bye.
  
  '—'Good-bye.
  
  '

• In The Willow Shade Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I sat beneath a willow tree,
  Where water falls and calls;
  While fancies upon fancies solaced me,
  Some true, and some were false.
  
  Who set their heart upon a hope
  That never comes to pass,
  Droop in the end like fading heliotrope
  The sun's wan looking-glass.
  
  Who set their will upon a whim
  Clung to through good and ill,
  Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim,
  Or hit or miss their will.
  
  All things are vain that wax and wane,
  For which we waste our breath;
  Love only doth not wane and is not vain,
  Love only outlives death.
  
  A singing lark rose toward the sky,
  Circling he sang amain;
  He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high,
  And then he sank again.
  
  A second like a sunlit spark
  Flashed singing up his track;
  But never overtook that foremost lark,
  And songless fluttered back.
  
  A hovering melody of birds
  Haunted the air above;
  They clearly sang contentment without words,
  And youth and joy and love.
  
  O silvery weeping willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
  Have you no purpose but to shadow me
  Beside this rippled spring?
  
  On this first fleeting day of Spring,
  For Winter is gone by,
  And every bird on every quivering wing
  Floats in a sunny sky;
  On this first Summer-like soft day,
  While sunshine steeps the air,
  And every cloud has gat itself away,
  And birds sing everywhere.
  
  Have you no purpose in the world
  But thus to shadow me
  With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled,
  O weeping willow tree?
  
  With all your tremulous leaves outspread
  Betwixt me and the sun,
  While here I loiter on a mossy bed
  With half my work undone;
  My work undone, that should be done
  At once with all my might;
  For after the long day and lingering sun
  Comes the unworking night.
  
  This day is lapsing on its way,
  Is lapsing out of sight;
  And after all the chances of the day
  Comes the resourceless night.
  
  The weeping willow shook its head
  And stretched its shadow long;
  The west grew crimson, the sun smoldered red,
  The birds forbore a song.
  
  Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,
  The ripple made a moan,
  The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;
  And then I felt alone.
  
  I rose to go, and felt the chill,
  And shivered as I went;
  Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,
  What more that willow meant;
  That silvery weeping willow tree
  With all leaves shivering,
  Which spent one long day overshadowing me
  Beside a spring in Spring.

• Introspective Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I wish it were over the terrible pain,
  Pang after pang again and again;
  First the shattering ruining blow,
  Then the probing steady and slow.
  
  Did I wince?
  
  I did not faint:
  My soul broke but was not bent;
  Up I stand like a blasted tree
  By the shore of the shivering sea.
  
  On my boughs neither leaf nor fruit,
  No sap in my uttermost root,
  Brooding in an anguish dumb
  On the short past and the long to come.
  
  Dumb I was when the ruin fell,
  Dumb I remain and will never tell:
  O my soul I talk with thee
  But not another the sight must see.
  
  I did not start when the torture stung,
  I did not faint when the torture wrung;
  Let it come tenfold if come it must
  But I will not groan when I bite the dust.

• Is It Well With The Child? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Safe where I cannot die yet,
  Safe where I hope to lie too,
  Safe from the fume and the fret;
  You, and you,
  Whom I never forget.
  
  Safe from the frost and the snow,
  Safe from the storm and the sun,
  Safe where the seeds wait to grow
  One by one,
  And to come back in blow.

• January Cold Desolate Read Poem Log in to favourite

  January cold desolate;
  February all dripping wet;
  March wind ranges;
  April changes;
  Birds sing in tune
  To flowers of May,
  And sunny June
  Brings longest day;
  In scorched July
  The storm-clouds fly
  Lightning-torn;
  August bears corn,
  September fruit;
  In rough October
  Earth must disrobe her;
  Stars fall and shoot
  In keen November;
  And night is long
  And cold is strong
  In bleak December.

• Jesus, Do I Love Thee? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Jesus, do I love Thee?
  
  Thou art far above me,
  Seated out of sight
  Hid in Heavenly Light
  Of most highest height.
  
  Martyred hosts implore Thee,
  Seraphs fall before Thee,
  Angels and Archangels,
  Cherub throngs adore Thee;
  Blessed She that bore Thee!
  All the Saints approve Thee,
  All the Virgins love Thee.
  
  I show as a blot
  Blood hath cleansed not,
  As a barren spot
  In Thy fruitful lot.
  
  I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing;
  Thou, righteous Judge unsparing:
  What canst Thou do more to me
  That shall not more undo me?
  
  Thy Justice hath a sound—
  Why cumbereth it the ground?
  
  Thy Love with stirrings stronger
  Pleads—Give it one year longer.
  
  Thou giv'st me time: but who
  Save Thou shall give me dew;
  Shall feed my root with Blood,
  And stir my sap for good?
  
  Oh, by Thy Gifts that shame me,
  Give more lest they condemn me:
  Good Lord, I ask much of Thee,
  But most I ask to love Thee;
  Kind Lord, be mindful of me,
  Love me, and make me love Thee.

• Kookoorookoo! Kookoorookoo! Read Poem Log in to favourite

  ‘Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!’
  Crows the cock before the morn;
  ‘Kikirikee! kikirikee!’
  Roses in the east are born.
  
  ‘Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!’
  Early birds begin their singing;
  ‘Kikirikee! kikirikee!’
  The day, the day, the day is springing.

• L. e. l. Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Whose heart was breaking for a little love.
  
  '
  Downstairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all;
  But in my solitary room above
  I turn my face in silence to the wall;
  My heart is breaking for a little love.
  
  Though winter frosts are done,
  And birds pair every one,
  And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.
  
  I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,
  I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:
  Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,
  My heart that breaketh for a little love.
  
  While golden in the sun
  Rivulets rise and run,
  While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.
  
  All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts
  Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:
  They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,
  My heart is breaking for a little love.
  
  While beehives wake and whirr,
  And rabbit thins his fur,
  In living spring that sets the world astir.
  
  I deck myself with skills and jewelry,
  I plume myself like any mated dove:
  They praise my rustling show, and never see
  My heart is breaking for a little love.
  
  While sprouts green lavender
  With rosemary and myrrh,
  For in quick spring the sap is all astir.
  
  Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
  Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
  And cry one to another full of ruth,
  'Her heart is breaking for a little love.
  
  '
  Though other things have birth,
  And leap and sing for mirth,
  When springtime wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.
  
  Yet saith a saint: 'Take patience for thy scathe;'
  Yet saith an angel: 'Wait, for thou shalt prove
  True best is last, true life is born of death,
  O thou, heart-broken for a little love.
  
  Then love shall fill they girth,
  And love make fat thy dearth,
  When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth.
  
  '

• Lady Maggie Read Poem Log in to favourite

  You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear,
  For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see;
  And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,
  'Twill be little lord or lady at my knee.
  
  Oh, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil,
  That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost?
  
  You're as white as I turned once down by the mill,
  When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:
  Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl
  (It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me),
  Philip with the merry life in lip and curl,
  Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!
  I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint;
  I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad,
  Till I raised my wail of desolate complaint
  For you, my cousin, brother, all I had.
  
  They said I looked so pale—some say so fair—
  My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life:
  I know I missed a ringlet from my hair
  Next morning; and now I am his wife.
  
  Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring,
  I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe:
  All day long I sit in the sun and sing,
  Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.
  
  And I'm the rose of roses says my lord;
  And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky,
  While I hold him fast with the golden cord
  Of a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.
  
  His mother said 'fie,' and his sisters cried 'shame,'
  His highborn ladies cried 'shame' from their place:
  They said 'fie' when they only heard my name,
  But fell silent when they saw my face.
  
  Am I so fair, Philip?
  
  Philip, did you think
  I was so fair when we played boy and girl,
  Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brink
  Of our stream which the mill-wheel sent a whirl?
  
  If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now,
  Sitting where a score of servants stand,
  With a coronet on high days for my brow
  And almost a sceptre for my hand.
  
  You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown,
  A stranger on land and at home on the sea,
  Coasting as best you may from town to town:
  Coasting along do you often think of me?
  
  I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower,
  With hands grown white through having nought to do:
  Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hour
  Till I nigh wish myself a child with you.

• Last Night Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Where were you last night?
  
  I watched at the gate;
  I went down early, I stayed down late.
  
  Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
  Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?
  
  She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;
  Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.
  
  Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:
  I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.
  
  If you love her best speak up like a man;
  It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:
  Some girls might cry and scold you a bit,
  And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.
  
  Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;
  Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;
  Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,
  Now dropped away into the past.
  
  Was it pleasant to you?
  
  To me it was;
  Now clean gone as an image from glass,
  As a goodly rainbow that fades away,
  As dew that steams upward from the grass,
  As the first spring day, or the last summer day,
  As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,
  As a flame burnt out for lack of oil,
  Which no pains relight or ever may.
  
  Good luck to Kate and good luck to you:
  I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo.
  
  I wish her a pretty face that will last,
  I wish her a husband steady and true.
  
  Hate you?
  
  not I, my very good friend;
  All things begin and all have an end.
  
  But let broken be broken; I put no faith
  In quacks who set up to patch and mend.
  
  Just my love and one word to Kate:
  Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—
  For even such a thing has been known
  As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

• Later life Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Something this foggy day, a something which
  Is neither of this fog nor of today,
  Has set me dreaming of the winds that play
  Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach,
  And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray:
  Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away,
  So out of reach while quite within my reach,
  As out of reach as India or Cathay!
  I am sick of where I am and where I am not,
  I am sick of foresight and of memory,
  I am sick of all I have and all I see,
  I am sick of self, and there is nothing new;
  Oh weary impatient patience of my lot!
  Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?

• Let Me Go Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I come to the end of the road
  And the sun has set for me
  I want no rites in a gloom filled room
  Why cry for a soul set free?
  
  Miss me a little, but not for long
  And not with your head bowed low
  Remember the love that once we shared
  Miss me, but let me go.
  
  For this is a journey we all must take
  And each must go alone.
  
  It's all part of the master plan
  A step on the road to home.
  
  When you are lonely and sick at heart
  Go the friends we know.
  
  Laugh at all the things we used to do
  Miss me, but let me go.
  
  When I am dead my dearest
  Sing no sad songs for me
  Plant thou no roses at my head
  Nor shady cypress tree
  Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet
  And if thou wilt remember
  And if thou wilt, forget.
  
  I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not fear the rain;
  I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on as if in pain;
  And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
  Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.

• Lie A-Bed Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Lie a-bed,
  Sleepy head,
  Shut up eyes, bo-peep;
  Till daybreak
  Never wake: -
  Baby, sleep.

• Life And Death Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Life is not sweet.
  
  One day it will be sweet
  To shut our eyes and die:
  Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by
  With flitting butterfly,
  Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,
  Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,
  Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,
  Nor mark the waxing wheat,
  Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.
  
  Life is not good.
  
  One day it will be good
  To die, then live again;
  To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane
  Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,
  Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,
  Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood
  Rich ranks of golden grain
  Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:
  Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.

• Light Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Oh, sad thy lot before I came,
  But sadder when I go;
  My presence but a flash of flame,
  A transitory glow
  Between two barren wastes like snow.
  
  What wilt thou do when I am gone,
  Where wilt thou rest, my dear?
  
  For cold thy bed to rest upon,
  And cold the falling year
  Whose withered leaves are lost and sere.
  
  '
  She hushed the baby at her breast,
  She rocked it on her knee:
  'And I will rest my lonely rest,
  Warmed with the thought of thee,
  Rest lulled to rest by memory.
  
  '
  She hushed the baby with her kiss,
  She hushed it with her breast:
  'Is death so sadder much than this—
  Sure death that builds a nest
  For those who elsewhere cannot rest?
  
  '
  'Oh, sad thy note, my mateless dove,
  With tender nestling cold;
  But hast thou ne'er another love
  Left from the days of old,
  To build thy nest of silk and gold,
  To warm thy paleness to a blush
  When I am far away—
  To warm thy coldness to a flush,
  And turn thee back to May,
  And turn thy twilight back to day?
  
  '
  She did not answer him again,
  But leaned her face aside,
  Weary with the pang of shame and pain,
  And sore with wounded pride:
  He knew his very soul had lied.
  
  She strained his baby in her arms,
  His baby to her heart:
  'Even let it go, the love that harms:
  We twain will never part;
  Mine own, his own, how dear thou art.
  
  '
  'Now never teaze me, tender-eyed,
  Sigh-voiced,' he said in scorn:
  'For nigh at hand there blooms a bride,
  My bride before the morn;
  Ripe-blooming she, as thou forlorn.
  
  Ripe-blooming she, my rose, my peach;
  She woos me day and night:
  I watch her tremble in my reach;
  She reddens, my delight,
  She ripens, reddens in my sight.
  
  '
  'And is she like a sunlit rose?
  
  Am I like withered leaves?
  
  Haste where thy spiced garden blows:
  But in bare Autumn eves
  Wilt thou have store of harvest sheaves?
  
  Thou leavest love, true love behind,
  To seek a love as true;
  Go, seek in haste: but wilt thou find?
  
  Change new again for new;
  Pluck up, enjoy—yea, trample too.
  
  'Alas for her, poor faded rose,
  Alas for her her, like me,
  Cast down and trampled in the snows.
  
  '
  'Like thee?
  
  nay, not like thee:
  She leans, but from a guarded tree.
  
  Farewell, and dream as long ago,
  Before we ever met:
  Farewell; my swift-paced horse seems slow.
  
  '
  She raised her eyes, not wet
  But hard, to Heaven: 'Does God forget?
  
  '

• Long Barren Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree,
  My God, for me;
  Though I till now be barren, now at length
  Lord, give me strength
  To bring forth fruit to Thee.
  
  Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn,
  Spitting and scorn;
  Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet now
  Strengthen me Thou
  That better fruit be borne.
  
  Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots,
  Vine of sweet fruits,
  Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf,
  Of thousands Chief,
  Feed Thou my feeble shoots.

• Lord Jesus, Who Would Think That I Am Thine? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Lord Jesus, who would think that I am Thine?
  
  Ah, who would think
  Who sees me ready to turn back or sink,
  That Thou art mine?
  
  I cannot hold Thee fast though Thou art mine:
  Hold Thou me fast,
  So earth shall know at last and heaven at last
  That I am Thine.

• Love Came Down at Christmas Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Love came down at Christmas,
  Love all lovely, love divine;
  Love was born at Christmas,
  Star and angels gave the sign.
  
  Worship we the Godhead,
  Love incarnate, love divine;
  Worship we our Jesus:
  But wherewith for sacred sign?
  
  Love shall be our token,
  Love shall be yours and love be mine,
  Love to God and to all men,
  Love for plea and gift and sign.

• Love From The North Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I had a love in soft south land,
  Beloved through April far in May;
  He waited on my lightest breath,
  And never dared to say me nay.
  
  He saddened if my cheer was sad,
  But gay he grew if I was gay;
  We never differed on a hair,
  My yes his yes, my nay his nay.
  
  The wedding hour was come, the aisles
  Were flushed with sun and flowers that day;
  I pacing balanced in my thoughts:
  'It's quite too late to think of nay.
  
  '—
  My bridegroom answered in his turn,
  Myself had almost answered 'yea:'
  When through the flashing nave I heard
  A struggle and resounding 'nay.
  
  '
  Bridemaids and bridegroom shrank in fear,
  But I stood high who stood at bay:
  'And if I answer yea, fair Sir,
  What man art thou to bar with nay?
  
  '
  He was a strong man from the north,
  Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous grey:
  'Put yea by for another time
  In which I will not say thee nay.
  
  '
  He took me in his strong white arms,
  He bore me on his horse away
  O'er crag, morass, and hairbreadth pass,
  But never asked me yea or nay.
  
  He made me fast with book and bell,
  With links of love he makes me stay;
  Till now I've neither heart nor power
  Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

• Love Me - I Love You Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Love me - I love you,
  Love me, my baby;
  Sing it high, sing it low,
  Sing it as may be.
  
  Mother's arms under you,
  Her eyes above you;
  Sing it high, sing it low,
  Love me - I love you.

• Lullaby, Oh, Lullaby! Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
  Flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping;
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
  Stars are up, the moon is peeping;
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
  While the birds are silence keeping,
  (Lullaby, oh, lullaby!)
  Sleep, my baby, fall a-sleeping,
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

• Maiden May Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Maiden May sat in her bower,
  In her blush rose bower in flower,
  Sweet of scent;
  Sat and dreamed away an hour,
  Half content, half uncontent.
  
  ‘Why should rose blossoms be born,
  Tender blossoms, on a thorn
  Though so sweet?
  
  Never a thorn besets the corn
  Scentless in its strength complete.
  
  ‘Why are roses all so frail,
  At the mercy of a gale,
  Of a breath?
  
  Yet so sweet and perfect pale,
  Still so sweet in life and death.
  
  ’
  Maiden May sat in her bower,
  In her blush rose bower in flower,
  Where a linnet
  Made one bristling branch the tower
  For her nest and young ones in it.
  
  ‘Gay and clear the linnet trills;
  Yet the skylark only, thrills
  Heaven and earth
  When he breasts the height, and fills
  Height and depth with song and mirth.
  
  ‘Nightingales which yield to night
  Solitary strange delight,
  Reign alone:
  But the lark for all his height
  Fills no solitary throne;
  ‘While he sings, a hundred sing;
  Wing their flight below his wing
  Yet in flight;
  Each a lovely joyful thing
  To the measure of its delight.
  
  ‘Why then should a lark be reckoned
  One alone, without a second
  Near his throne?
  
  He in skyward flight unslackened,
  In his music, not alone.
  
  ’
  Maiden May sat in her bower;
  Her own face was like a flower
  Of the prime,
  Half in sunshine, half in shower,
  In the year's most tender time.
  
  Her own thoughts in silent song
  Musically flowed along,
  Wise, unwise,
  Wistful, wondering, weak or strong:
  As brook shallows sink or rise.
  
  Other thoughts another day,
  Maiden May, will surge and sway
  Round your heart;
  Wake, and plead, and turn at bay,
  Wisdom part, and folly part.
  
  Time not far remote will borrow
  Other joys, another sorrow,
  All for you;
  Not to-day, and yet to-morrow
  Reasoning false and reasoning true.
  
  Wherefore greatest?
  
  Wherefore least?
  
  Hearts that starve and hearts that feast?
  
  You and I?
  
  Stammering Oracles have ceased,
  And the whole earth stands at ‘why?
  
  ’
  Underneath all things that be
  Lies an unsolved mystery;
  Over all
  Spreads a veil impenetrably,
  Spreads a dense unlifted pall.
  
  Mystery of mysteries:
  This creation hears and sees
  High and low -
  Vanity of vanities:
  This we test and this we know.
  
  Maiden May, the days of flowering
  Nurse you now in sweet embowering,
  Sunny days;
  Bright with rainbows all the showering,
  Bright with blossoms all the ways.
  
  Close the inlet of your bower,
  Close it close with thorn and flower,
  Maiden May;
  Lengthen out the shortening hour, -
  Morrows are not as to-day.
  
  Stay to-day which wanes too soon,
  Stay the sun and stay the moon,
  Stay your youth;
  Bask you in the actual noon,
  Rest you in the present truth.
  
  Let to-day suffice to-day:
  For itself to-morrow may
  Fetch its loss,
  Aim and stumble, say its say,
  Watch and pray and bear its cross.

• Maiden-Song Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Long ago and long ago,
  And long ago still,
  There dwelt three merry maidens
  Upon a distant hill.
  
  One was tall Megan,
  And one was dainty May,
  But one was fair Margaret,
  More fair than I can say,
  Long ago and long ago.
  
  When Megan plucked the thorny rose,
  And when May pulled the brier,
  Half the birds would swoop to see,
  Half the beasts draw nigher;
  Half the fishes of the streams
  Would dart up to admire:
  But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,
  Or poppy hot aflame,
  All the beasts and all the birds
  And all the fishes came
  To her hand more soft than snow.
  
  Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  In brisk morning air,
  Strawberry leaves and May-dew
  Make maidens fair.
  
  'I go for strawberry leaves,'
  Megan said one day:
  'Fair Margaret can bide at home,
  But you come with me, May;
  Up the hill and down the hill,
  Along the winding way 30
  You and I are used to go.
  
  '
  So these two fair sisters
  Went with innocent will
  Up the hill and down again,
  And round the homestead hill:
  While the fairest sat at home,
  Margaret like a queen,
  Like a blush-rose, like the moon
  In her heavenly sheen,
  Fragrant-breathed as milky cow
  Or field of blossoming bean,
  Graceful as an ivy bough
  Born to cling and lean;
  Thus she sat to sing and sew.
  
  When she raised her lustrous eyes
  A beast peeped at the door;
  When she downward cast her eyes
  A fish gasped on the floor;
  When she turned away her eyes
  A bird perched on the sill,
  Warbling out its heart of love,
  Warbling warbling still,
  With pathetic pleadings low.
  
  Light-foot May with Megan
  Sought the choicest spot,
  Clothed with thyme-alternate grass:
  Then, while day waxed hot,
  Sat at ease to play and rest,
  A gracious rest and play;
  The loveliest maidens near or far,
  When Margaret was away,
  Who sat at home to sing and sew.
  
  Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks,
  Wind-play tossed their hair,
  Creeping things among the grass
  Stroked them here and there;
  Megan piped a merry note,
  A fitful wayward lay,
  While shrill as bird on topmost twig
  Piped merry May;
  Honey-smooth the double flow.
  
  Sped a herdsman from the vale,
  Mounting like a flame,
  All on fire to hear and see,
  With floating locks he came.
  
  Looked neither north nor south,
  Neither east nor west,
  But sat him down at Megan's feet
  As love-bird on his nest,
  And wooed her with a silent awe,
  With trouble not expressed;
  She sang the tears into his eyes,
  The heart out of his breast:
  So he loved her, listening so.
  
  She sang the heart out of his breast,
  The words out of his tongue;
  Hand and foot and pulse he paused
  Till her song was sung.
  
  Then he spoke up from his place
  Simple words and true:
  'Scanty goods have I to give,
  Scanty skill to woo;
  But I have a will to work,
  And a heart for you:
  Bid me stay or bid me go.
  
  '
  Then Megan mused within herself:
  'Better be first with him,
  Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits,
  Who shines my brightness dim,
  For ever second where she sits,
  However fair I be:
  I will be lady of his love,
  And he shall worship me;
  I will be lady of his herds
  And stoop to his degree,
  At home where kids and fatlings grow.
  
  '
  Sped a shepherd from the height
  Headlong down to look,
  (White lambs followed, lured by love
  Of their shepherd's crook):
  He turned neither east nor west,
  Neither north nor south,
  But knelt right down to May, for love
  Of her sweet-singing mouth;
  Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks
  In parching hill-side drouth;
  Forgot himself for weal or woe.
  
  Trilled her song and swelled her song
  With maiden coy caprice
  In a labyrinth of throbs,
  Pauses, cadences;
  Clear-noted as a dropping brook,
  Soft-noted like the bees,
  Wild-noted as the shivering wind
  Forlorn through forest trees:
  Love-noted like the wood-pigeon
  Who hides herself for love,
  Yet cannot keep her secret safe,
  But coos and coos thereof:
  Thus the notes rang loud or low.
  
  He hung breathless on her breath;
  Speechless, who listened well;
  Could not speak or think or wish
  Till silence broke the spell.
  
  Then he spoke, and spread his hands,
  Pointing here and there:
  'See my sheep and see the lambs,
  Twin lambs which they bare.
  
  All myself I offer you,
  All my flocks and care,
  Your sweet song hath moved me so.
  
  '
  In her fluttered heart young May
  Mused a dubious while:
  'If he loves me as he says'--
  Her lips curved with a smile:
  'Where Margaret shines like the sun
  I shine but like a moon;
  If sister Megan makes her choice
  I can make mine as soon;
  At cockcrow we were sister-maids,
  We may be brides at noon.
  
  '
  Said Megan, 'Yes;' May said not 'No.
  
  '
  Fair Margaret stayed alone at home,
  Awhile she sang her song,
  Awhile sat silent, then she thought:
  'My sisters loiter long.
  
  '
  That sultry noon had waned away,
  Shadows had waxen great:
  'Surely,' she thought within herself,
  'My sisters loiter late.
  
  '
  She rose, and peered out at the door,
  With patient heart to wait,
  And heard a distant nightingale
  Complaining of its mate;
  Then down the garden slope she walked,
  Down to the garden gate,
  Leaned on the rail and waited so.
  
  The slope was lightened by her eyes
  Like summer lightning fair,
  Like rising of the haloed moon
  Lightened her glimmering hair,
  While her face lightened like the sun
  Whose dawn is rosy white.
  
  Thus crowned with maiden majesty
  She peered into the night,
  Looked up the hill and down the hill,
  To left hand and to right,
  Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.
  
  Waiting thus in weariness
  She marked the nightingale
  Telling, if any one would heed,
  Its old complaining tale.
  
  Then lifted she her voice and sang,
  Answering the bird:
  Then lifted she her voice and sang,
  Such notes were never heard
  From any bird when Spring's in blow.
  
  The king of all that country
  Coursing far, coursing near,
  Curbed his amber-bitted steed,
  Coursed amain to hear;
  All his princes in his train,
  Squire, and knight, and peer,
  With his crown upon his head,
  His sceptre in his hand,
  Down he fell at Margaret's knees
  Lord king of all that land,
  To her highness bending low.
  
  Every beast and bird and fish
  Came mustering to the sound,
  Every man and every maid
  From miles of country round:
  Megan on her herdsman's arm,
  With her shepherd May,
  Flocks and herds trooped at their heels
  Along the hill-side way;
  No foot too feeble for the ascent,
  Not any head too grey;
  Some were swift and none were slow.
  
  So Margaret sang her sisters home
  In their marriage mirth;
  Sang free birds out of the sky,
  Beasts along the earth,
  Sang up fishes of the deep--
  All breathing things that move
  Sang from far and sang from near
  To her lovely love;
  Sang together friend and foe;
  Sang a golden-bearded king
  Straightway to her feet,
  Sang him silent where he knelt
  In eager anguish sweet.
  
  But when the clear voice died away,
  When longest echoes died,
  He stood up like a royal man
  And claimed her for his bride.
  
  So three maids were wooed and won
  In a brief May-tide,
  Long ago and long ago.

• Margaret Has A Milking-Pail Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Margaret has a milking-pail,
  And she rises early;
  Thomas has a threshing-flail,
  And he's up betimes.
  
  Sometimes crossing through the grass
  Where the dew lies pearly,
  They say ‘Good morrow’ as they pass
  By the leafy limes.

• Marvel Of Marvels Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold
  With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;
  Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,
  Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,
  Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.
  
  O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould,
  Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unrolled,
  See with these very eyes?
  
  who now in darkness and cold
  Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-
  The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!
  Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was tolled:
  Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!

• Maude Clare Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Out of the church she followed them
  With a lofty step and mien:
  His bride was like a village maid,
  Maude Clare was like a queen.
  
  'Son Thomas,' his lady mother said,
  With smiles, almost with tears:
  'May Nell and you but live as true
  As we have done for years;
  'Your father thirty years ago
  Had just your tale to tell;
  But he was not so pale as you,
  Nor I so pale as Nell.
  
  '
  My lord was pale with inward strife,
  And Nell was pale with pride;
  My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
  Or ever he kissed the bride.
  
  'Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
  Have brought my gift,' she said:
  'To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
  To bless the marriage-bed.
  
  'Here's my half of the golden chain
  You wore about your neck,
  That day we waded ankle-deep
  For lilies in the beck:
  'Here's my half of the faded leaves
  We plucked from budding bough,
  With feet amongst the lily leaves,—
  The lilies are budding now.
  
  '
  He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
  He faltered in his place:
  'Lady,' he said,—'Maude Clare,' he said,—
  'Maude Clare:'—and hid his face.
  
  She turn'd to Nell: 'My Lady Nell,
  I have a gift for you;
  Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,
  Or, were it flowers, the dew.
  
  'Take my share of a fickle heart,
  Mine of a paltry love:
  Take it or leave it as you will,
  I wash my hands thereof.
  
  '
  'And what you leave,' said Nell, 'I'll take,
  And what you spurn, I'll wear;
  For he's my lord for better and worse,
  And him I love, Maude Clare.
  
  'Yea, though you're taller by the head,
  More wise, and much more fair;
  I'll love him till he loves me best,
  Me best of all, Maude Clare.
  
  '

• May Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I cannot tell you how it was,
  But this I know: it came to pass
  Upon a bright and sunny day
  When May was young; ah, pleasant May!
  As yet the poppies were not born
  Between the blades of tender corn;
  The last egg had not hatched as yet,
  Nor any bird foregone its mate.
  
  I cannot tell you what it was,
  But this I know: it did but pass.
  
  It passed away with sunny May,
  Like all sweet things it passed away,
  And left me old, and cold, and gray.

• Memory Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  I nursed it in my bosom while it lived,
  I hid it in my heart when it was dead;
  In joy I sat alone, even so I grieved
  Alone and nothing said.
  
  I shut the door to face the naked truth,
  I stood alone—I faced the truth alone,
  Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruth
  Till first and last were shown.
  
  I took the perfect balances and weighed;
  No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise;
  Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said,
  But silent made my choice.
  
  None know the choice I made; I make it still.
  
  None know the choice I made and broke my heart,
  Breaking mine idol: I have braced my will
  Once, chosen for once my part.
  
  I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,
  Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.
  
  My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,
  Grows old in which I grieve.
  
  II
  I have a room whereinto no one enters
  Save I myself alone:
  There sits a blessed memory on a throne,
  There my life centres.
  
  While winter comes and goes—oh tedious comer!—
  And while its nip-wind blows;
  While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose
  Of lavish summer.
  
  If any should force entrance he might see there
  One buried yet not dead,
  Before whose face I no more bow my head
  Or bend my knee there;
  But often in my worn life's autumn weather
  I watch there with clear eyes,
  And think how it will be in Paradise
  When we're together.

• Minnie And Mattie Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Minnie and Mattie
  And fat little May,
  Out in the country,
  Spending a day.
  
  Such a bright day,
  With the sun glowing,
  And the trees half in leaf,
  And the grass growing.
  
  Pinky white pigling
  Squeals through his snout,
  Woolly white lambkin
  Frisks all about.
  
  Cluck! cluck! the nursing hen
  Summons her folk, -
  Ducklings all downy soft
  Yellow as yolk.
  
  Cluck! cluck! the mother hen
  Summons her chickens
  To peck the dainty bits
  Found in her pickings.
  
  Minnie and Mattie
  And May carry posies,
  Half of sweet violets,
  Half of primroses.
  
  Give the sun time enough,
  Glowing and glowing,
  He'll rouse the roses
  And bring them blowing.
  
  Don't wait for roses
  Losing to-day,
  O Minnie, Mattie,
  And wise little May.
  
  Violets and primroses
  Blossom to-day
  For Minnie and Mattie
  And fat little May.

• Minnie Bakes Oaten Cakes Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Minnie bakes oaten cakes,
  Minnie brews ale,
  All because her Johnny's coming
  Home from sea.
  
  And she glows like a rose
  Who was so pale,
  And ‘Are you sure the church clock goes?
  
  ’
  Says she.

• Mirage Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
  Was but a dream; and now I wake,
  Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
  For a dream's sake.
  
  I hang my harp upon a tree,
  A weeping willow in a lake;
  I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped
  For a dream's sake.
  
  Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
  My silent heart, lie still and break:
  Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
  For a dream's sake.

• Mix A Pancake Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Mix a pancake,
  Stir a pancake,
  Pop it in the pan;
  Fry the pancake,
  Toss the pancake, -
  Catch it if you can.

• Monna Innominata: A Sonnet Of Sonnets Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1
  Lo dì che han detto a' dolci amici addio.
  
  (Dante)
  Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci! (Petrarch)
  Come back to me, who wait and watch for you: -
  Or come not yet, for it is over then,
  And long it is before you come again,
  So far between my pleasures are and few.
  
  While, when you come not, what I do I do
  Thinking ‘Now when he comes,’ my sweetest when:
  For one man is my world of all the men
  This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
  
  Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
  Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
  My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
  Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
  Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
  When life was sweet because you called them sweet?
  
  2
  Era già 1'ora che volge il desio.
  
  (Dante)
  Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima.
  
  (Petrarch)
  I wish I could remember that first day,
  First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
  If bright or dim the season, it might be
  Summer or winter for aught I can say;
  So unrecorded did it slip away,
  So blind was I to see and to foresee,
  So dull to mark the budding of my tree
  That would not blossom yet for many a May.
  
  If only I could recollect it, such
  A day of days! I let it come and go
  As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
  It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
  If only now I could recall that touch,
  First touch of hand in hand - Did one but know!
  3
  O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto! (Dante)
  Immaginata guida la conduce.
  
  (Petrarch)
  I dream of you to wake: would that I might
  Dream of you and not wake but slumber on;
  Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,
  As summer ended summer birds take flight.
  
  In happy dreams I hold you full in sight,
  I blush again who waking look so wan;
  Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,
  In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.
  
  Thus only in a dream we are at one,
  Thus only in a dream we give and take
  The faith that maketh rich who take or give;
  If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake,
  To die were surely sweeter than to live,
  Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.
  
  4
  Poca favilla gran fliamma seconda.
  
  (Dante)
  Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,
  E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore.
  
  (Petrarch)
  I loved you first: but afterwards your love
  Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
  As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
  
  Which owes the other most?
  
  My love was long,
  And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
  I loved and guessed at you, you construed me -
  And loved me for what might or might not be
  Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
  
  For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
  With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
  For one is both and both are one in love:
  Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
  Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
  Both of us, of the love which makes us one.
  
  5
  Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona.
  
  (Dante)
  Amor m'addusse in sì gioiosa spene.
  
  (Petrarch)
  O my heart's heart, and you who are to me
  More than myself myself, God be with you,
  Keep you in strong obedience leal and true
  To Him whose noble service setteth free,
  Give you all good we see or can foresee,
  Make your joys many and your sorrows few,
  Bless you in what you bear and what you do,
  Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.
  
  So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?
  
  To love you without stint and all I can
  Today, tomorrow, world without an end;
  To love you much and yet to love you more,
  As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;
  Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.
  
  6
  Or puoi la quantitate
  Comprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda.
  
  (Dante)
  Non vo' che da tal nodo mi scioglia.
  
  (Petrarch)
  Trust me, I have not earned your dear rebuke,
  I love, as you would have me, God the most;
  Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,
  Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look
  Unready to forego what I forsook;
  This say I, having counted up the cost,
  This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,
  The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook.
  
  Yet while I love my God the most, I deem
  That I can never love you overmuch;
  I love Him more, so let me love you too;
  Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such
  I cannot love you if I love not Him,
  I cannot love Him if I love not you.
  
  7
  Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto.
  
  (Dante)
  Ragionando con meco ed io con lui.
  
  (Petrarch)
  ‘Love me, for I love you’ - and answer me,
  ‘Love me, for I love you’ - so shall we stand
  As happy equals in the flowering land
  Of love, that knows not a dividing sea.
  
  Love builds the house on rock and not on sand,
  Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately;
  And who hath found love's citadel unmanned?
  
  And who hath held in bonds love's liberty?
  
  My heart's a coward though my words are brave
  We meet so seldom, yet we surely part
  So often; there's a problem for your art!
  Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,
  Though jealousy be cruel as the grave,
  And death be strong, yet love is strong as death.
  
  8
  Come dicesse a Dio: D'altro non calme.
  
  (Dante)
  Spero trovar pietà non che perdono.
  
  (Petrarch)
  ‘I, if I perish, perish’ - Esther spake:
  And bride of life or death she made her fair
  In all the lustre of her perfumed hair
  And smiles that kindle longing but to slake.
  
  She put on pomp of loveliness, to take
  Her husband through his eyes at unaware;
  She spread abroad her beauty for a snare,
  Harmless as doves and subtle as a snake.
  
  She trapped him with one mesh of silken hair,
  She vanquished him by wisdom of her wit,
  And built her people's house that it should stand: -
  If I might take my life so in my hand,
  And for my love to Love put up my prayer,
  And for love's sake by Love be granted it!
  9
  O dignitosa coscienza e netta! (Dante)
  Spirto più acceso di virtuti ardenti.
  
  (Petrarch)
  Thinking of you, and all that was, and all
  That might have been and now can never be,
  I feel your honoured excellence, and see
  Myself unworthy of the happier call:
  For woe is me who walk so apt to fall,
  So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee,
  Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!)
  Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.
  
  And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite,
  Because not loveless; love may toil all night,
  But take at morning; wrestle till the break
  Of day, but then wield power with God and man: -
  So take I heart of grace as best I can,
  Ready to spend and be spent for your sake.
  
  10
  Con miglior corso e con migliore stella.
  
  (Dante)
  La vita fugge e non s'arresta un' ora.
  
  (Petrarch)
  Time flies, hope flags, life plies a wearied wing;
  Death following hard on life gains ground apace;
  Faith runs with each and rears an eager face,
  Outruns the rest, makes light of everything,
  Spurns earth, and still finds breath to pray and sing;
  While love ahead of all uplifts his praise,
  Still asks for grace and still gives thanks for grace,
  Content with all day brings and night will bring.
  
  Life wanes; and when love folds his wings above
  Tired hope, and less we feel his conscious pulse,
  Let us go fall asleep, dear friend, in peace:
  A little while, and age and sorrow cease;
  A little while, and life reborn annuls
  Loss and decay and death, and all is love.
  
  11
  Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti.
  
  (Dante)
  Contando i casi della vita nostra.
  
  (Petrarch)
  Many in aftertimes will say of you
  ‘He loved her’ - while of me what will they say?
  
  Not that I loved you more than just in play,
  For fashion's sake as idle women do.
  
  Even let them prate; who know not what we knew
  Of love and parting in exceeding pain,
  Of parting hopeless here to meet again,
  Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view.
  
  But by my heart of love laid bare to you,
  My love that you can make not void nor vain,
  Love that foregoes you but to claim anew
  Beyond this passage of the gate of death,
  I charge you at the Judgment make it plain
  My love of you was life and not a breath.
  
  12
  Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona.
  
  (Dante)
  Amor vien nel bel viso di costei.
  
  (Petrarch)
  If there be any one can take my place
  And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,
  Think not that I can grudge it, but believe
  I do commend you to that nobler grace,
  That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;
  Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive
  I too am crowned, while bridal crowns I weave,
  And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.
  
  For if I did not love you, it might be
  That I should grudge you some one dear delight;
  But since the heart is yours that was mine own,
  Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,
  Your honourable freedom makes me free,
  And you companioned I am not alone.
  
  13
  E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore.
  
  (Dante)
  Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia.
  
  (Petrarch)
  If I could trust mine own self with your fate,
  Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand?
  
  Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand,
  Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date;
  Who numbereth the innumerable sand,
  Who weighs the wind and water with a weight,
  To Whom the world is neither small nor great,
  Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we planned.
  
  Searching my heart for all that touches you,
  I find there only love and love's goodwill
  Helpless to help and impotent to do,
  Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;
  And therefore I commend you back to Him
  Whose love your love's capacity can fill.
  
  14
  E la Sua Volontade è nostra pace.
  
  (Dante)
  Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome.
  
  (Petrarch)
  Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there
  Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;
  Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?
  
  I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,
  To shame a cheek at best but little fair, -
  Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn, -
  I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,
  Except such common flowers as blow with corn.
  
  Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?
  
  The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,
  A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;
  The silence of a heart which sang its songs
  While youth and beauty made a summer morn,
  Silence of love that cannot sing again.

• Mother Country Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh what is that country
  And where can it be,
  Not mine own country,
  But dearer far to me?
  
  Yet mine own country,
  If I one day may see
  Its spices and cedars,
  Its gold and ivory.
  
  As I lie dreaming
  It rises, that land:
  There rises before me
  Its green golden strand,
  With its bowing cedars
  And its shining sand;
  It sparkles and flashes
  Like a shaken brand.
  
  Do angels lean nearer
  While I lie and long?
  
  I see their soft plumage
  And catch their windy song,
  Like the rise of a high tide
  Sweeping full and strong;
  I mark the outskirts
  Of their reverend throng.
  
  Oh what is a king here,
  Or what is a boor?
  
  Here all starve together,
  All dwarfed and poor;
  Here Death's hand knocketh
  At door after door,
  He thins the dancers
  From the festal floor.
  
  Oh what is a handmaid,
  Or what is a queen?
  
  All must lie down together
  Where the turf is green,
  The foulest face hidden,
  The fairest not seen;
  Gone as if never,
  They had breathed or been.
  
  Gone from sweet sunshine
  Underneath the sod,
  Turned from warm flesh and blood
  To senseless clod,
  Gone as if never
  They had toiled or trod,
  Gone out of sight of all
  Except our God.
  
  Shut into silence
  From the accustomed song,
  Shut into solitude
  From all earth's throng,
  Run down tho' swift of foot,
  Thrust down tho' strong;
  Life made an end of
  Seemed it short or long.
  
  Life made an end of,
  Life but just begun,
  Life finished yesterday,
  Its last sand run;
  Life new-born with the morrow,
  Fresh as the sun:
  While done is done for ever;
  Undone, undone.
  
  And if that life is life,
  This is but a breath,
  The passage of a dream
  And the shadow of death;
  But a vain shadow
  If one considereth;
  Vanity of vanities,
  As the Preacher saith.

• Mother Shake The Cherry-Tree Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Mother shake the cherry-tree,
  Susan catch a cherry;
  Oh how funny that will be,
  Let's be merry!
  One for brother, one for sister,
  Two for mother more,
  Six for father, hot and tired,
  Knocking at the door.

• Motherless Baby And Babyless Mother Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Motherless baby and babyless mother,
  Bring them together to love one another.

• My Baby Has A Father And A Mother Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My baby has a father and a mother,
  Rich little baby!
  Fatherless, motherless, I know another
  Forlorn as may be:
  Poor little baby!

• My Baby Has A Mottled Fist Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My baby has a mottled fist,
  My baby has a neck in creases;
  My baby kisses and is kissed,
  For he's the very thing for kisses.

• My Dream Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night
  Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.
  
  I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled
  Like overflowing Jordan in its youth:
  It waxed and coloured sensibly to sight;
  Till out of myriad pregnant waves there welled
  Young crocodiles, a gaunt blunt-featured crew,
  Fresh-hatched perhaps and daubed with birthday dew.
  
  The rest if I should tell, I fear my friend
  My closest friend would deem the facts untrue;
  And therefore it were wisely left untold;
  Yet if you will, why, hear it to the end.
  
  Each crocodile was girt with massive gold
  And polished stones that with their wearers grew:
  But one there was who waxed beyond the rest,
  Wore kinglier girdle and a kingly crown,
  Whilst crowns and orbs and sceptres starred his breast.
  
  All gleamed compact and green with scale on scale,
  But special burnishment adorned his mail
  And special terror weighed upon his frown;
  His punier brethren quaked before his tail,
  Broad as a rafter, potent as a flail.
  
  So he grew lord and master of his kin:
  But who shall tell the tale of all their woes?
  
  An execrable appetite arose,
  He battened on them, crunched, and sucked them in.
  
  He knew no law, he feared no binding law,
  But ground them with inexorable jaw:
  The luscious fat distilled upon his chin,
  Exuded from his nostrils and his eyes,
  While still like hungry death he fed his maw;
  Till every minor crocodile being dead
  And buried too, himself gorged to the full,
  He slept with breath oppressed and unstrung claw.
  
  Oh marvel passing strange which next I saw:
  In sleep he dwindled to the common size,
  And all the empire faded from his coat.
  
  Then from far off a winged vessel came,
  Swift as a swallow, subtle as a flame:
  I know not what it bore of freight or host,
  But white it was as an avenging ghost.
  
  It levelled strong Euphrates in its course;
  Supreme yet weightless as an idle mote
  It seemed to tame the waters without force
  Till not a murmur swelled or billow beat:
  Lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands,
  The prudent crocodile rose on his feet
  And shed appropriate tears and wrung his hands.
  
  What can it mean?
  
  you ask.
  
  I answer not
  For meaning, but myself must echo, What?
  
  And tell it as I saw it on the spot.

• My Friend Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Two days ago with dancing glancing hair,
  With living lips and eyes:
  Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies;
  So pale, yet still so fair.
  
  We have not left her yet, not yet alone;
  But soon must leave her where
  She will not miss our care,
  Bone of our bone.
  
  Weep not; O friends, we should not weep:
  Our friend of friends lies full of rest;
  No sorrow rankles in her breast,
  Fallen fast asleep.
  
  She sleeps below,
  She wakes and laughs above:
  To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love;
  To-morrow follow so.

• No, Thank You John Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I never said I loved you, John:
  Why will you tease me day by day,
  And wax a weariness to think upon
  With always "do" and "pray"?
  
  You Know I never loved you, John;
  No fault of mine made me your toast:
  Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
  As shows an hour-old ghost?
  
  I dare say Meg or Moll would take
  Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
  And pray don't remain single for my sake
  Who can't perform the task.
  
  I have no heart?
  
  -Perhaps I have not;
  But then you're mad to take offence
  That don't give you what I have not got:
  Use your common sense.
  
  Let bygones be bygones:
  Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
  I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
  Than answer "Yes" to you.
  
  Let's mar our plesant days no more,
  Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
  Catch at today, forget the days before:
  I'll wink at your untruth.
  
  Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
  No more, no less; and friendship's good:
  Only don't keep in veiw ulterior ends, And points not understood
  In open treaty.
  
  Rise above
  Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
  Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,-
  No, thank you, John.

• Noble Sisters Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Now did you mark a falcon,
  Sister dear, sister dear,
  Flying toward my window
  In the morning cool and clear?
  
  With jingling bells about her neck,
  But what beneath her wing?
  
  It may have been a ribbon,
  Or it may have been a ring.
  
  '—
  'I marked a falcon swooping
  At the break of day;
  And for your love, my sister dove,
  I 'frayed the thief away.
  
  '—
  'Or did you spy a ruddy hound,
  Sister fair and tall,
  Went snuffing round my garden bound,
  Or crouched by my bower wall?
  
  With a silken leash about his neck;
  But in his mouth may be
  A chain of gold and silver links,
  Or a letter writ to me.
  
  '—
  'I heard a hound, highborn sister,
  Stood baying at the moon;
  I rose and drove him from your wall
  Lest you should wake too soon.
  
  '—
  'Or did you meet a pretty page
  Sat swinging on the gate;
  Sat whistling whistling like a bird,
  Or may be slept too late;
  With eaglets broidered on his cap,
  And eaglets on his glove?
  
  If you had turned his pockets out,
  You had found some pledge of love.
  
  '—
  'I met him at this daybreak,
  Scarce the east was red:
  Lest the creaking gate should anger you,
  I packed him home to bed.
  
  '—
  'Oh patience, sister.
  
  Did you see
  A young man tall and strong,
  Swift-footed to uphold the right
  And to uproot the wrong,
  Come home across the desolate sea
  To woo me for his wife?
  
  And in his heart my heart is locked,
  And in his life my life.
  
  '—
  'I met a nameless man, sister,
  Hard by your chamber door:
  I said: Her husband loves her much.
  
  And yet she loves him more.
  
  '—
  'Fie, sister, fie, a wicked lie,
  A lie, a wicked lie,
  I have none other love but him,
  Nor will have till I die.
  
  And you have turned him from our door,
  And stabbed him with a lie:
  I will go seek him thro' the world
  In sorrow till I die.
  
  '—
  'Go seek in sorrow, sister,
  And find in sorrow too:
  If thus you shame our father's name
  My curse go forth with you.
  
  '

• None Other Lamb Read Poem Log in to favourite

  None other Lamb, none other Name,
  None other hope in Heav’n or earth or sea,
  None other hiding place from guilt and shame,
  None beside Thee!
  My faith burns low, my hope burns low;
  Only my heart’s desire cries out in me
  By the deep thunder of its want and woe,
  Cries out to Thee.
  
  Lord, Thou art Life, though I be dead;
  Love’s fire Thou art, however cold I be:
  Nor Heav’n have I, nor place to lay my head,
  Nor home, but Thee.

• O Lady Moon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east:
  Shine, be increased;
  O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west:
  Wane, be at rest.

• O Sailor, Come Ashore Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O sailor, come ashore,
  What have you brought for me?
  
  Red coral, white coral,
  Coral from the sea.
  
  I did not dig it from the ground,
  Nor pluck it from a tree;
  Feeble insects made it
  In the stormy sea.

• O Wind, Where Have You Been Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O wind, where have you been,
  That you blow so sweet?
  
  Among the violets
  Which blossom at your feet.
  
  The honeysuckle waits
  For Summer and for heat.
  
  But violets in the chilly Spring
  Make the turf so sweet.

• O Wind, Why Do You Never Rest Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O wind, why do you never rest
  Wandering, whistling to and fro,
  Bringing rain out of the west,
  From the dim north bringing snow?

• Oh, Fair To See Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh, fair to see
  Blossom-laden cherry tree,
  Arrayed in sunny white;
  An April day's delight,
  Oh, fair to see!
  Oh, fair to see
  Fruit-laden cherry tree,
  With balls of shining red
  Decking a leafy head,
  Oh, fair to see!

• Old And New Year Ditties Read Poem Log in to favourite

  New Year met me somewhat sad:
  Old Year leaves me tired,
  Stripped of favourite things I had
  Baulked of much desired:
  Yet farther on my road to-day
  God willing, farther on my way.
  
  New Year coming on apace
  What have you to give me?
  
  Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,
  Face me with an honest face;
  You shall not deceive me:
  Be it good or ill, be it what you will,
  It needs shall help me on my road,
  My rugged way to heaven, please God.
  
  Watch with me, men, women, and children dear,
  You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear,
  Watch with me this last vigil of the year.
  
  Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme;
  Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream;
  Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.
  
  Watch with me blessed spirits, who delight
  All through the holy night to walk in white,
  Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight.
  
  I know not if they watch with me: I know
  They count this eve of resurrection slow,
  And cry, 'How long?
  
  ' with urgent utterance strong.
  
  Watch with me Jesus, in my loneliness:
  Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes;
  Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless.
  
  Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night;
  To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight:
  I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord my God, art mine.
  
  Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
  Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:
  Thy life never continueth in one stay.
  
  Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
  That hath won neither laurel nor bay?
  
  I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
  Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
  On my bosom for aye.
  
  Then I answered: Yea.
  
  Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
  With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play;
  Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
  Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
  A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
  
  At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day
  Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
  Watch thou and pray.
  
  Then I answered: Yea.
  
  Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
  Winter passeth after the long delay:
  New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
  Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
  
  Though I tarry wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray:
  Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
  My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
  
  Then I answered: Yea.

• On The Death Of A Cat Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Who shall tell the lady's grief
  When her Cat was past relief?
  
  Who shall number the hot tears
  Shed o'er her, beloved for years?
  
  Who shall say the dark dismay
  Which her dying caused that day?
  
  Come, ye Muses, one and all,
  Come obedient to my call.
  
  Come and mourn, with tuneful breath,
  Each one for a separate death;
  And while you in numbers sigh,
  I will sing her elegy.
  
  Of a noble race she came,
  And Grimalkin was her name.
  
  Young and old full many a mouse
  Felt the prowess of her house:
  Weak and strong full many a rat
  Cowered beneath her crushing pat:
  And the birds around the place
  Shrank from her too close embrace.
  
  But one night, reft of her strength,
  She laid down and died at length:
  Lay a kitten by her side,
  In whose life the mother died.
  
  Spare her line and lineage,
  Guard her kitten's tender age,
  And that kitten's name as wide
  Shall be known as her's that died.
  
  And whoever passes by
  The poor grave where Puss doth lie,
  Softly, softly let him tread,
  Nor disturb her narrow bed.

• On The Grassy Banks Read Poem Log in to favourite

  On the grassy banks
  Lambkins at their pranks;
  Woolly sisters, woolly brothers
  Jumping off their feet
  While their woolly mothers
  Watch by them and bleat.

• Once For All Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I said: This is a beautiful fresh rose.
  
  I said: I will delight me with its scent,
  Will watch its lovely curve of languishment,
  Will watch its leaves unclose, its heart unclose.
  
  I said: Old earth has put away her snows,
  All living things make merry to their bent,
  A flower is come for every flower that went.
  
  In autumn, the sun glows, the south wind blows,
  So walking in a garden of delight
  I came upon one sheltered shadowed nook
  Where broad leaf-shadows veiled the day with night
  And there lay snow unmelted by the sun: -
  I answered: Take who will the path I took,
  Winter nips once for all; love is but one.

• One And One Are Two Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1 and 1 are 2 -
  That's for me and you.
  
  2 and 2 are 4 -
  That's a couple more.
  
  3 and 3 are 6
  Barley-sugar sticks.
  
  4 and 4 are 8
  Tumblers at the gate.
  
  5 and 5 are 10
  Bluff seafaring men.
  
  6 and 6 are 12
  Garden lads who delve.
  
  7 and 7 are 14
  Young men bent on sporting.
  
  8 and 8 are 16
  Pills the doctor's mixing.
  
  9 and 9 are 18
  Passengers kept waiting.
  
  10 and 10 are 20
  Roses - pleasant plenty!
  11 and 11 are 22
  Sums for brother George to do.
  
  12 and 12 are 24
  Pretty pictures, and no more.

• One Day Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I will tell you when they met:
  In the limpid days of Spring;
  Elder boughs were budding yet,
  Oaken boughs looked wintry still,
  But primrose and veined violet
  In the mossful turf were set,
  While meeting birds made haste to sing
  And build with right good will.
  
  I will tell you when they parted:
  When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown,
  Then they parted heavy-hearted;
  The full rejoicing sun looked down
  As grand as in the days before;
  Only they had lost a crown;
  Only to them those days of yore
  Could come back nevermore.
  
  When shall they meet?
  
  I cannot tell,
  Indeed, when they shall meet again,
  Except some day in Paradise:
  For this they wait, one waits in pain.
  
  Beyond the sea of death love lies
  For ever, yesterday, to-day;
  Angels shall ask them, 'Is it well?
  
  '
  And they shall answer, 'Yea.
  
  '

• One Sea-Side Grave Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Unmindful of the roses,
  Unmindful of the thorn,
  A reaper tired reposes
  Among his gathered corn:
  So might I, till the morn!
  Cold as the cold Decembers,
  Past as the days that set,
  While only one remembers
  And all the rest forget, -
  But one remembers yet.

• Our Little Baby Fell Asleep Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Our little baby fell asleep,
  And may not wake again
  For days and days, and weeks and weeks;
  But then he'll wake again,
  And come with his own pretty look,
  And kiss Mamma again.

• Paradise: In A Dream Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Once in a dream I saw the flowers
  That bud and bloom in Paradise;
  More fair they are than waking eyes
  Have seen in all this world of ours.
  
  And faint the perfume-bearing rose,
  And faint the lily on its stem,
  And faint the perfect violet
  Compared with them.
  
  I heard the songs of Paradise:
  Each bird sat singing in his place;
  A tender song so full of grace
  It soared like incense to the skies.
  
  Each bird sat singing to his mate
  Soft cooing notes among the trees:
  The nightingale herself were cold
  To such as these.
  
  I saw the fourfold River flow,
  And deep it was, with golden sand;
  It flowed between a mossy land
  With murmured music grave and low.
  
  It hath refreshment for all thirst,
  For fainting spirits strength and rest:
  Earth holds not such a draught as this
  From east to west.
  
  The Tree of Life stood budding there,
  Abundant with its twelvefold fruits;
  Eternal sap sustains its roots,
  Its shadowing branches fill the air.
  
  Its leaves are healing for the world,
  Its fruit the hungry world can feed,
  Sweeter than honey to the taste
  And balm indeed.
  
  I saw the gate called Beautiful;
  And looked, but scarce could look, within;
  I saw the golden streets begin,
  And outskirts of the glassy pool.
  
  Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars,
  Oh green palm-branches many-leaved—
  Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
  Nor heart conceived.
  
  I hope to see these things again,
  But not as once in dreams by night;
  To see them with my very sight,
  And touch, and handle, and attain:
  To have all Heaven beneath my feet
  For narrow way that once they trod;
  To have my part with all the saints,
  And with my God.

• Paradise: In A Symbol Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Golden-winged, silver-winged,
  Winged with flashing flame,
  Such a flight of birds I saw,
  Birds without a name:
  Singing songs in their own tongue
  (Song of songs) they came.
  
  One to another calling,
  Each answering each,
  One to another calling
  In their proper speech:
  High above my head they wheeled,
  Far out of reach.
  
  On wings of flame they went and came
  With a cadenced clang,
  Their silver wings tinkled,
  Their golden wings rang,
  The wind it whistled through their wings
  Where in Heaven they sang.
  
  They flashed and they darted
  Awhile before mine eyes,
  Mounting, mounting, mounting still
  In haste to scale the skies—
  Birds without a nest on earth,
  Birds of Paradise.
  
  Where the moon riseth not,
  Nor sun seeks the west,
  There to sing their glory
  Which they sing at rest,
  There to sing their love-song
  When they sing their best:
  Not in any garden
  That mortal foot hath trod,
  Not in any flowering tree
  That springs from earthly sod,
  But in the garden where they dwell,
  The Paradise of God.

• Passing Away, Saith The World Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Passing away, saith the World, passing away:
  Chances, beauty and youth, sapped day by day:
  Thy life never continueth in one stay.
  
  Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey
  That hath won neither laurel nor bay?
  
  I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:
  Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay
  On my bosom for aye.
  
  Then I answer'd: Yea.
  
  Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:
  With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,
  Hearken what the past doth witness and say:
  Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,
  A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.
  
  At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day
  Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:
  Watch thou and pray.
  
  Then I answer'd: Yea.
  
  Passing away, saith my God, passing away:
  Winter passeth after the long delay:
  New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,
  Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.
  
  Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.
  
  Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,
  My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.
  
  Then I answer'd: Yea.

• Playing At Bob Cherry Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Playing at bob cherry
  Tom and Nell and Hugh:
  Cherry bob! cherry bob!
  There's a bob for you.
  
  Tom bobs a cherry
  For gaping snapping Hugh,
  While curly-pated Nelly
  Snaps at it too.
  
  Look, look, look -
  Oh what a sight to see!
  The wind is playing cherry bob
  With the cherry tree.

• Promises Like Pie-Crust Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Promise me no promises,
  So will I not promise you:
  Keep we both our liberties,
  Never false and never true:
  Let us hold the die uncast,
  Free to come as free to go:
  For I cannot know your past,
  And of mine what can you know?
  
  You, so warm, may once have been
  Warmer towards another one:
  I, so cold, may once have seen
  Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
  Who shall show us if it was
  Thus indeed in time of old?
  
  Fades the image from the glass,
  And the fortune is not told.
  
  If you promised, you might grieve
  For lost liberty again:
  If I promised, I believe
  I should fret to break the chain.
  
  Let us be the friends we were,
  Nothing more but nothing less:
  Many thrive on frugal fare
  Who would perish of excess.

• Pussy Has A Whiskered Face Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Pussy has a whiskered face,
  Kitty has such pretty ways;
  Doggie scampers when I call,
  And has a heart to love us all.

• Remember Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Remember me when I am gone away,
  Gone far away into the silent land;
  When you can no more hold me by the hand,
  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
  
  Remember me when no more day by day
  You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
  Only remember me; you understand
  It will be late to counsel then or pray.
  
  Yet if you should forget me for a while
  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
  For if the darkness and corruption leave
  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
  Better by far you should forget and smile
  Than that you should remember and be sad.

• Repining Read Poem Log in to favourite

  She sat alway thro' the long day
  Spinning the weary thread away;
  And ever said in undertone:
  'Come, that I be no more alone.
  
  '
  From early dawn to set of sun
  Working, her task was still undone;
  And the long thread seemed to increase
  Even while she spun and did not cease.
  
  She heard the gentle turtle-dove
  Tell to its mate a tale of love;
  She saw the glancing swallows fly,
  Ever a social company;
  She knew each bird upon its nest
  Had cheering songs to bring it rest;
  None lived alone save only she;—
  The wheel went round more wearily;
  She wept and said in undertone:
  'Come, that I be no more alone.
  
  '
  Day followed day, and still she sighed
  For love, and was not satisfied;
  Until one night, when the moonlight
  Turned all the trees to silver white,
  She heard, what ne'er she heard before,
  A steady hand undo the door.
  
  The nightingale since set of sun
  Her throbbing music had not done,
  And she had listened silently;
  But now the wind had changed, and she
  Heard the sweet song no more, but heard
  Beside her bed a whispered word:
  'Damsel, rise up; be not afraid;
  For I am come at last,' it said.
  
  She trembled, tho' the voice was mild;
  She trembled like a frightened child;—
  Till she looked up, and then she saw
  The unknown speaker without awe.
  
  He seemed a fair young man, his eyes
  Beaming with serious charities;
  His cheek was white but hardly pale;
  And a dim glory like a veil
  Hovered about his head, and shone
  Thro' the whole room till night was gone.
  
  So her fear fled; and then she said,
  Leaning upon her quiet bed:
  'Now thou art come, I prithee stay,
  That I may see thee in the day,
  And learn to know thy voice, and hear
  It evermore calling me near.
  
  '
  He answered: 'Rise, and follow me.
  
  '
  But she looked upwards wonderingly:
  'And whither would'st thou go, friend?
  
  stay
  Until the dawning of the day.
  
  '
  But he said: 'The wind ceaseth, Maid;
  Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.
  
  '
  She bound her hair up from the floor,
  And passed in silence from the door.
  
  So they went forth together, he
  Helping her forward tenderly.
  
  The hedges bowed beneath his hand;
  Forth from the streams came the dry land
  As they passed over; evermore
  The pallid moonbeams shone before;
  And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;
  Not even a solitary bird,
  Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by
  Where aspen-trees stood steadily.
  
  As they went on, at length a sound
  Came trembling on the air around;
  The undistinguishable hum
  Of life, voices that go and come
  Of busy men, and the child's sweet
  High laugh, and noise of trampling feet.
  
  Then he said: 'Wilt thou go and see?
  
  '
  And she made answer joyfully:
  'The noise of life, of human life,
  Of dear communion without strife,
  Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;
  Is it not here our path shall end?
  
  '
  He led her on a little way
  Until they reached a hillock: 'Stay.
  
  '
  It was a village in a plain.
  
  High mountains screened it from the rain
  And stormy wind; and nigh at hand
  A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand
  Pebbly and fine, and sent life up
  Green succous stalk and flower-cup.
  
  Gradually, day's harbinger,
  A chilly wind began to stir.
  
  It seemed a gentle powerless breeze
  That scarcely rustled thro' the trees;
  And yet it touched the mountain's head
  And the paths man might never tread.
  
  But hearken: in the quiet weather
  Do all the streams flow down together?
  
  —
  No, 'tis a sound more terrible
  Than tho' a thousand rivers fell.
  
  The everlasting ice and snow
  Were loosened then, but not to flow;—
  With a loud crash like solid thunder
  The avalanche came, burying under
  The village; turning life and breath
  And rest and joy and plans to death.
  
  'Oh! let us fly, for pity fly;
  Let us go hence, friend, thou and I.
  
  There must be many regions yet
  Where these things make not desolate.
  
  '
  He looked upon her seriously;
  Then said: 'Arise and follow me.
  
  '
  The path that lay before them was
  Nigh covered over with long grass;
  And many slimy things and slow
  Trailed on between the roots below.
  
  The moon looked dimmer than before;
  And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er
  Its face sometimes quite hid its light,
  And filled the skies with deeper night.
  
  At last, as they went on, the noise
  Was heard of the sea's mighty voice;
  And soon the ocean could be seen
  In its long restlessness serene.
  
  Upon its breast a vessel rode
  That drowsily appeared to nod
  As the great billows rose and fell,
  And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.
  
  Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth
  From the chill regions of the North,
  The mighty wind invisible.
  
  And the low waves began to swell;
  And the sky darkened overhead;
  And the moon once looked forth, then fled
  Behind dark clouds; while here and there
  The lightning shone out in the air;
  And the approaching thunder rolled
  With angry pealings manifold.
  
  How many vows were made, and prayers
  That in safe times were cold and scarce.
  
  Still all availed not; and at length
  The waves arose in all their strength,
  And fought against the ship, and filled
  The ship.
  
  Then were the clouds unsealed,
  And the rain hurried forth, and beat
  On every side and over it.
  
  Some clung together, and some kept
  A long stern silence, and some wept.
  
  Many half-crazed looked on in wonder
  As the strong timbers rent asunder;
  Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;—
  And still the water rose and rose.
  
  'Ah woe is me! Whom I have seen
  Are now as tho' they had not been.
  
  In the earth there is room for birth,
  And there are graves enough in earth;
  Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn,
  Bury those whom it hath not borne?
  
  '
  He answered not, and they went on.
  
  The glory of the heavens was gone;
  The moon gleamed not nor any star;
  Cold winds were rustling near and far,
  And from the trees the dry leaves fell
  With a sad sound unspeakable.
  
  The air was cold; till from the South
  A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth,
  Into their faces; and a light
  Glowing and red, shone thro' the night.
  
  A mighty city full of flame
  And death and sounds without a name.
  
  Amid the black and blinding smoke,
  The people, as one man, awoke.
  
  Oh! happy they who yesterday
  On the long journey went away;
  Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,
  While the flames scorch them smile on still;
  Who murmur not; who tremble not
  When the bier crackles fiery hot;
  Who, dying, said in love's increase:
  'Lord, let thy servant part in peace.
  
  '
  Those in the town could see and hear
  A shaded river flowing near;
  The broad deep bed could hardly hold
  Its plenteous waters calm and cold.
  
  Was flame-wrapped all the city wall,
  The city gates were flame-wrapped all.
  
  What was man's strength, what puissance then?
  
  Women were mighty as strong men.
  
  Some knelt in prayer, believing still,
  Resigned unto a righteous will,
  Bowing beneath the chastening rod,
  Lost to the world, but found of God.
  
  Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;
  Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life;
  While some, proud even in death, hope gone,
  Steadfast and still, stood looking on.
  
  'Death—death—oh! let us fly from death;
  Where'er we go it followeth;
  All these are dead; and we alone
  Remain to weep for what is gone.
  
  What is this thing?
  
  thus hurriedly
  To pass into eternity;
  To leave the earth so full of mirth;
  To lose the profit of our birth;
  To die and be no more; to cease,
  Having numbness that is not peace.
  
  Let us go hence; and, even if thus
  Death everywhere must go with us,
  Let us not see the change, but see
  Those who have been or still shall be.
  
  '
  He sighed and they went on together;
  Beneath their feet did the grass wither;
  Across the heaven high overhead
  Dark misty clouds floated and fled;
  And in their bosom was the thunder,
  And angry lightnings flashed out under,
  Forked and red and menacing;
  Far off the wind was muttering;
  It seemed to tell, not understood,
  Strange secrets to the listening wood.
  
  Upon its wings it bore the scent
  Of blood of a great armament:
  Then saw they how on either side
  Fields were down-trodden far and wide.
  
  That morning at the break of day
  Two nations had gone forth to slay.
  
  As a man soweth so he reaps.
  
  The field was full of bleeding heaps;
  Ghastly corpses of men and horses
  That met death at a thousand sources;
  Cold limbs and putrifying flesh;
  Long love-locks clotted to a mesh
  That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath
  Staring eyes that had looked on death.
  
  But these were dead: these felt no more
  The anguish of the wounds they bore.
  
  Behold, they shall not sigh again,
  Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.
  
  What if none wept above them?
  
  —is
  The sleeper less at rest for this?
  
  Is not the young child's slumber sweet
  When no man watcheth over it?
  
  These had deep calm; but all around
  There was a deadly smothered sound,
  The choking cry of agony
  From wounded men who could not die;
  Who watched the black wing of the raven
  Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,
  And in the distance flying fast
  Beheld the eagle come at last.
  
  She knelt down in her agony:
  'O Lord, it is enough,' said she:
  'My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;
  Let me return to whence I came.
  
  Thou for who love's sake didst reprove,
  Forgive me for the sake of love.
  
  '

• Requiem Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
  Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
  Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
  And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.
  
  I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
  I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
  And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
  Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.
  
  Composition Date:
  Dec.
  
  1848
  1.
  
  Christina's brother and editor, William Michael Rossetti, commented: "This celebrated lyric .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  has perhaps been oftener quoted, and certainly oftener set to music, than anything else by Christina Rossetti.
  
  "

• Rest Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
  Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
  Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
  With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
  
  She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
  Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearth
  Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
  With stillness that is almost Paradise.
  
  Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,
  Silence more musical than any song;
  Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
  Until the morning of Eternity
  Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
  And when she wakes she will not think it long.

• Roses Blushing Red And White Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Roses blushing red and white,
  For delight;
  Honeysuckle wreaths above,
  For love;
  Dim sweet-scented heliotrope,
  For hope;
  Shining lilies tall and straight,
  For royal state;
  Dusky pansies, let them be
  For memory;
  With violets of fragrant breath,
  For death.

• Rosy Maiden Winifred Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Rosy maiden Winifred,
  With a milkpail on her head,
  Tripping through the corn,
  While the dew lies on the wheat
  In the sunny morn.
  
  Scarlet shepherd's-weatherglass
  Spreads wide open at her feet
  As they pass;
  Cornflowers give their almond smell
  While she brushes by,
  And a lark sings from the sky
  ‘All is well.
  
  ’

• Rushes In A Watery Place Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Rushes in a watery place,
  And reeds in a hollow;
  A soaring skylark in the sky,
  A darting swallow;
  And where pale blossom used to hang
  Ripe fruit to follow.

• Sappho Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I sigh at day-dawn, and I sigh
  When the dull day is passing by.
  
  I sigh at evening, and again
  I sigh when night brings sleep to men.
  
  Oh! it were far better to die
  Than thus forever mourn and sigh,
  And in death's dreamless sleep to be
  Unconscious that none weep for me;
  Eased from my weight of heaviness,
  Forgetful of forgetfulness,
  Resting from care and pain and sorrow
  Thro' the long night that knows no morrow;
  Living unloved, to die unknown,
  Unwept, untended, and alone.

• Seasons Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh the cheerful Budding-time!
  When thorn-hedges turn to green,
  When new leaves of elm and lime
  Cleave and shed their winter screen;
  Tender lambs are born and 'baa,'
  North wind finds no snow to bring,
  Vigorous Nature laughs 'Ha, ha,'
  In the miracle of spring.
  
  Oh the gorgeous Blossom-days!
  When broad flag-flowers drink and blow,
  In and out in summer-blaze
  Dragon-flies flash to and fro;
  Ashen branches hang out keys,
  Oaks put forth the rosy shoot,
  Wandering herds wax sleek at ease,
  Lovely blossoms end in fruit.
  
  Oh the shouting Harvest-weeks!
  Mother earth grown fat with sheaves
  Thrifty gleaner finds who seeks;
  Russet-golden pomp of leaves
  Crowns the woods, to fall at length;
  Bracing winds are felt to stir,
  Ocean gathers up her strength,
  Beasts renew their dwindled fur.
  
  Oh the starving Winter-lapse!
  Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim;
  Dormant roots recall their saps,
  Empty nests show black and grim,
  Short-lived sunshine gives no heat,
  Undue buds are nipped by frost,
  Snow sets forth a winding-sheet,
  And all hope of life seems lost.

• Seldom ‘Can't’ Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Seldom ‘can't,’
  Seldom ‘don't’;
  Never ‘shan't,’
  Never ‘won't.
  
  ’

• Shall I Forget? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Shall I forget on this side of the grave?
  
  I promise nothing: you must wait and see
  Patient and brave.
  
  (O my soul, watch with him and he with me.
  
  )
  Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?
  
  I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see
  Faithful and wise.
  
  (O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.
  
  )

• She's such a senseless wooden thing Read Poem Log in to favourite

  She stares the livelong day;
  Her wig of gold is stiff and cold
  And cannot change to grey.

• Shut Out Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The door was shut.
  
  I looked between
  Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
  My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
  Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:
  From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
  From flower to flower the moths and bees;
  With all its nests and stately trees
  It had been mine, and it was lost.
  
  A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
  Blank and unchanging like the grave.
  
  I peering through said: 'Let me have
  Some buds to cheer my outcast state.
  
  '
  He answered not.
  
  'Or give me, then,
  But one small twig from shrub or tree;
  And bid my home remember me
  Until I come to it again.
  
  '
  The spirit was silent; but he took
  Mortar and stone to build a wall;
  He left no loophole great or small
  Through which my straining eyes might look:
  So now I sit here quite alone
  Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
  For nought is left worth looking at
  Since my delightful land is gone.
  
  A violet bed is budding near,
  Wherein a lark has made her nest:
  And good they are, but not the best;
  And dear they are, but not so dear.

• Sing Me A Song Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Sing me a song -
  What shall I sing?
  
  -
  Three merry sisters
  Dancing in a ring,
  Light and fleet upon their feet
  As birds upon the wing.
  
  Tell me a tale -
  What shall I tell?
  
  Two mournful sisters,
  And a tolling knell,
  Tolling ding and tolling dong,
  Ding dong bell.

• Sleeping at last Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over,
  Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past,
  Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover,
  Sleeping at last.
  
  No more a tired heart downcast or overcast,
  No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover,
  Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast.
  
  Fast asleep.
  
  Singing birds in their leafy cover
  Cannot wake her, nor shake her the gusty blast.
  
  Under the purple thyme and the purple clover
  Sleeping at last.

• Somewhere Or Other Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Somewhere or other there must surely be
  The face not seen, the voice not heard,
  The heart that not yet - never yet - ah me!
  Made answer to my word:
  Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
  Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
  Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
  That tracks her night by night:
  Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
  With just a wall, a hedge, between;
  With just the last leaves of the dying year
  Fallen on a turf grown green.

• Song I Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
  Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
  Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
  And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.
  
  I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
  I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
  And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
  Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.

• Song II Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh roses for the flush of youth,
  And laurel for the perfect prime;
  But pluck an ivy branch for me
  Grown old before my time.
  
  Oh violets for the grave of youth,
  And bay for those dead in their prime;
  Give me the withered leaves I chose
  Before in the old time.

• Song III Read Poem Log in to favourite

  She sat and sang alway
  By the green margin of a stream,
  Watching the fishes leap and play
  Beneath the glad sunbeam.
  
  I sat and wept alway
  Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
  Watching the blossoms of the May
  Weep leaves into the stream.
  
  I wept for memory;
  She sang for hope that is so fair:
  My tears were swallowed by the sea;
  Her songs died on the air.

• Song IV Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh roses for the flush of youth,
  And laurel for the perfect prime;
  But pluck an ivy branch for me
  Grown old before my time.
  
  Oh violets for the grave of youth,
  And bay for those dead in their prime;
  Give me the withered leaves I chose
  Before in the old time.

• Song V Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Two doves upon the selfsame branch,
  Two lilies on a single stem,
  Two butterflies upon one flower:—
  Oh happy they who look on them.
  
  Who look upon them hand in hand
  Flushed in the rosy summer light;
  Who look upon them hand in hand
  And never give a thought to night.

• Songs In A Cornfield Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A song in a cornfield
  Where corn begins to fall,
  Where reapers are reaping,
  Reaping one, reaping all.
  
  Sing pretty Lettice,
  Sing Rachel, sing May;
  Only Marian cannot sing
  While her sweetheart's away.
  
  Where is he gone to
  And why does he stay?
  
  He came across the green sea
  But for a day,
  Across the deep green sea
  To help with the hay.
  
  His hair was curly yellow
  And his eyes were grey,
  He laughed a merry laugh
  And said a sweet say.
  
  Where is he gone to
  That he comes not home?
  
  To-day or to-morrow
  He surely will come.
  
  Let him haste to joy
  Lest he lag for sorrow,
  For one weeps to-day
  Who'll not weep to-morrow:
  To-day she must weep
  For gnawing sorrow,
  To-night she may sleep
  And not wake to-morrow.
  
  May sang with Rachel
  In the waxing warm weather,
  Lettice sang with them,
  They sang all together:—
  'Take the wheat in your arm
  Whilst day is broad above,
  Take the wheat to your bosom,
  But not a false love.
  
  Out in the fields
  Summer heat gloweth,
  Out in the fields
  Summer wind bloweth,
  Out in the fields
  Summer friend showeth,
  Out in the fields
  Summer wheat groweth;
  But in the winter
  When summer heat is dead
  And summer wind has veered
  And summer friend has fled,
  Only summer wheat remaineth,
  White cakes and bread.
  
  Take the wheat, clasp the wheat
  That's food for maid and dove;
  Take the wheat to your bosom,
  But not a false false love.
  
  '
  A silence of full noontide heat
  Grew on them at their toil:
  The farmer's dog woke up from sleep,
  The green snake hid her coil.
  
  Where grass stood thickest, bird and beast
  Sought shadows as they could,
  The reaping men and women paused
  And sat down where they stood;
  They ate and drank and were refreshed,
  For rest from toil is good.
  
  While the reapers took their ease,
  Their sickles lying by,
  Rachel sang a second strain,
  And singing seemed to sigh:—
  'There goes the swallow—
  Could we but follow!
  Hasty swallow stay,
  Point us out the way;
  Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.
  
  'There went the swallow—
  Too late to follow:
  Lost our note of way,
  Lost our chance to-day;
  Good bye swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.
  
  'After the swallow
  All sweet things follow:
  All things go their way,
  Only we must stay,
  Must not follow; good bye swallow, good swallow.
  
  '
  Then listless Marian raised her head
  Among the nodding sheaves;
  Her voice was sweeter than that voice;
  She sang like one who grieves:
  Her voice was sweeter than its wont
  Among the nodding sheaves;
  All wondered while they heard her sing
  Like one who hopes and grieves:—
  'Deeper than the hail can smite,
  Deeper than the frost can bite,
  Deep asleep through day and night,
  Our delight.
  
  'Now thy sleep no pang can break,
  No to-morrow bid thee wake,
  Not our sobs who sit and ache
  For thy sake.
  
  'Is it dark or light below?
  
  Oh, but is it cold like snow?
  
  Dost thou feel the green things grow
  Fast or slow?
  
  'Is it warm or cold beneath,
  Oh, but is it cold like death?
  
  Cold like death, without a breath,
  Cold like death?
  
  '
  If he comes to-day
  He will find her weeping;
  If he comes to-morrow
  He will find her sleeping;
  If he comes the next day
  He'll not find her at all,
  He may tear his curling hair,
  Beat his breast and call.

• Sonnets Are Full Of Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
  Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
  One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
  To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
  To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
  I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
  Whose service is my special dignity,
  And she my loadstare while I go and come
  And so because you love me, and because
  I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
  Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honoured name:
  In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
  Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
  Of time and change and mortal life and death.

• Sound Sleep Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Some are laughing, some are weeping;
  She is sleeping, only sleeping.
  
  Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
  There the wind is heaping, heaping
  Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping.
  
  By the corn-fields ripe for reaping.
  
  There are lilies, and there blushes
  The deep rose, and there the thrushes
  Sing till latest sunlight flushes
  In the west; a fresh wind brushes
  Through the leaves while evening hushes.
  
  There by day the lark is singing
  And the grass and weeds are springing;
  There by night the bat is winging;
  There for ever winds are bringing
  Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
  
  Night and morning, noon and even,
  Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
  The long strife at lent is striven:
  Till her grave-bands shall be riven
  Such is the good portion given
  To her soul at rest and shriven.

• Spring Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Frost-locked all the winter,
  Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
  What shall make their sap ascend
  That they may put forth shoots?
  
  Tips of tender green,
  Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
  Telling of the hidden life
  That breaks forth underneath,
  Life nursed in its grave by Death.
  
  Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
  Drips the soaking rain,
  By fits looks down the waking sun:
  Young grass springs on the plain;
  Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
  Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
  Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
  Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
  Birds sing and pair again.
  
  There is no time like Spring,
  When life's alive in everything,
  Before new nestlings sing,
  Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
  Along the trackless track -
  God guides their wing,
  He spreads their table that they nothing lack, -
  Before the daisy grows a common flower
  Before the sun has power
  To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
  
  There is no time like Spring,
  Like Spring that passes by;
  There is no life like Spring-life born to die, -
  Piercing the sod,
  Clothing the uncouth clod,
  Hatched in the nest,
  Fledged on the windy bough,
  Strong on the wing:
  There is no time like Spring that passes by,
  Now newly born, and now
  Hastening to die.

• Spring Quiet Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Gone were but the Winter,
  Come were but the Spring,
  I would go to a covert
  Where the birds sing;
  Where in the whitethorn
  Singeth a thrush,
  And a robin sings
  In the holly-bush.
  
  Full of fresh scents
  Are the budding boughs
  Arching high over
  A cool green house:
  Full of sweet scents,
  And whispering air
  Which sayeth softly:
  "We spread no snare;
  "Here dwell in safety,
  Here dwell alone,
  With a clear stream
  And a mossy stone.
  
  "Here the sun shineth
  Most shadily;
  Here is heard an echo
  Of the far sea,
  Though far off it be.
  
  "

• Stroke A Flint Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Stroke a flint, and there is nothing to admire:
  Strike a flint, and forthwith flash out sparks of fire.

• Summer Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Winter is cold-hearted
  Spring is yea and nay,
  Autumn is a weather-cock
  Blown every way:
  Summer days for me
  When every leaf is on its tree;
  When Robin's not a beggar,
  And Jenny Wren's a bride,
  And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
  Over the wheat-fields wide,
  And anchored lilies ride,
  And the pendulum spider
  Swings from side to side,
  And blue-black beetles transact business,
  And gnats fly in a host,
  And furry caterpillars hasten
  That no time be lost,
  And moths grow fat and thrive,
  And ladybirds arrive.
  
  Before green apples blush,
  Before green nuts embrown,
  Why, one day in the country
  Is worth a month in town;
  Is worth a day and a year
  Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
  That days drone elsewhere.

• Summer Is Ended Read Poem Log in to favourite

  To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
  Scentless, colourless, this!
  Will it ever be thus (who knows?
  
  )
  Thus with our bliss,
  If we wait till the close?
  
  Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
  Sooner, later, at last,
  Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
  An end locked fast,
  Bent we cannot re-bend.

• Sweet Death Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The sweetest blossoms die.
  
  And so it was that, going day by day
  Unto the church to praise and pray,
  And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
  I saw how on the graves the flowers
  Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
  And how their perfume rose up to the sky
  Before it passed away.
  
  The youngest blossoms die.
  
  They die, and fall and nourish the rich earth
  From which they lately had their birth;
  Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
  And is as though it had not been:—
  All colors turn to green:
  The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly,
  The grass hath lasting worth.
  
  And youth and beauty die.
  
  So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
  Better than beauty and than youth
  Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
  And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease,
  Are better far than these.
  
  Why should we shrink from our full harvest?
  
  why
  Prefer to glean with Ruth?

• Swift And Sure The Swallow Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Swift and sure the swallow,
  Slow and sure the snail:
  Slow and sure may miss his way,
  Swift and sure may fail.

• Symbols Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I watched a rosebud very long
  Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
  Waiting to see the perfect flower:
  Then, when I thought it should be strong,
  It opened at the matin hour
  And fell at evensong.
  
  I watched a nest from day to day,
  A green nest full of pleasant shade,
  Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
  But when they should have hatched in May,
  The two old birds had grown afraid
  Or tired, and flew away.
  
  Then in my wrath I broke the bough
  That I had tended so with care,
  Hoping its scent should fill the air;
  I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
  Their ancient promise had been fair:
  I would have vengeance now.
  
  But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
  And the eggs answered me again:
  Because we failed dost thou complain?
  
  Is thy wrath just?
  
  And what if God,
  Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
  Should also take the rod?

• The Hour And The Ghost Read Poem Log in to favourite

  BRIDE
  O love, love, hold me fast,
  He draws me away from thee;
  I cannot stem the blast,
  Nor the cold strong sea:
  Far away a light shines
  Beyond the hills and pines;
  It is lit for me.
  
  BRIDEGROOM
  I have thee close, my dear,
  No terror can come near;
  Only far off the northern light shines clear.
  
  GHOST
  Come with me, fair and false,
  To our home, come home.
  
  It is my voice that calls:
  Once thou wast not afraid
  When I woo'd, and said,
  'Come, our nest is newly made'—
  Now cross the tossing foam.
  
  BRIDE
  Hold me one moment longer,
  He taunts me with the past,
  His clutch is waxing stronger,
  Hold me fast, hold me fast.
  
  He draws me from thy heart,
  And I cannot withhold:
  He bids my spirit depart
  With him into the cold:—
  Oh bitter vows of old!
  BRIDEGROOM
  Lean on me, hide thine eyes:
  Only ourselves, earth and skies,
  Are present here: be wise.
  
  GHOST
  Lean on me, come away,
  I will guide and steady:
  Come, for I will not stay:
  Come, for house and bed are ready.
  
  Ah, sure bed and house,
  For better and worse, for life and death:
  Goal won with shortened breath:
  Come, crown our vows.
  
  BRIDE
  One moment, one more word,
  While my heart beats still,
  While my breath is stirred
  By my fainting will.
  
  O friend forsake me not,
  Forget not as I forgot:
  But keep thy heart for me,
  Keep thy faith true and bright;
  Through the lone cold winter night
  Perhaps I may come to thee.
  
  BRIDEGROOM
  Nay peace, my darling, peace:
  Let these dreams and terrors cease:
  Who spoke of death or change or aught but ease?
  
  GHOST
  O fair frail sin,
  O poor harvest gathered in!
  Thou shalt visit him again
  To watch his heart grow cold;
  To know the gnawing pain
  I knew of old;
  To see one much more fair
  Fill up the vacant chair,
  Fill his heart, his children bear:—
  While thou and I together
  In the outcast weather
  Toss and howl and spin.

• The Bourne Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Underneath the growing grass,
  Underneath the living flowers,
  Deeper than the sound of showers:
  There we shall not count the hours
  By the shadows as they pass.
  
  Youth and health will be but vain,
  Beauty reckoned of no worth:
  There a very little girth
  Can hold round what once the earth
  Seemed too narrow to contain.

• The Caterpillar Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Brown and furry
  Caterpillar in a hurry;
  Take your walk
  To the shady leaf or stalk.
  
  May no toad spy you,
  May the little birds pass by you;
  Spin and die,
  To live again a butterfly.

• The City Mouse And The Garden Mouse Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The city mouse lives in a house; -
  The garden mouse lives in a bower,
  He's friendly with the frogs and toads,
  And sees the pretty plants in flower.
  
  The city mouse eats bread and cheese; -
  The garden mouse eats what he can;
  We will not grudge him seeds and stalks,
  Poor little timid furry man.

• The Convent Threshold Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There's blood between us, love, my love,
  There's father's blood, there's brother's blood,
  And blood's a bar I cannot pass.
  
  I choose the stairs that mount above,
  Stair after golden sky-ward stair,
  To city and to sea of glass.
  
  My lily feet are soiled with mud,
  With scarlet mud which tells a tale
  Of hope that was, of guilt that was,
  Of love that shall not yet avail;
  Alas, my heart, if I could bare
  My heart, this selfsame stain is there:
  I seek the sea of glass and fire
  To wash the spot, to burn the snare;
  Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher—
  Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.
  
  Your eyes look earthward, mine look up.
  
  I see the far-off city grand,
  Beyond the hills a watered land,
  Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand
  Of mansions where the righteous sup;
  Who sleep at ease among their trees,
  Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn
  With Cherubim and Seraphim;
  They bore the Cross, they drained the cup,
  Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb,
  They the offscouring of the world.
  
  The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,
  The sun before their face is dim.
  
  You looking earthward, what see you?
  
  Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,
  Up and down leaping, to and fro,
  Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,
  Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,
  Their golden windy hair afloat,
  Love-music warbling in their throat,
  Young men and women come and go.
  
  You linger, yet the time is short:
  Flee for your life, gird up your strength
  To flee; the shadows stretched at length
  Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh;
  Flee to the mountain, tarry not.
  
  Is this a time for smile and sigh,
  For songs among the secret trees
  Where sudden blue birds nest and sport?
  
  The time is short and yet you stay:
  To-day, while it is called to-day,
  Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;
  To-day is short, to-morrow nigh:
  Why will you die?
  
  why will you die?
  
  You sinned with me a pleasant sin:
  Repent with me, for I repent.
  
  Woe's me the lore I must unlearn!
  Woe's me that easy way we went,
  So rugged when I would return!
  How long until my sleep begin
  How long shall stretch these nights and days?
  
  Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays;
  She laves her soul with tedious tears:
  How long must stretch these years and years?
  
  I turn from you my cheeks and eyes,
  My hair which you shall see no more—
  Alas for joy that went before,
  For joy that dies, for love that dies.
  
  Only my lips still turn to you,
  My livid lips that cry, Repent.
  
  O weary life, O weary Lent,
  O weary time whose stars are few.
  
  How shall I rest in Paradise,
  Or sit on steps of heaven alone
  If Saints and Angels spoke of love
  Should I not answer from my throne:
  Have pity upon me, ye my friends,
  For I have heard the sound thereof:
  Should I not turn with yearning eyes,
  Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang?
  
  Oh save me from a pang in heaven.
  
  By all the gifts we took and gave,
  Repent, repent, and be forgiven:
  This life is long, but yet it ends;
  Repent and purge your soul and save:
  No gladder song the morning stars
  Upon their birthday morning sang
  Than Angels sing when one repents.
  
  I tell you what I dreamed last night:
  A spirit with transfigured face
  Fire-footed clomb an infinite space.
  
  I heard his hundred pinions clang,
  Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang,
  Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents,
  Worlds spun upon their rushing cars.
  
  He mounted, shrieking, "Give me light!"
  Still light was poured on him, more light;
  Angels, Archangels he outstripped,
  Exulting in exceeding might,
  And trod the skirts of Cherubim.
  
  Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dipped
  His thirsty face, and drank a sea,
  Athirst with thirst it could not slake.
  
  I saw him, drunk with knowledge, take
  From aching brows the aureole crown—
  His locks writhe like a cloven snake—
  He left his throne to grovel down
  And lick the dust of Seraphs' feet;
  For what is knowledge duly weighed?
  
  Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet;
  Yea, all the progress he had made
  Was but to learn that all is small
  Save love, for love is all in all.
  
  I tell you what I dreamed last night:
  It was not dark, it was not light,
  Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair
  Through clay; you came to seek me there.
  
  And "Do you dream of me?
  
  " you said.
  
  My heart was dust that used to leap
  To you; I answered half asleep:
  "My pillow is damp, my sheets are red,
  There's a leaden tester to my bed;
  Find you a warmer playfellow,
  A warmer pillow for your head,
  A kinder love to love than mine.
  
  "
  You wrung your hands, while I, like lead,
  Crushed downwards through the sodden earth;
  You smote your hands but not in mirth,
  And reeled but were not drunk with wine.
  
  For all night long I dreamed of you;
  I woke and prayed against my will,
  Then slept to dream of you again.
  
  At length I rose and knelt and prayed.
  
  I cannot write the words I said,
  My words were slow, my tears were few;
  But through the dark my silence spoke
  Like thunder.
  
  When this morning broke,
  My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
  And frozen blood was on the sill
  Where stifling in my struggle I lay.
  
  If now you saw me you would say:
  Where is the face I used to love?
  
  And I would answer: Gone before;
  It tarries veiled in paradise.
  
  When once the morning star shall rise,
  When earth with shadow flees away
  And we stand safe within the door,
  Then you shall lift the veil thereof.
  
  Look up, rise up: for far above
  Our palms are grown, our place is set;
  There we shall meet as once we met,
  And love with old familiar love.

• The Days Are Clear Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The days are clear,
  Day after day,
  When April's here,
  That leads to May,
  And June
  Must follow soon:
  Stay, June, stay! -
  If only we could stop the moon
  And June!

• The Dear Old Woman In The Lane Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The dear old woman in the lane
  Is sick and sore with pains and aches,
  We'll go to her this afternoon,
  And take her tea and eggs and cakes.
  
  We'll stop to make the kettle boil,
  And brew some tea, and set the tray,
  And poach an egg, and toast a cake,
  And wheel her chair round, if we may.

• The Dog Lies In His Kennel Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The dog lies in his kennel,
  And Puss purrs on the rug,
  And baby perches on my knee
  For me to love and hug.
  
  Pat the dog and stroke the cat,
  Each in its degree;
  And cuddle and kiss my baby,
  And baby kiss me.

• The First Day Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I wish I could remember the first day,
  First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
  If bright or dim the season, it might be
  Summer or winter for aught I can say.
  
  So unrecorded did it slip away,
  So blind was I to see and to foresee,
  So dull to mark the budding of my tree
  That would not blossom yet for many a May.
  
  If only I could recollect it! Such
  A day of days! I let it come and go
  As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
  
  It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
  If only now I could recall that touch,
  First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!

• The First Spring Day Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
  If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
  If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
  And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
  Sing, robin, sing;
  I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
  
  I wonder if the springtide of this year
  Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
  If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
  Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
  Sing, hope, to me;
  Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
  
  The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
  The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
  So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,
  Or in this world, or in the world to come:
  Sing, voice of Spring,
  Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

• The Ghost’s Petition Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'There's a footstep coming: look out and see,'
  'The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
  No one cometh across the lea.
  
  '—
  'There's a footstep coming; O sister, look.
  
  '—
  'The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
  No one cometh across the brook.
  
  '—
  'But he promised that he would come:
  To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
  He must keep his word, and must come home.
  
  'For he promised that he would come:
  His word was given; from earth or heaven,
  He must keep his word, and must come home.
  
  'Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
  You can slumber, who need not number
  Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.
  
  'I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
  Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
  In deep shadow to find the latch.
  
  '
  After the dark, and before the light,
  One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,
  Who had watched and wept the weary night.
  
  After the night, and before the day,
  One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—
  Watching, weeping for one away.
  
  There came a footstep climbing the stair;
  Some one standing out on the landing
  Shook the door like a puff of air—
  Shook the door, and in he passed.
  
  Did he enter?
  
  In the room centre
  Stood her husband: the door shut fast.
  
  'O Robin, but you are cold—
  Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you
  Look like a stray lamb from our fold.
  
  'O Robin, but you are late:
  Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.
  
  '—
  (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.
  
  )
  'Lay not down your head on my breast:
  I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
  In the shelter that you love best.
  
  'Feel not after my clasping hand:
  I am but a shadow, come from the meadow
  Where many lie, but no tree can stand.
  
  'We are trees which have shed their leaves:
  Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
  Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
  
  'I could rest if you would not moan
  Hour after hour; I have no power
  To shut my ears where I lie alone.
  
  'I could rest if you would not cry;
  But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping—
  Watching, weeping so bitterly.
  
  '—
  'Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.
  
  Oh night of sorrow!—oh black to-morrow!
  Is it thus that you keep your word?
  
  'O you who used so to shelter me
  Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind
  Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
  
  'O my husband of flesh and blood,
  For whom my mother I left, and brother,
  And all I had, accounting it good,
  'What do you do there, underground,
  In the dark hollow?
  
  I'm fain to follow.
  
  What do you do there?
  
  —what have you found?
  
  '—
  'What I do there I must not tell:
  But I have plenty: kind wife, content ye:
  It is well with us—it is well.
  
  'Tender hand hath made our nest;
  Our fear is ended, our hope is blended
  With present pleasure, and we have rest.
  
  '—
  'Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,
  If your present days are so pleasant;
  For my days are so wearisome.
  
  'Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:
  Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
  Any more with the pains I take?
  
  '

• The Horses Of The Sea Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The horses of the sea
  Rear a foaming crest,
  But the horses of the land
  Serve us the best.
  
  The horses of the land
  Munch corn and clover,
  While the foaming sea-horses
  Toss and turn over.

• The Lily Has A Smooth Stalk Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The lily has a smooth stalk,
  Will never hurt your hand;
  But the rose upon her briar
  Is lady of the land.
  
  There's sweetness in an apple tree,
  And profit in the corn;
  But lady of all beauty
  Is a rose upon a thorn.
  
  When with moss and honey
  She tips her bending briar,
  And half unfolds her glowing heart,
  She sets the world on fire.

• The Lily Has An Air Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The lily has an air,
  And the snowdrop a grace,
  And the sweetpea a way,
  And the heartsease a face, -
  Yet there's nothing like the rose
  When she blows.

• The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Kowledge Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
  Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;
  I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
  For three and thirty years.
  
  Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?
  
  I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
  I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
  Give thou Me love for love.
  
  For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
  For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:
  Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth:
  Why wilt thou still be lost?
  
  I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced:
  Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
  The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced,
  Or wagged their heads in scorn.
  
  Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
  Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:
  I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;
  I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.
  
  A thief upon My right hand and My left;
  Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:
  At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
  A hiding-place for thee.
  
  Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down
  More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:
  So did I win a kingdom,—share my crown;
  A harvest,—come and reap.

• The Offering Of The New Law, The One Oblation Once Offered Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Once I thought to sit so high
  In the Palace of the sky;
  Now, I thank God for His Grace,
  If I may fill the lowest place.
  
  Once I thought to scale so soon
  Heights above the changing moon;
  Now, I thank God for delay—
  To-day, it yet is called to-day.
  
  While I stumble, halt and blind,
  Lo! He waiteth to be kind;
  Bless me soon, or bless me slow,
  Except He bless, I let not go.
  
  Once for earth I laid my plan,
  Once I leaned on strength of man,
  When my hope was swept aside,
  I stayed my broken heart on pride:
  Broken reed hath pierced my hand;
  Fell my house I built on sand;
  Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin,
  Fightings without and fears within:
  Yet, a tree, He feeds my root;
  Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit;
  Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns,
  He seeks for me among the thorns.
  
  With Thine Image stamped of old,
  Find Thy coin more choice than gold;
  Known to Thee by name, recall
  To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.
  
  Sacrifice and Offering
  None there is that I can bring,
  None, save what is Thine alone:
  I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own—
  Broken Body, Blood Outpoured,
  These I bring, my God, my Lord;
  Wine of Life, and Living Bread,
  With these for me Thy Board is spread.

• The One Certainty Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,
  All things are vanity.
  
  The eye and ear
  Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.
  
  Like early dew, or like the sudden breath
  Of wind, or like the grass that withereth,
  Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear:
  So little joy hath he, so little cheer,
  Till all things end in the long dust of death.
  
  To-day is still the same as yesterday,
  To-morrow also even as one of them;
  And there is nothing new under the sun:
  Until the ancient race of Time be run,
  The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem,
  And morning shall be cold and twilight grey.

• The Peach Tree On The Southern Wall Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The peach tree on the southern wall
  Has basked so long beneath the sun,
  Her score of peaches great and small
  Bloom rosy, every one.
  
  A peach for brothers, one for each,
  A peach for you and a peach for me;
  But the biggest, rosiest, downiest peach
  For Grandmamma with her tea.

• The Peacock Has A Score Of Eyes Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The peacock has a score of eyes,
  With which he cannot see;
  The cod-fish has a silent sound,
  However that may be;
  No dandelions tell the time,
  Although they turn to clocks;
  Cat's-cradle does not hold the cat,
  Nor foxglove fit the fox.

• The Poor Ghost Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,
  With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,
  And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,
  And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?
  
  '
  'From the other world I come back to you,
  My locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew.
  
  You know the old, whilst I know the new:
  But to-morrow you shall know this too.
  
  '
  'Oh not to-morrow into the dark, I pray;
  Oh not to-morrow, too soon to go away:
  Here I feel warm and well-content and gay:
  Give me another year, another day.
  
  '
  'Am I so changed in a day and a night
  That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright,
  Is fain to turn away to left or right
  And cover up his eyes from the sight?
  
  '
  'Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend,
  I loved you for life, but life has an end;
  Through sickness I was ready to tend:
  But death mars all, which we cannot mend.
  
  'Indeed I loved you; I love you yet,
  If you will stay where your bed is set,
  Where I have planted a violet,
  Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet.
  
  '
  'Life is gone, then love too is gone,
  It was a reed that I leant upon:
  Never doubt I will leave you alone
  And not wake you rattling bone with bone.
  
  'I go home alone to my bed,
  Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head,
  Roofed in with a load of lead,
  Warm enough for the forgotten dead.
  
  'But why did your tears soak through the clay,
  And why did your sobs wake me where I lay?
  
  I was away, far enough away:
  Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day.
  
  '

• The Prince's Progress Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Till all sweet gums and juices flow,
  Till the blossom of blossoms blow,
  The long hours go and come and go,
  The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth,
  Waiting for one whose coming is slow:—
  Hark! the bride weepeth.
  
  'How long shall I wait, come heat come rime?
  
  '—
  'Till the strong Prince comes, who must come in time'
  (Her women say), 'there's a mountain to climb,
  A river to ford.
  
  Sleep, dream and sleep;
  Sleep' (they say): 'we've muffled the chime,
  Better dream than weep.
  
  '
  In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat,
  Taking his ease on cushion and mat,
  Close at hand lay his staff and his hat.
  
  'When wilt thou start?
  
  the bride waits, O youth.
  
  '—
  'Now the moon's at full; I tarried for that,
  Now I start in truth.
  
  'But tell me first, true voice of my doom,
  Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom;
  Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom,
  Watch for me asleep and awake?
  
  '—
  'Spell-bound she watches in one white room,
  And is patient for thy sake.
  
  'By her head lilies and rosebuds grow;
  The lilies droop, will the rosebuds blow?
  
  The silver slim lilies hang the head low;
  Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare:
  Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow,
  They will blossom and wax fair.
  
  'Red and white poppies grow at her feet,
  The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,
  Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat;
  But the white buds swell, one day they will burst,
  Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet—
  Which will open the first?
  
  '
  Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail,
  And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale:
  'Time is short, life is short,' they took up the tale:
  'Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may;
  Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail;
  Love is sweet, use to-day.
  
  '
  While the song swept by, beseeching and meek,
  Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek,
  Up he rose to stir and to seek,
  Going forth in the joy of his strength;
  Strong of limb if of purpose weak,
  Starting at length.
  
  Forth he set in the breezy morn,
  Crossing green fields of nodding corn,
  As goodly a Prince as ever was born;
  Carolling with the carolling lark;—
  Sure his bride will be won and worn,
  Ere fall of the dark.
  
  So light his step, so merry his smile,
  A milkmaid loitered beside a stile,
  Set down her pail and rested awhile,
  A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white;
  The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile,
  Grew athirst at the sight.
  
  'Will you give me a morning draught?
  
  '—
  'You're kindly welcome,' she said, and laughed.
  
  He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed;
  Then wiping his curly black beard like silk:
  'Whitest cow that ever was calved
  Surely gave you this milk.
  
  '
  Was it milk now, or was it cream?
  
  Was she a maid, or an evil dream?
  
  Here eyes began to glitter and gleam;
  He would have gone, but he stayed instead;
  Green they gleamed as he looked in them:
  'Give me my fee,' she said.
  
  —
  'I will give you a jewel of gold.
  
  '—
  'Not so; gold is heavy and cold.
  
  '—
  'I will give you a velvet fold
  Of foreign work your beauty to deck.
  
  '—
  'Better I like my kerchief rolled
  Light and white round my neck.
  
  '—
  'Nay,' cried he, 'but fix your own fee.
  
  '—
  She laughed, 'You may give the full moon to me;
  Or else sit under this apple-tree
  Here for one idle day by my side;
  After that I'll let you go free,
  And the world is wide.
  
  '
  Loth to stay, but to leave her slack,
  He half turned away, then he quite turned back:
  For courtesy's sake he could not lack
  To redeem his own royal pledge;
  Ahead too the windy heaven lowered black
  With a fire-cloven edge.
  
  So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade,
  Lay and laughed and talked to the maid,
  Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid
  And writhed it shining in serpent-coils,
  And held him a day and night fast laid
  In her subtle toils.
  
  At the death of night and the birth of day,
  When the owl left off his sober play,
  And the bat hung himself out of the way,
  Woke the song of mavis and merle,
  And heaven put off its hodden grey
  For mother-o'-pearl.
  
  Peeped up daisies here and there,
  Here, there, and everywhere;
  Rose a hopeful lark in the air,
  Spreading out towards the sun his breast;
  While the moon set solemn and fair
  Away in the West.
  
  'Up, up, up,' called the watchman lark,
  In his clear reveillee: 'Hearken, oh hark!
  Press to the high goal, fly to the mark.
  
  Up, O sluggard, new morn is born;
  If still asleep when the night falls dark,
  Thou must wait a second morn.
  
  '
  'Up, up, up,' sad glad voices swelled:
  'So the tree falls and lies as it's felled.
  
  Be thy bands loosed, O sleeper, long held
  In sweet sleep whose end is not sweet.
  
  Be the slackness girt and the softness quelled
  And the slowness fleet.
  
  '
  Off he set.
  
  The grass grew rare,
  A blight lurked in the darkening air,
  The very moss grew hueless and spare,
  The last daisy stood all astunt;
  Behind his back the soil lay bare,
  But barer in front.
  
  A land of chasm and rent, a land
  Of rugged blackness on either hand:
  If water trickled its track was tanned
  With an edge of rust to the chink;
  If one stamped on stone or on sand
  It returned a clink.
  
  A lifeless land, a loveless land,
  Without lair or nest on either hand:
  Only scorpions jerked in the sand,
  Black as black iron, or dusty pale;
  From point to point sheer rock was manned
  By scorpions in mail.
  
  A land of neither life nor death,
  Where no man buildeth or fashioneth,
  Where none draws living or dying breath;
  No man cometh or goeth there,
  No man doeth, seeketh, saith,
  In the stagnant air.
  
  Some old volcanic upset must
  Have rent the crust and blackened the crust;
  Wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dust
  Above earth's molten centre at seethe,
  Heaved and heaped it by huge upthrust
  Of fire beneath.
  
  Untrodden before, untrodden since:
  Tedious land for a social Prince;
  Halting, he scanned the outs and ins,
  Endless, labyrinthine, grim,
  Of the solitude that made him wince,
  Laying wait for him.
  
  By bulging rock and gaping cleft,
  Even of half mere daylight reft,
  Rueful he peered to right and left,
  Muttering in his altered mood:
  'The fate is hard that weaves my weft,
  Though my lot be good.
  
  '
  Dim the changes of day to night,
  Of night scarce dark to day not bright.
  
  Still his road wound towards the right,
  Still he went, and still he went,
  Till one night he espied a light,
  In his discontent.
  
  Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave,
  Like a red-hot eye from a grave.
  
  No man stood there of whom to crave
  Rest for wayfarer plodding by:
  Though the tenant were churl or knave
  The Prince might try.
  
  In he passed and tarried not,
  Groping his way from spot to spot,
  Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:—
  An old, old mortal, cramped and double,
  Was peering into a seething-pot,
  In a world of trouble.
  
  The veriest atomy he looked,
  With grimy fingers clutching and crooked,
  Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked,
  And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way;
  His blinking eyes had scarcely brooked
  The light of day.
  
  Stared the Prince, for the sight was new;
  Stared, but asked without more ado:
  'My a weary traveller lodge with you,
  Old father, here in your lair?
  
  In your country the inns seem few,
  And scanty the fare.
  
  '
  The head turned not to hear him speak;
  The old voice whistled as through a leak
  (Out it came in a quavering squeak):
  'Work for wage is a bargain fit:
  If there's aught of mine that you seek
  You must work for it.
  
  'Buried alive from light and air
  This year is the hundredth year,
  I feed my fire with a sleepless care,
  Watching my potion wane or wax:
  Elixir of Life is simmering there,
  And but one thing lacks.
  
  'If you're fain to lodge here with me,
  Take that pair of bellows you see—
  Too heavy for my old hands they be—
  Take the bellows and puff and puff:
  When the steam curls rosy and free
  The broth's boiled enough.
  
  'Then take your choice of all I have;
  I will give you life if you crave.
  
  Already I'm mildewed for the grave,
  So first myself I must drink my fill:
  But all the rest may be yours, to save
  Whomever you will.
  
  '
  'Done,' quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood,
  First he piled on resinous wood,
  Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood;
  Thinking, 'My love and I will live.
  
  If I tarry, why life is good,
  And she may forgive.
  
  '
  The pot began to bubble and boil;
  The old man cast in essence and oil,
  He stirred all up with a triple coil
  Of gold and silver and iron wire,
  Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil,
  And fed the fire.
  
  But still the steam curled watery white;
  Night turned to day and day to night;
  One thing lacked, by his feeble sight
  Unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind:
  Life might miss him, but Death the blight
  Was sure to find.
  
  So when the hundredth year was full
  The thread was cut and finished the school.
  
  Death snapped the old worn-out tool,
  Snapped him short while he stood and stirred
  (Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule)
  With never a word.
  
  Thus at length the old crab was nipped.
  
  The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped
  In the broth as the dead man slipped,—
  That same instant, a rosy red
  Flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped
  Round the dead old head.
  
  The last ingredient was supplied
  (Unless the dead man mistook or lied).
  
  Up started the Prince, he cast aside
  The bellows plied through the tedious trial,
  Made sure that his host had died,
  And filled a phial.
  
  'One night's rest,' though the Prince: 'This done,
  Forth I start with the rising sun:
  With the morrow I rise and run,
  Come what will of wind or of weather.
  
  This draught of Life when my Bride is won
  We'll drink together.
  
  '
  Thus the dead man stayed in his grave,
  Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave;
  There he stayed, were he fool or knave,
  Or honest seeker who had not found:
  While the Prince outside was prompt to crave
  Sleep on the ground.
  
  'If she watches, go bid her sleep;
  Bit her sleep, for the road is steep:
  He can sleep who holdeth her cheap,
  Sleep and wake and sleep again.
  
  Let him sow, one day he shall reap,
  Let him sow the grain.
  
  'When there blows a sweet garden rose,
  Let it bloom and wither if no man knows:
  But if one knows when the sweet thing blows,
  Knows, and lets it open and drop,
  If but a nettle his garden grows
  He hath earned the crop.
  
  '
  Through his sleep the summons rang,
  Into his ears it sobbed and it sang.
  
  Slow he woke with a drowsy pang,
  Shook himself without much debate,
  Turned where he saw green branches hang,
  Started though late.
  
  For the black land was travelled o'er,
  He should see the grim land no more.
  
  A flowering country stretched before
  His face when the lovely day came back:
  He hugged the phial of Life he bore,
  And resumed his track.
  
  By willow courses he took his path,
  Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath,
  Marked the fields green to aftermath,
  Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran,
  Loitered a while for a deep-stream bath,
  Yawned for a fellow-man.
  
  Up on the hills not a soul in view,
  In a vale not many nor few;
  Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new.
  
  It's oh for a second maiden, at least,
  To bear the flagon, and taste it too,
  And flavour the feast.
  
  Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve;
  Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve.
  
  At length the water-bed took a curve,
  The deep river swept its bankside bare;
  Waters streamed from the hill-reserve—
  Waters here, waters there.
  
  High above, and deep below,
  Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow,
  Like hill torrents after the snow,—
  Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife,
  Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,—
  He must swim for his life.
  
  Which way?
  
  —which way?
  
  —his eyes grew dim
  With the dizzying whirl—which way to swim?
  
  The thunderous downshoot deafened him;
  Half he choked in the lashing spray:
  Life is sweet, and the grave is grim—
  Which way?
  
  —which way?
  
  A flash of light, a shout from the strand:
  'This way—this way; here lies the land!'
  His phial clutched in one drowning hand;
  He catches—misses—catches a rope;
  His feet slip on the slipping sand:
  Is there life?
  
  —is there hope?
  
  Just saved, without pulse or breath,—
  Scarcely saved from the gulp of death;
  Laid where a willow shadoweth—
  Laid where a swelling turf is smooth.
  
  (O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingereth
  For all thy sweet youth.
  
  )
  Kind hands do and undo,
  Kind voices whisper and coo:
  'I will chafe his hands'—'And I'—'And you
  Raise his head, put his hair aside.
  
  '
  (If many laugh, one well may rue:
  Sleep on, thou Bride.
  
  )
  So the Prince was tended with care:
  One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair;
  Two chafed his hands, and did not spare;
  But one held his drooping head breast-high,
  Till his eyes oped, and at unaware
  They met eye to eye.
  
  Oh, a moon face in a shadowy place,
  And a light touch and a winsome grace,
  And a thrilling tender voice that says:
  'Safe from waters that seek the sea—
  Cold waters by rugged ways—
  Safe with me.
  
  '
  While overhead bird whistles to bird,
  And round about plays a gamesome herd:
  'Safe with us'—some take up the word—
  'Safe with us, dear lord and friend:
  All the sweeter if long deferred
  Is rest in the end.
  
  '
  Had he stayed to weigh and to scan,
  He had been more or less than a man:
  He did what a young man can,
  Spoke of toil and an arduous way—
  Toil to-morrow, while golden ran
  The sands of to-day.
  
  Slip past, slip fast,
  Uncounted hours from first to last,
  Many hours till the last is past,
  Many hours dwindling to one—
  One hour whose die is cast,
  One last hour gone.
  
  Come, gone—gone for ever—
  Gone as an unreturning river—
  Gone as to death the merriest liver—
  Gone as the year at the dying fall—
  To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never—
  Gone once for all.
  
  Came at length the starting-day,
  With last words, and last words to say,
  With bodiless cries from far away—
  Chiding wailing voices that rang
  Like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray;
  And thus they sang:
  'Is there life?
  
  —the lamp burns low;
  Is there hope?
  
  —the coming is slow:
  The promise promised so long ago,
  The long promise, has not been kept.
  
  Does she live?
  
  —does she die?
  
  —she slumbers so
  Who so oft has wept.
  
  'Does she live?
  
  —does she die?
  
  —she languisheth
  As a lily drooping to death,
  As a drought-worn bird with failing breath,
  As a lovely vine without a stay,
  As a tree whereof the owner saith,
  “Hew it down to-day.
  
  ”'
  Stung by that word the Prince was fain
  To start on his tedious road again.
  
  He crossed the stream where a ford was plain,
  He clomb the opposite bank though steep,
  And swore to himself to strain and attain
  Ere he tasted sleep.
  
  Huge before him a mountain frowned
  With foot of rock on the valley ground,
  And head with snows incessant crowned,
  And a cloud mantle about its strength,
  And a path which the wild goat hath not found
  In its breadth and length.
  
  But he was strong to do and dare:
  If a host had withstood him there,
  He had braved a host with little care
  In his lusty youth and his pride,
  Tough to grapple though weak to snare.
  
  He comes, O Bride.
  
  Up he went where the goat scarce clings,
  Up where the eagle folds her wings,
  Past the green line of living things,
  Where the sun cannot warm the cold,—
  Up he went as a flame enrings
  Where there seems no hold.
  
  Up a fissure barren and black,
  Till the eagles tired upon his track,
  And the clouds were left behind his back,
  Up till the utmost peak was past,
  Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack;
  He paused at last.
  
  Before his face a valley spread
  Where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread,
  Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed,
  Where all birds made love to their kind,
  Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red
  And not hard to find.
  
  Midway down the mountain side
  (On its green slope the path was wide)
  Stood a house for a royal bride,
  Built all of changing opal stone,
  The royal palace, till now descried
  In his dreams alone.
  
  Less bold than in days of yore,
  Doubting now though never before,
  Doubting he goes and lags the more:
  Is the time late?
  
  does the day grow dim?
  
  Rose, will she open the crimson core
  Of her heart to him?
  
  Take heart of grace! the potion of Life
  May go far to woo him a wife:
  If she frown, yet a lover's strife
  Lightly raised can be laid again:
  A hasty word is never the knife
  To cut love in twain.
  
  Far away stretched the royal land,
  Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned:
  Light labour more, and his foot would stand
  On the threshold, all labour done;
  Easy pleasure laid at his hand,
  And the dear Bride won.
  
  His slackening steps pause at the gate—
  Does she wake or sleep?
  
  —the time is late—
  Does she sleep now, or watch and wait?
  
  She has watched, she has waited long,
  Watching athwart the golden grate
  With a patient song.
  
  Fling the golden portals wide,
  The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride;
  Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside,
  Let them look on each other's face,
  She in her meekness, he in his pride—
  Day wears apace.
  
  Day is over, the day that wore.
  
  What is this that comes through the door,
  The face covered, the feet before?
  
  This that coming takes his breath;
  The Bride not seen, to be seen no more
  Save of Bridegroom Death?
  
  Veiled figures carrying her
  Sweep by yet make no stir;
  There is a smell of spice and myrrh,
  A bride-chant burdened with one name;
  The bride-song rises steadier
  Than the torches' flame:
  'Too late for love, too late for joy,
  Too late, too late!
  You loitered on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate:
  The enchanted dove upon her branch
  Died without a mate;
  The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
  Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.
  
  'Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
  Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
  Then you had known her living face
  Which now you cannot know:
  The frozen fountain would have leaped,
  The buds gone on to blow,
  The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.
  
  'Is she fair now as she lies?
  
  Once she was fair;
  Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair.
  
  Now these are poppies in her locks,
  White poppies she must wear;
  Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there:
  Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?
  
  'We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
  Her bed seemed never soft to her,
  Though tossed of down;
  She little heeded what she wore,
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
  We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
  Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
  That used to be so brown.
  
  'We never heard her speak in haste;
  Her tones were sweet,
  And modulated just so much
  As it was meet:
  Her heart sat silent through the noise
  And concourse of the street.
  
  There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
  There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.
  
  'You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed:
  But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead?
  
  Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
  But crown her royal head.
  
  Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red:
  Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.
  
  '

• The Queen Of Hearts Read Poem Log in to favourite

  How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we
  Play cards together, you invariably,
  However the pack parts,
  Still hold the Queen of Hearts?
  
  I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze,
  Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:
  But, sift them as I will,
  Your ways are secret still.
  
  I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again;
  But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain:
  Vain hope, vain forethought too;
  The Queen still falls to you.
  
  I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the deal
  Was dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel:
  'There should be one card more,'
  You said, and searched the floor.
  
  I cheated once; I made a private notch
  In Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch;
  Yet such another back
  Deceived me in the pack:
  The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknown
  An imitative dint that seemed my own;
  This notch, not of my doing,
  Misled me to my ruin.
  
  It baffles me to puzzle out the clue,
  Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you:
  Unless, indeed, it be
  Natural affinity.

• The Rose That Blushes Rosy Red Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The rose that blushes rosy red,
  She must hang her head;
  The lily that blows spotless white,
  She may stand upright.

• The Rose With Such A Bonny Blush Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The rose with such a bonny blush,
  What has the rose to blush about?
  
  If it's the sun that makes her flush,
  What's in the sun to flush about?

• The Skylark Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The earth was green, the sky was blue:
  I saw and heard one sunny morn,
  A skylark hang between the two,
  A singing speck above the corn;
  A stage below, in gay accord,
  White butterflies danced on the wing,
  And still the singing skylark soared,
  And silent sank and soared to sing.
  
  The cornfield stretched a tender green
  To right and left beside my walks;
  I knew he had a nest unseen
  Somewhere among the million stalks:
  And as I paused to hear his song,
  While swift the sunny moments slid,
  Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
  And listened longer than I did.

• The Summer Nights Are Short Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The summer nights are short
  Where northern days are long:
  For hours and hours lark after lark
  Trills out his song.
  
  The summer days are short
  Where southern nights are long:
  Yet short the night when nightingales
  Trill out their song.

• The Thread Of Life Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  The irresponsive silence of the land,
  The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
  Speak both one message of one sense to me:—
  Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
  Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
  Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
  But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
  
  What heart shall touch thy heart?
  
  what hand thy hand?
  
  —
  And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
  And sometimes I remember days of old
  When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
  And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
  And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
  And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
  
  II
  Thus am I mine own prison.
  
  Everything
  Around me free and sunny and at ease:
  Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
  Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
  And where all winds make various murmuring;
  Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
  Where sounds are music, and where silences
  Are music of an unlike fashioning.
  
  Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
  And smile a moment and a moment sigh
  Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
  
  But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
  I am not what I have nor what I do;
  But what I was I am, I am even I.
  
  III
  Therefore myself is that one only thing
  I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
  My sole possession every day I live,
  And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
  
  Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
  From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;
  Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
  And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
  
  And this myself as king unto my King
  I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
  Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
  A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
  he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
  
  And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

• The Three Enemies Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THE FLESH
  "Sweet, thou art pale.
  
  "
  "More pale to see,
  Christ hung upon the cruel tree
  And bore His Father's wrath for me.
  
  "
  "Sweet, thou art sad.
  
  "
  "Beneath a rod
  More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
  The winepress of the wrath of God.
  
  "
  "Sweet, thou art weary.
  
  "
  "Not so Christ:
  Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
  For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.
  
  "
  "Sweet, thou art footsore.
  
  "
  "If I bleed,
  His feet have bled; yea in my need
  His Heart once bled for mine indeed.
  
  "
  THE WORLD
  "Sweet, thou art young.
  
  "
  "So He was young
  Who for my sake in silence hung
  Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.
  
  "
  "Look, thou art fair.
  
  "
  "He was more fair
  Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear
  A visage marr'd beyond compare.
  
  "
  "And thou hast riches.
  
  "
  "Daily bread:
  All else is His: Who, living, dead,
  For me lack'd where to lay His Head.
  
  "
  "And life is sweet.
  
  "
  "It was not so
  To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
  With mine unutterable woe.
  
  "
  THE DEVIL
  "Thou drinkest deep.
  
  "
  "When Christ would sup
  He drain'd the dregs from out my cup:
  So how should I be lifted up?
  
  "
  "Thou shalt win Glory.
  
  "
  "In the skies,
  Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
  Lest they should look on vanities.
  
  "
  "Thou shalt have Knowledge.
  
  "
  "Helpless dust!
  In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
  Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just.
  
  "
  "And Might.
  
  "—
  "Get thee behind me.
  
  Lord,
  Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd
  My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word.
  
  "

• The Wind Has Such A Rainy Sound Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The wind has such a rainy sound
  Moaning through the town,
  The sea has such a windy sound, -
  Will the ships go down?
  
  The apples in the orchard
  Tumble from their tree.
  
  -
  Oh will the ships go down, go down,
  In the windy sea?

• The World Read Poem Log in to favourite

  By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair:
  But all night as the moon so changeth she;
  Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy
  And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.
  
  By day she woos me to the outer air,
  Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:
  But through the night, a beast she grins at me,
  A very monster void of love and prayer.
  
  By day she stands a lie: by night she stands
  In all the naked horror of the truth
  With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.
  
  Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell
  My soul to her, give her my life and youth,
  Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?

• There Is But One May In The Year, Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There is but one May in the year,
  And sometimes May is wet and cold;
  There is but one May in the year
  Before the year grows old.
  
  Yet though it be the chilliest May,
  With least of sun and most of showers,
  Its wind and dew, its night and day,
  Bring up the flowers.

• There Is One That Has A Head Without An Eye Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There is one that has a head without an eye,
  And there's one that has an eye without a head:
  You may find the answer if you try;
  And when all is said,
  Half the answer hangs upon a thread!

• There's Snow On The Fields Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There's snow on the fields,
  And cold in the cottage,
  While I sit in the chimney nook
  Supping hot pottage.
  
  My clothes are soft and warm,
  Fold upon fold,
  But I'm so sorry for the poor
  Out in the cold.

• They Desire A Better Country Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  I would not if I could undo my past,
  Tho' for its sake my future is a blank;
  My past, for which I have myself to thank,
  For all its faults and follies first and last.
  
  I would not cast anew the lot once cast,
  Or launch a second ship for one that sank,
  Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank,
  Or break by feasting my perpetual fast.
  
  I would not if I could: for much more dear
  Is one remembrance than a hundred joys,
  More than a thousand hopes in jubilee;
  Dearer the music of one tearful voice
  That unforgotten calls and calls to me,
  'Follow me here, rise up, and follow here.
  
  '
  II
  What seekest thou far in the unknown land?
  
  In hope I follow joy gone on before,
  In hope and fear persistent more and more,
  As the dry desert lengthens out its sand.
  
  Whilst day and night I carry in my hand
  The golden key to ope the golden door
  Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore
  For the long journey that must make no stand.
  
  And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee?
  
  Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right;
  One exile holds us both, and we are bound
  To selfsame home-joys in the land of light.
  
  Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?
  
  —
  Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.
  
  III
  A dimness of a glory glimmers here
  Thro' veils and distance from the space remote,
  A faintest far vibration of a note
  Reaches to us and seems to bring us near,
  Causing our face to glow with braver cheer,
  Making the serried mist to stand afloat,
  Subduing langour with an antidote,
  And strengthening love almost to cast out fear,
  Till for one moment golden city walls
  Rise looming on us, golden walls of home,
  Light of our eyes until the darkness falls;
  Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome
  I hear again the tender voice that calls,
  'Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come.
  
  '

• Three Little Children Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Three little children
  On the wide wide earth,
  Motherless children -
  Cared for from their birth
  By tender angels.
  
  Three little children
  On the wide wide sea,
  Motherless children -
  Safe as safe can be
  With guardian angels.

• Three Plum Buns Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Three plum buns
  To eat here at the stile
  In the clover meadow,
  For we have walked a mile.
  
  One for you, and one for me,
  And one left over:
  Give it to the boy who shouts
  To scare sheep from the clover.

• Three Seasons Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'A cup for hope!' she said,
  In springtime ere the bloom was old:
  The crimson wine was poor and cold
  By her mouth's richer red.
  
  'A cup for love!' how low,
  How soft the words; and all the while
  Her blush was rippling with a smile
  Like summer after snow.
  
  'A cup for memory!'
  Cold cup that one must drain alone:
  While autumn winds are up and moan
  Across the barren sea.
  
  Hope, memory, love:
  Hope for fair morn, and love for day,
  And memory for the evening grey
  And solitary dove.

• To My Mother Read Poem Log in to favourite

  To-day's your natal day,
  Sweet flowers I bring;
  Mother, accept, I pray,
  My offering.
  
  And may you happy live,
  And long us bless;
  Receiving as you give
  Great happiness.

• Twice Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I took my heart in my hand
  (O my love, O my love),
  I said: Let me fall or stand,
  Let me live or die,
  But this once hear me speak-
  (O my love, O my love)-
  Yet a woman's words are weak;
  You should speak, not I.
  
  You took my heart in your hand
  With a friendly smile,
  With a critical eye you scanned,
  Then set it down,
  And said: It is still unripe,
  Better wait a while;
  Wait while the skylarks pipe,
  Till the corn grows brown
  As you set it down it broke-
  Broke, but I did not wince;
  I smiled at the speech you spoke,
  At your judgment that I heard:
  But I have not often smiled
  Since then, nor questioned since,
  Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,
  Nor sung with the singing bird.
  
  I take my heart in my hand,
  O my God, O my God,
  My broken heart in my hand:
  Thou hast seen, judge Thou
  My hope was written on sand,
  O my God, O my God:
  Now let Thy judgment stand-
  Yea, judge me now
  This contemned of a man,
  This marred one heedless day,
  This heart take Thou to scan
  Both within and without:
  Refine with fire its gold,
  Purge Thou its dross away-
  Yea, hold it in Thy hold,
  Whence none can pluck it out.
  
  I take my heart in my hand-
  I shall not die, but live-
  Before Thy face I stand;
  I, for Thou callest such:
  All that I have I bring,
  All that I am I give,
  Smile Thou and I shall sing,
  But shall not question much.

• Twilight Calm Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh, pleasant eventide!
  Clouds on the western side
  Grow grey and greyer, hiding the warm sun:
  The bees and birds, their happy labours done,
  Seek their close nests and bide.
  
  Screened in the leafy wood
  The stock-doves sit and brood:
  The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough
  But lazily; pauses; and settles now
  Where once he stored his food.
  
  One by one the flowers close,
  Lily and dewy rose
  Shutting their tender petals from the moon:
  The grasshoppers are still; but not so soon
  Are still the noisy crows.
  
  The dormouse squats and eats
  Choice little dainty bits
  Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime
  Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time
  And listens where he sits.
  
  From far the lowings come
  Of cattle driven home:
  From farther still the wind brings fitfully
  The vast continual murmur of the sea,
  Now loud, now almost dumb.
  
  The gnats whirl in the air,
  The evening gnats; and there
  The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail
  For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail
  Comes forth, clammy and bare.
  
  Hark! that's the nightingale,
  Telling the selfsame tale
  Her song told when this ancient earth was young:
  So echoes answered when her song was sung
  In the first wooded vale.
  
  We call it love and pain
  The passion of her strain;
  And yet we little understand or know:
  Why should it not be rather joy that so
  Throbs in each throbbing vein?
  
  In separate herds the deer
  Lie; here the bucks, and here
  The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn:
  Through all the hours of night until the dawn
  They sleep, forgetting fear.
  
  The hare sleeps where it lies,
  With wary half-closed eyes;
  The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck:
  Only the fox is out, some heedless duck
  Or chicken to surprise.
  
  Remote, each single star
  Comes out, till there they are
  All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!
  While close at hand the glow-worm lights her lamp,
  Or twinkles from afar.
  
  But evening now is done
  As much as if the sun
  Day-giving had arisen in the East:
  For night has come; and the great calm has ceased,
  The quiet sands have run.

• Twilight Night Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  We met, hand to hand,
  We clasped hands close and fast,
  As close as oak and ivy stand;
  But it is past:
  Come day, come night, day comes at last.
  
  We loosed hand from hand,
  We parted face from face;
  Each went his way to his own land.
  
  At his own pace,
  Each went to fill his separate place.
  
  If we should meet one day,
  If both should not forget,
  We shall clasp hands the accustomed way,
  As when we met
  So long ago, as I remember yet.
  
  II
  Where my heart is (wherever that may be)
  Might I but follow!
  If you fly thither over heath and lea,
  O honey-seeking bee,
  O careless swallow,
  Bid some for whom I watch keep watch for me.
  
  Alas! that we must dwell, my heart and I,
  So far asunder.
  
  Hours wax to days, and days and days creep by;
  I watch with wistful eye,
  I wait and wonder:
  When will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh?
  
  Not yesterday, and not, I think, to-day;
  Perhaps to-morrow.
  
  Day after day 'to-morrow' thus I say:
  I watched so yesterday
  In hope and sorrow,
  Again to-day I watch the accustomed way.

• Twist Me A Crown Of Wind-Flowers Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Twist me a crown of wind-flowers;
  That I may fly away
  To hear the singers at their song,
  And players at their play.
  
  Put on your crown of wind-flowers:
  But whither would you go?
  
  Beyond the surging of the sea
  And the storms that blow.
  
  Alas! your crown of wind-flowers
  Can never make you fly:
  I twist them in a crown to-day,
  And to-night they die.

• Under The Ivy Bush Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Under the ivy bush
  One sits sighing,
  And under the willow tree
  One sits crying: -
  Under the ivy bush
  Cease from your sighing,
  But under the willow-tree
  Lie down a-dying.

• Under The Rose Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.
  
  '
  Oh the rose of keenest thorn!
  One hidden summer morn
  Under the rose I was born.
  
  I do not guess his name
  Who wrought my Mother's shame,
  And gave me life forlorn,
  But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
  I know her from all other.
  
  My Mother pale and mild,
  Fair as ever was seen,
  She was but scarce sixteen,
  Little more than a child,
  When I was born
  To work her scorn.
  
  With secret bitter throes,
  In a passion of secret woes,
  She bore me under the rose.
  
  One who my Mother nursed
  Took me from the first:—
  'O nurse, let me look upon
  This babe that costs so dear;
  To-morrow she will be gone:
  Other mothers may keep
  Their babes awake and asleep,
  But I must not keep her here.
  
  '—
  Whether I know or guess,
  I know this not the less.
  
  So I was sent away
  That none might spy the truth:
  And my childhood waxed to youth
  And I left off childish play.
  
  I never cared to play
  With the village boys and girls;
  And I think they thought me proud,
  I found so little to say
  And kept so from the crowd:
  But I had the longest curls
  And I had the largest eyes
  And my teeth were small like pearls;
  The girls might flout and scout me,
  But the boys would hang about me
  In sheepish mooning wise.
  
  Our one-street village stood
  A long mile from the town,
  A mile of windy down
  And bleak one-sided wood,
  With not a single house.
  
  Our town itself was small,
  With just the common shops,
  And throve in its small way.
  
  Our neighbouring gentry reared
  The good old-fashioned crops,
  And made old-fashioned boasts
  Of what John Bull would do
  If Frenchman Frog appeared,
  And drank old-fashioned toasts,
  And made old-fashioned bows
  To my Lady at the Hall.
  
  My Lady at the Hall
  Is grander than they all:
  Hers is the oldest name
  In all the neighbourhood;
  But the race must die with her
  Though she's a lofty dame,
  For she's unmarried still.
  
  Poor people say she's good
  And has an open hand
  As any in the land,
  And she's the comforter
  Of many sick and sad;
  My nurse once said to me
  That everything she had
  Came of my Lady's bounty:
  'Though she's greatest in the county
  She's humble to the poor,
  No beggar seeks her door
  But finds help presently.
  
  I pray both night and day
  For her, and you must pray:
  But she'll never feel distress
  If needy folk can bless.
  
  '
  I was a little maid
  When here we came to live
  From somewhere by the sea.
  
  Men spoke a foreign tongue
  There where we used to be
  When I was merry and young,
  Too young to feel afraid;
  The fisher folk would give
  A kind strange word to me,
  There by the foreign sea:
  I don't know where it was,
  But I remember still
  Our cottage on a hill,
  And fields of flowering grass
  On that fair foreign shore.
  
  I liked my old home best,
  But this was pleasant too:
  So here we made our nest
  And here I grew.
  
  And now and then my Lady
  In riding past our door
  Would nod to Nurse and speak,
  Or stoop and pat my cheek;
  And I was always ready
  To hold the field-gate wide
  For my Lady to go through;
  My Lady in her veil
  So seldom put aside,
  My Lady grave and pale.
  
  I often sat to wonder
  Who might my parents be,
  For I knew of something under
  My simple-seeming state.
  
  Nurse never talked to me
  Of mother or of father,
  But watched me early and late
  With kind suspicious cares:
  Or not suspicious, rather
  Anxious, as if she knew
  Some secret I might gather
  And smart for unawares.
  
  Thus I grew.
  
  But Nurse waxed old and grey,
  Bent and weak with years.
  
  There came a certain day
  That she lay upon her bed
  Shaking her palsied head,
  With words she gasped to say
  Which had to stay unsaid.
  
  Then with a jerking hand
  Held out so piteously
  She gave a ring to me
  Of gold wrought curiously,
  A ring which she had worn
  Since the day I was born,
  She once had said to me:
  I slipped it on my finger;
  Her eyes were keen to linger
  On my hand that slipped it on;
  Then she sighed one rattling sigh
  And stared on with sightless eye:—
  The one who loved me was gone.
  
  How long I stayed alone
  With the corpse I never knew,
  For I fainted dead as stone:
  When I came to life once more
  I was down upon the floor,
  With neighbours making ado
  To bring me back to life.
  
  I heard the sexton's wife
  Say: 'Up, my lad, and run
  To tell it at the Hall;
  She was my Lady's nurse,
  And done can't be undone.
  
  I'll watch by this poor lamb.
  
  I guess my Lady's purse
  Is always open to such:
  I'd run up on my crutch
  A cripple as I am,'
  (For cramps had vexed her much)
  'Rather than this dear heart
  Lack one to take her part.
  
  '
  For days day after day
  On my weary bed I lay
  Wishing the time would pass;
  Oh, so wishing that I was
  Likely to pass away:
  For the one friend whom I knew
  Was dead, I knew no other,
  Neither father nor mother;
  And I, what should I do?
  
  One day the sexton's wife
  Said: 'Rouse yourself, my dear:
  My Lady has driven down
  From the Hall into the town,
  And we think she's coming here.
  
  Cheer up, for life is life.
  
  '
  But I would not look or speak,
  Would not cheer up at all.
  
  My tears were like to fall,
  So I turned round to the wall
  And hid my hollow cheek
  Making as if I slept,
  As silent as a stone,
  And no one knew I wept.
  
  What was my Lady to me,
  The grand lady from the Hall?
  
  She might come, or stay away,
  I was sick at heart that day:
  The whole world seemed to be
  Nothing, just nothing to me,
  For aught that I could see.
  
  Yet I listened where I lay:
  A bustle came below,
  A clear voice said: 'I know;
  I will see her first alone,
  It may be less of a shock
  If she's so weak to-day:'—
  A light hand turned the lock,
  A light step crossed the floor,
  One sat beside my bed:
  But never a word she said.
  
  For me, my shyness grew
  Each moment more and more:
  So I said never a word
  And neither looked nor stirred;
  I think she must have heard
  My heart go pit-a-pat:
  Thus I lay, my Lady sat,
  More than a mortal hour—
  (I counted one and two
  By the house-clock while I lay):
  I seemed to have no power
  To think of a thing to say,
  Or do what I ought to do,
  Or rouse myself to a choice.
  
  At last she said: 'Margaret,
  Won't you even look at me?
  
  '
  A something in her voice
  Forced my tears to fall at last,
  Forced sobs from me thick and fast;
  Something not of the past,
  Yet stirring memory;
  A something new, and yet
  Not new, too sweet to last,
  Which I never can forget.
  
  I turned and stared at her:
  Her cheek showed hollow-pale;
  Her hair like mine was fair,
  A wonderful fall of hair
  That screened her like a veil;
  But her height was statelier,
  Her eyes had depth more deep;
  I think they must have had
  Always a something sad,
  Unless they were asleep.
  
  While I stared, my Lady took
  My hand in her spare hand
  Jewelled and soft and grand,
  And looked with a long long look
  Of hunger in my face;
  As if she tried to trace
  Features she ought to know,
  And half hoped, half feared, to find.
  
  Whatever was in her mind
  She heaved a sigh at last,
  And began to talk to me.
  
  'Your nurse was my dear nurse,
  And her nursling's dear,' said she:
  'I never knew that she was worse
  Till her poor life was past'
  (Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):
  'I might have been with her,
  But she had no comforter.
  
  She might have told me much
  Which now I shall never know,
  Never never shall know.
  
  '
  She sat by me sobbing so,
  And seemed so woe-begone,
  That I laid one hand upon
  Hers with a timid touch,
  Scarce thinking what I did,
  Not knowing what to say:
  That moment her face was hid
  In the pillow close by mine,
  Her arm was flung over me,
  She hugged me, sobbing so
  As if her heart would break,
  And kissed me where I lay.
  
  After this she often came
  To bring me fruit or wine,
  Or sometimes hothouse flowers.
  
  And at nights I lay awake
  Often and often thinking
  What to do for her sake.
  
  Wet or dry it was the same:
  She would come in at all hours,
  Set me eating and drinking
  And say I must grow strong;
  At last the day seemed long
  And home seemed scarcely home
  If she did not come.
  
  Well, I grew strong again:
  In time of primroses,
  I went to pluck them in the lane;
  In time of nestling birds,
  I heard them chirping round the house;
  And all the herds
  Were out at grass when I grew strong,
  And days were waxen long,
  And there was work for bees
  Among the May-bush boughs,
  And I had shot up tall,
  And life felt after all
  Pleasant, and not so long
  When I grew strong.
  
  I was going to the Hall
  To be my Lady's maid:
  'Her little friend,' she said to me,
  'Almost her child,'
  She said and smiled
  Sighing painfully;
  Blushing, with a second flush
  As if she blushed to blush.
  
  Friend, servant, child: just this
  My standing at the Hall;
  The other servants call me 'Miss,'
  My Lady calls me 'Margaret,'
  With her clear voice musical.
  
  She never chides when I forget
  This or that; she never chides.
  
  Except when people come to stay,
  (And that's not often) at the Hall,
  I sit with her all day
  And ride out when she rides.
  
  She sings to me and makes me sing;
  Sometimes I read to her,
  Sometimes we merely sit and talk.
  
  She noticed once my ring
  And made me tell its history:
  That evening in our garden walk
  She said she should infer
  The ring had been my father's first,
  Then my mother's, given for me
  To the nurse who nursed
  My mother in her misery,
  That so quite certainly
  Some one might know me, who…
  Then she was silent, and I too.
  
  I hate when people come:
  The women speak and stare
  And mean to be so civil.
  
  This one will stroke my hair,
  That one will pat my cheek
  And praise my Lady's kindness,
  Expecting me to speak;
  I like the proud ones best
  Who sit as struck with blindness,
  As if I wasn't there.
  
  But if any gentleman
  Is staying at the Hall
  (Though few come prying here),
  My Lady seems to fear
  Some downright dreadful evil,
  And makes me keep my room
  As closely as she can:
  So I hate when people come,
  It is so troublesome.
  
  In spite of all her care,
  Sometimes to keep alive
  I sometimes do contrive
  To get out in the grounds
  For a whiff of wholesome air,
  Under the rose you know:
  It's charming to break bounds,
  Stolen waters are sweet,
  And what's the good of feet
  If for days they mustn't go?
  
  Give me a longer tether,
  Or I may break from it.
  
  Now I have eyes and ears
  And just some little wit:
  'Almost my Lady's child;'
  I recollect she smiled,
  Sighed and blushed together;
  Then her story of the ring
  Sounds not improbable,
  She told it me so well
  It seemed the actual thing:—
  Oh, keep your counsel close,
  But I guess under the rose,
  In long past summer weather
  When the world was blossoming,
  And the rose upon its thorn:
  I guess not who he was
  Flawed honour like a glass,
  And made my life forlorn,
  But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
  Oh, I know her from all other.
  
  My Lady, you might trust
  Your daughter with your fame.
  
  Trust me, I would not shame
  Our honourable name,
  For I have noble blood
  Though I was bred in dust
  And brought up in the mud.
  
  I will not press my claim,
  Just leave me where you will:
  But you might trust your daughter,
  For blood is thicker than water
  And you're my mother still.
  
  So my Lady holds her own
  With condescending grace,
  and fills her lofty place
  With an untroubled face
  As a queen may fill a throne.
  
  While I could hint a tale—
  (But then I am her child)—
  Would make her quail;
  Would set her in the dust,
  Lorn with no comforter,
  Her glorious hair defiled
  And ashes on her cheek:
  The decent world would thrust
  Its finger out at her,
  Not much displeased I think
  To make a nine days' stir;
  The decent world would sink
  Its voice to speak of her.
  
  Now this is what I mean
  To do, no more, no less:
  Never to speak, or show
  Bare sign of what I know.
  
  Let the blot pass unseen;
  Yea, let her never guess
  I hold the tangled clue
  She huddles out of view.
  
  Friend, servant, almost child,
  So be it and nothing more
  On this side of the grave.
  
  Mother, in Paradise,
  You'll see with clearer eyes;
  Perhaps in this world even
  When you are like to die
  And face to face with Heaven
  You'll drop for once the lie:
  But you must drop the mask, not I.
  
  My Lady promises
  Two hundred pounds with me
  Whenever I may wed
  A man she can approve:
  And since besides her bounty
  I'm fairest in the county
  (For so I've heard it said,
  Though I don't vouch for this),
  Her promised pounds may move
  Some honest man to see
  My virtues and my beauties;
  Perhaps the rising grazier,
  Or temperance publican,
  May claim my wifely duties.
  
  Meanwhile I wait their leisure
  And grace-bestowing pleasure,
  I wait the happy man;
  But if I hold my head
  And pitch my expectations
  Just higher than their level,
  They must fall back on patience:
  I may not mean to wed,
  Yet I'll be civil.
  
  Now sometimes in a dream
  My heart goes out of me
  To build and scheme,
  Till I sob after things that seem
  So pleasant in a dream:
  A home such as I see
  My blessed neighbours live in
  With father and with mother,
  All proud of one another,
  Named by one common name
  From baby in the bud
  To full-blown workman father;
  It's little short of Heaven.
  
  I'd give my gentle blood
  To wash my special shame
  And drown my private grudge;
  I'd toil and moil much rather
  The dingiest cottage drudge
  Whose mother need not blush,
  Than live here like a lady
  And see my Mother flush
  And hear her voice unsteady
  Sometimes, yet never dare
  Ask to share her care.
  
  Of course the servants sneer
  Behind my back at me;
  Of course the village girls,
  Who envy me my curls
  And gowns and idleness,
  Take comfort in a jeer;
  Of course the ladies guess
  Just so much of my history
  As points the emphatic stress
  With which they laud my Lady;
  The gentlemen who catch
  A casual glimpse of me
  And turn again to see,
  Their valets on the watch
  To speak a word with me,
  All know and sting me wild;
  Till I am almost ready
  To wish that I were dead,
  No faces more to see,
  No more words to be said,
  My Mother safe at last
  Disburdened of her child,
  And the past past.
  
  'All equal before God'—
  Our Rector has it so,
  And sundry sleepers nod:
  It may be so; I know
  All are not equal here,
  And when the sleepers wake
  They make a difference.
  
  'All equal in the grave'—
  That shows an obvious sense:
  Yet something which I crave
  Not death itself brings near;
  Now should death half atone
  For all my past; or make
  The name I bear my own?
  
  I love my dear old Nurse
  Who loved me without gains;
  I love my mistress even,
  Friend, Mother, what you will:
  But I could almost curse
  My Father for his pains;
  And sometimes at my prayer
  Kneeling in sight of Heaven
  I almost curse him still:
  Why did he set his snare
  To catch at unaware
  My Mother's foolish youth;
  Load me with shame that's hers,
  And her with something worse,
  A lifelong lie for truth?
  
  I think my mind is fixed
  On one point and made up:
  To accept my lot unmixed;
  Never to drug the cup
  But drink it by myself.
  
  I'll not be wooed for pelf;
  I'll not blot out my shame
  With any man's good name;
  But nameless as I stand,
  My hand is my own hand,
  And nameless as I came
  I go to the dark land.
  
  'All equal in the grave'—
  I bide my time till then:
  'All equal before God'—
  To-day I feel His rod,
  To-morrow He may save:
  Amen.

• Uphill Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
  
  Yes, to the very end.
  
  Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
  
  From morn to night, my friend.
  
  But is there for the night a resting-place?
  
  A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
  
  May not the darkness hide it from my face?
  
  You cannot miss that inn.
  
  Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
  
  Those who have gone before.
  
  Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
  
  They will not keep you standing at that door.
  
  Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
  
  Of labour you shall find the sum.
  
  Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
  
  Yea, beds for all who come.

• Vanity Of Vanities Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,
  Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:
  Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,
  Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!
  So saith the sinking heart; and so again
  It shall say till the mighty angel-blast
  Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast,
  And showering down the stars like sudden rain.
  
  And evermore men shall go fearfully,
  Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;
  And ancient men shall lie down wearily,
  And strong men shall rise up in weariness;
  Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly,
  Saying one to another: How vain it is!

• Venus's Looking-Glass Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I marked where lovely Venus and her court
  With song and dance and merry laugh went by;
  Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,
  Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport.
  
  Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort,
  Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye,
  Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high
  Or low, and cooed after their tender sort.
  
  All this I saw in Spring.
  
  Through Summer heat
  I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more.
  
  But when flushed Autumn through the woodlands went
  I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat:
  Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er
  His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.

• Weary In Well-Doing Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I would have gone; God bade me stay:
  I would have worked; God bade me rest.
  
  He broke my will from day to day,
  He read my yearnings unexpressed
  And said them nay.
  
  Now I would stay; God bids me go:
  Now I would rest; God bids me work.
  
  He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,
  My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk
  And vex it so.
  
  I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;
  Day after day I plod and moil:
  But, Christ my God, when will it be
  That I may let alone my toil
  And rest with Thee?

• Wee Wee Husband Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Wee wee husband,
  Give me some money,
  I have no comfits,
  And I have no honey.
  
  Wee wee wifie,
  I have no money,
  Milk, nor meat, nor bread to eat,
  Comfits, nor honey.

• What do the stars do Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What do the stars do
  Up in the sky,
  Higher than the wind can blow,
  Or the clouds can fly?
  
  Each star in its own glory
  Circles, circles still;
  As it was lit to shine and set,
  And do its Maker's will.

• What Does The Bee Do? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What does the bee do?
  
  Bring home honey.
  
  And what does Father do?
  
  Bring home money.
  
  And what does Mother do?
  
  Lay out the money.
  
  And what does baby do?
  
  Eat up the honey.

• What Does The Donkey Bray About? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What does the donkey bray about?
  
  What does the pig grunt through his snout?
  
  What does the goose mean by a hiss?
  
  Oh, Nurse, if you can tell me this,
  I'll give you such a kiss.
  
  The cockatoo calls ‘cockatoo,’
  The magpie chatters ‘how d'ye do?
  
  ’
  The jackdaw bids me ‘go away,’
  Cuckoo cries ‘cuckoo’ half the day:
  What do the others say?

• What Will You Give Me For My Pound? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What will you give me for my pound?
  
  Full twenty shillings round.
  
  What will you give me for my shilling?
  
  Twelve pence to give I'm willing.
  
  What will you give me for my penny?
  
  Four farthings, just so many.

• What Would I Give Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
  Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do!
  Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
  
  What would I give for words, if only words would come!
  But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb.
  
  O merry friends, go your own way, I have never a word to say.
  
  What would I give for tears! Not smiles but scalding tears,
  To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
  To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.

• When A Mounting Skylark Sings Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When a mounting skylark sings
  In the sunlit summer morn,
  I know that heaven is up on high,
  And on earth are fields of corn.
  
  But when a nightingale sings
  In the moonlit summer even,
  I know not if earth is merely earth,
  Only that heaven is heaven.

• When Fishes Set Umbrellas Up Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When fishes set umbrellas up
  If the rain-drops run,
  Lizards will want their parasols
  To shade them from the sun.

• When I Am Dead, My Dearest Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
  Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
  Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
  And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.
  
  I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
  I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
  And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
  Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.

• When The Cows Come Home The Milk Is Coming Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When the cows come home the milk is coming,
  Honey's made while the bees are humming;
  Duck and drake on the rushy lake,
  And the deer live safe in the breezy brake;
  And timid, funny, brisk little bunny,
  Winks his nose and sits all sunny.

• Where Innocent Bright-Eyed Daisies Are Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Where innocent bright-eyed daisies are,
  With blades of grass between,
  Each daisy stands up like a star
  Out of a sky of green.

• Who Has Seen The Wind? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Who has seen the wind?
  
  Neither I nor you:
  But when the leaves hang trembling
  The wind is passing through.
  
  Who has seen the wind?
  
  Neither you nor I:
  But when the trees bow down their heads
  The wind is passing by.

• Who Hath Despised The Day Of Small Things? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As violets so be I recluse and sweet,
  Cheerful as daisies unaccounted rare,
  Still sunward-gazing from a lowly seat,
  Still sweetening wintry air.
  
  While half-awakened Spring lags incomplete,
  While lofty forest trees tower bleak and bare,
  Daisies and violets own remotest heat
  And bloom and make them fair.

• Who Shall Deliver Me? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  God strengthen me to bear myself;
  That heaviest weight of all to bear,
  Inalienable weight of care.
  
  All others are outside myself,
  I lock my door and bar them out
  The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.
  
  I lock my door upon myself,
  And bar them out; but who shall wall
  Self from myself, most loathed of all?
  
  If I could once lay down myself,
  And start self-purged upon the race
  That all must run! Death runs apace.
  
  If I could set aside myself,
  And start with lightened heart upon
  The road by all men overgone!
  God harden me against myself,
  This coward with pathetic voice
  Who craves for ease and rest and joys:
  Myself, arch-traitor to myself;
  My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,
  My clog whatever road I go.
  
  Yet One there is can curb myself,
  Can roll the strangling load from me
  Break off the yoke and set me free

• Why Did Baby Die? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Why did baby die,
  Making Father sigh,
  Mother cry?
  
  Flowers, that bloom to die,
  Make no reply
  Of ‘why?
  
  ’
  But bow and die.

• Wife To Husband Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Pardon the faults in me,
  For the love of years ago:
  Good-bye.
  
  I must drift across the sea,
  I must sink into the snow,
  I must die.
  
  You can bask in this sun,
  You can drink wine, and eat:
  Good-bye.
  
  I must gird myself and run,
  Though with unready feet:
  I must die.
  
  Blank sea to sail upon,
  Cold bed to sleep in:
  Good-bye.
  
  While you clasp, I must be gone
  For all your weeping:
  I must die.
  
  A kiss for one friend,
  And a word for two,—
  Good-bye:—
  A lock that you must send,
  A kindness you must do:
  I must die.
  
  Not a word for you,
  Not a lock or kiss,
  Good-bye.
  
  We, one, must part in two;
  Verily death is this:
  I must die.

• Winter Rain Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Every valley drinks,
  Every dell and hollow;
  Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,
  Green of Spring will follow.
  
  Yet a lapse of weeks
  Buds will burst their edges,
  Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks,
  In the woods and hedges;
  Weave a bower of love
  For birds to meet each other,
  Weave a canopy above
  Nest and egg and mother.
  
  But for fattening rain
  We should have no flowers,
  Never a bud or leaf again
  But for soaking showers;
  Never a mated bird
  In the rocking tree-tops,
  Never indeed a flock or herd
  To graze upon the lea-crops.
  
  Lambs so woolly white,
  Sheep the sun-bright leas on,
  They could have no grass to bite
  But for rain in season.
  
  We should find no moss
  In the shadiest places,
  Find no waving meadow grass
  Pied with broad-eyed daisies:
  But miles of barren sand,
  With never a son or daughter,
  Not a lily on the land,
  Or lily on the water.

• Winter: My Secret Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I tell my secret?
  
  No indeed, not I:
  Perhaps some day, who knows?
  
  But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
  And you're too curious: fie!
  You want to hear it?
  
  well:
  Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
  
  Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
  Suppose there is no secret after all,
  But only just my fun.
  
  Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
  In which one wants a shawl,
  A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
  I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
  And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
  Come bounding and surrounding me,
  Come buffeting, astounding me,
  Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
  
  I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
  His nose to Russian snows
  To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
  
  You would not peck?
  
  I thank you for good will,
  Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
  
  Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
  March with its peck of dust,
  Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
  Nor even May, whose flowers
  One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
  
  Perhaps some languid summer day,
  WHen drowsy birds sing less and less,
  And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
  If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
  And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
  Perhaps my secret I may say,
  Or you may guess.

• Within The Veil Read Poem Log in to favourite

  She holds a lily in her hand,
  Where long ranks of Angels stand,
  A silver lily for her wand.
  
  All her hair falls sweeping down;
  Her hair that is a golden brown,
  A crown beneath her golden crown.
  
  Blooms a rose-bush at her knee,
  Good to smell and good to see:
  It bears a rose for her, for me;
  Her rose a blossom richly grown,
  My rose a bud not fully blown,
  But sure one day to be mine own.

• Wrens And Robins In The Hedge Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Wrens and robins in the hedge,
  Wrens and robins here and there;
  Building, perching, pecking, fluttering,
  Everywhere! C

• Your Brother Has A Falcon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Your brother has a falcon,
  Your sister has a flower;
  But what is left for mannikin,
  Born within a hour?
  
  I'll nurse you on my knee, my knee,
  My own little son;
  I'll rock you, rock you, in my arms,
  My least little one.