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And I saw a glory, a gleam,
A flash of white through the green
(Her arms and her gown are white);
And the summer sighed her name
As she and the sunshine came:
O sun and blue sky and delight!
O eyes and lips of my queen!
What was done there or said
No one will ever know,
For nobody saw or heard
Save one little, brown, bright bird
Who swayed on a twig overhead,
And he will never betray;
But all who pass by that way,
As they near the spot where we lay
Among the blossoms and grass
Where the leaves and the ferns lay thick
(Though it lies out of reach, out of sight
Of the path where the world may pass),
Feel their heart and their pulse beat quick
In a measure that rhymes with the leaves and flowers,
That rhymes with the summer and sun,
With the lover to win or won,
With the wild-flower crown of delight,
The crown of love that was ours.
THE GARDEN
My garden was lovely to see,
For all things fair,
Sweet flowers and blossoms rare,
I had planted there.
There were pinks and lilies and stocks,
Sweet gray and white stocks, and rose and rue,
And clematis white and blue,
And pansies and daisies and phlox.
And the lawn was trim, and the trees were shady,
And all things were ready to greet my lady
On the Life's-love-crowning day
When she should come
To her lover's home,
To give herself to me.
I saw the red of the roses —
The royal roses that bloomed for her sake.
"They shall lie," I said, "where my heart's hopes lie:
They shall droop on her heart and die."
I dreamed in the orchard-closes:
"'Tis here we will walk in the July days,
When the paths and the lawn are ablaze;
We will walk here, and look at our life's great bliss:
And thank God for this".
I leaned where the jasmine white
Wreathed all my window round:
"Here we will lean,
I and my queen,
And look out on the broad moonlight.
For there shall be moonlight – bright —
On my wedding-night."
She never saw the flowers
That were hers from their first sweet hours.
The roses, the pinks, and the dark heartsease
Died in my garden, ungathered, forlorn.
Only the jasmine, the lilies, the white, white rose,
They were gathered – to honour and sorrow born.
They lay round her, touched her close.
The jasmine stars – white stars, that about our window
their faint light shed,
Lay round her head.
And the white, white roses lay on her breast,
And a long, white lily lay in her hand.
They lie by her – rest with her rest;
But I, unhonoured, unblest —
I stand outside,
In the ruined garden solitude —
Where she never stood —
On the trim green sod
Which she never trod;
And the red, red roses grow and blow, —
As if any one cared
How they fared!
And the gate of Eden is shut; and I stand
And see the Angel with flaming sword —
Life's pitiless Lord —
And I know I never may pass.
Alas! alas!
O Rose! my rose!
I never may reach the place where she grows,
A rose in the garden of God.
PRAYER UNDER GRAY SKIES
O God, let there be rain!
Rain, till this sky of gray
That covers us every day
Be utterly wept away,
Let there be rain, we pray,
Till the sky be washed blue again
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain,
For the sky hangs heavy with pain,
And we, who walk upon earth,
We find our days not of worth;
None blesses the day of our birth,
We question of death's day in vain, —
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain
Till the full-fed earth complain.
Yea, though it sweep away
The seeds sown yesterday
And beat down the blossoms of May
And ruin the border gay:
In storm let this gray noon wane,
Let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain
Till the rivers rise a-main!
Though the waters go over us quite
And cover us up from the light
And whelm us away in the night
And the flowers of our life be slain,
O God, let there be rain!
O God, let there be rain,
Out of the gray sky, rain!
To wash the earth and to wash the sky
And the sick, sad souls of the folk who sigh
In the gray of a sordid satiety.
Open Thy flood-gates, O God most High,
And some day send us the sun again.
O God, let there be rain!
A GREAT INDUSTRIAL CENTRE
Squalid street after squalid street,
Endless rows of them, each the same,
Black dust under your weary feet,
Dust upon every face you meet,
Dust in their hearts, too, – or so it seems —
Dust in the place of dreams.
Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,
Here men hardly have heard her name.
Work is the end and aim of their lives —
Work, work, work! for their children and wives;
Work for a life which, when it is won,
Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!
Work – one dark and incessant round
In black dull workshops, out of the light;
Work that others' ease may abound,
Work that delight for them may be found,
Work without hope, without pause, without peace,
That only in death can cease.
Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,
What of these men, at work in the night?
God will ask you what you have done;
Their lives be required of you – every one —
Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,
While they did your work – in hell!
LONDON'S VOICES
SPEAK TO TWO SOULS – WHO THUS REPLY:
I
In all my work, in all the children's play,
I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;
It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear
Its never-ending wail, by night and day.
So many millions – is it vain to pray
That all may win such peace as I have here,
With books, and work, and little children dear? —
That flowers like mine may grow along their way?
Through all my happy life I hear the cry,
The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,
And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.
I can do nothing – even hope is vain
That the bright light of peace and purity
In those lost souls may ever shine again!
II
'Mid pine woods' whisper and the hum of bees
I heard a voice that was not bee nor wood:
Here, in the city, Gold has trampled Good.
Come thou, do battle till this strife shall cease!"
I left the mill, the meadows and the trees,
And came to do the little best I could
For these, God's poor; and, oh, my God, I would
I had a thousand lives to give for these!
