I HAVE no ale,

  No wine I want;

No ornaments,

  My meat is scant.

 

No maid is near,

  I have no wife;

But here’s my pipe

  And, on my life:

 

With it to smoke,

  And woo the Muse,

To be a king

  I would not choose.

 

But I crave all,

  When she does fail—

Wife, ornaments,

  Meat, wine and ale.

I HEAR leaves drinking rain;

  I hear rich leaves on top

Giving the poor beneath

  Drop after drop;

’Tis a sweet noise to hear

These green leaves drinking near.

 

And when the Sun comes out,

  After this rain shall stop,

A wondrous light will fill

  Each dark, round drop;

I hope the Sun shines bright;

’Twill be a lovely sight.

HOW I do love to sit and dream

  Of that sweet passion, when I meet

The lady I must love for life!

  The very thought makes my Soul beat

Its wings, as though it saw that light

Silver the rims of my black night.

 

I see her bring a crimson mouth

  To open at a kiss, and close;

I see her bring her two fair cheeks,

  That I may paint on each a rose;

I see her two hands, like doves white,

Fly into mine and hide from sight.

 

In fancy hear her soft, sweet voice;

  My eager Soul, to catch her words,

Waits at the ear, with Noah’s haste

  To take God’s message-bearing Birds;

What passion she will in me move—

That Lady I for life must love!

ROBIN on a leafless bough,

  Lord in Heaven, how he sings!

Now cold Winter’s cruel Wind

  Makes playmates of poor, dead things.

 

How he sings for joy this morn!

  How his breast doth pant and glow!

Look you how he stands and sings,

  Half-way up his legs in snow!

 

If these crumbs of bread were pearls,

  And I had no bread at home,

He should have them for that song;

  Pretty Robin Redbreast, Come.

PEACE makes more slaves than savage War,

Since tyrants, backed by their Land’s Law—

Needing no deadly armament—

Can force a people to consent

To toil like slaves for little pay,

In shops and factories all day;

Make human moles, that sweat and slave

In dark, cold, cheerless rooms; who have

No blood, to make them well again,

If foul Disease should give them pain.

The cold, proud rich they, without cares,

In comfort live; like surly bears

That eat and sleep in caves of ice

The Heavenly Sun has painted nice;

Tyrants that would, to have their rent,

Turn tenants’ Christmas into Lent,

For fast instead of feast. What, free!

When masters, who hate Liberty,

Can in their height of power and greed

Force weaker men to serve their need?

Dogs may rear cats, the cat a rat,

And wolves stay hunger, loving what

They could devour—so masters may

Make men their care instead of prey.

The Fly has many eyes: I guess

A Spider can see more with less:

One Tyrant, though not right, is strong

To punish thousands for no wrong.

WE have met,

  You and I;

Loving man,

  Lovely Fly.

 

If I thought

  You saw me,

And love made

  You so free

 

To come close—

  I’d not move

Till you tired

  Of my love.

AS I walked down a lane this morn,

  I heard a sweet voice cry, Come, Come!

And then I saw ten dull, fat cows

  Begin to race like horses home;

Like horses in their pace,

Though lacking horses’ grace.

 

That voice, which did uplift those feet

  Of cows, uplifted mine likewise;

For, with a heart so light, I walked

  Until the sweat did blind my eyes;

And all the way back home,

I heard her cry, Come, Come!

SOMETIMES he roars among the leafy trees

Such sounds as in a narrow cove, when Seas

Rush in between high rocks; or grandly roll’d,

Like music heard in churches very old.

Sometimes he makes the children’s happy sound,

When they play hide and seek, and one is found.

Sometimes he whineth like a dog in sleep,

Bit by the merciless, small fleas; then deep

And hollow sounds come from him, as starved men

Oft hear rise from their empty parts; and then

He’ll hum a hollow groan, like one sick lain,

Who fears a move will but increase his pain.

And now he makes an awful wail, as when

From dark coal-pits are brought up crushed, dead men

To frantic wives. When he’s on mischief bent,

He breeds more ill than that strange Parliament

Held by the witches, in the Hebrides;

He’s here, he’s there, to do what’er he please.

For well he knows the spirits’ tricks at night,

Of slamming doors, and blowing out our light,

And tapping at our windows, rattling pails,

And making sighs and moans, and shouts and wails.

’Twas he no doubt made that young man’s hair white,

Who slept alone in a strange house one night,

And was an old man in the morn and crazed,

And all who saw and heard him were amazed.

NOW I grow old, and flowers are weeds,

  I think of days when weeds were flowers;

When Jenny lived across the way,

  And shared with me her childhood hours.

 

Her little teeth did seem so sharp,

  So bright and bold, when they were shown,

You’d think if passion stirred her she

  Could bite and hurt a man of stone.

 

Her curls, like golden snakes, would lie

  Upon each shoulder’s front, as though

To guard her face on either side—

  They raised themselves when Winds did blow.

 

How sly they were! I could not see,

  Nor she feel them begin to climb

Across her lips, till there they were,

  To be forced back time after time.

 

If I could see an Elm in May

  Turn all his dark leaves into pearls,

And shake them in the light of noon—

  That sight had not shamed Jenny’s curls.

 

And, like the hay, I swear her hair

  Was getting golder every day;

Yes, golder when ’twas harvested,

  Under a bonnet stacked away.

 

Ah, Jenny’s gone, I know not where;

  Her face I cannot hope to see;

And every time I think of her

  The world seems one big grave to me.

AND art thou gone, sweet Youth? Say Nay!

  For dost thou know what power was thine,

That thou couldst give vain shadows flesh,

  And laughter without any wine,

From the heart fresh?

 

And art thou gone, sweet Youth? Say Nay!

  Not left me to Time’s cruel spite;

He’ll pull my teeth out one by one,

  He’ll paint my hair first grey, then white,

He’ll scrape my bone.

 

And art thou gone, sweet Youth? Alas!

  For ever gone! I know it well;

Earth has no atom, nor the sky,

  That has not thrown the kiss Farewell—

Sweet Youth, Good-Bye!

SAY what you like,

  All things love me!

I pick no flowers—

  That wins the Bee.

 

The Summer’s Moths

  Think my hand one—

To touch their wings—

  With Wind and Sun.

 

The garden Mouse

  Comes near to play;

Indeed, he turns

  His eyes away.

 

The Wren knows well

  I rob no nest;

When I look in,

  She still will rest.

 

The hedge stops Cows,

  Or they would come

After my voice

  Right to my home.

 

The Horse can tell,

  Straight from my lip,

My hand could not

  Hold any whip.

 

Say what you like,

  All things love me!

Horse, Cow, and Mouse,

  Bird, Moth and Bee.

HER cruel hands go in and out,

  Like two pale woodmen working there,

To make a nut-brown thicket clear—

  The full, wild foliage of her hair.

 

Her hands now work far up the North,

  Then, fearing for the South’s extreme,

They into her dark waves of hair

  Dive down so quick—it seems a dream.

 

They’re in the light again with speed,

  Tossing the loose hair to and fro,

Until, like tamed snakes, the coils

  Lie on her bosom in a row.

 

For wise inspection, up and down

  One coil her busy hands now run;

To screw and twist, to turn and shape,

  And here and there to work like one.

 

And now those white hands, still like one,

  Are working at the perilous end;

Where they must knot those nut-brown coils,

  Which will hold fast, though still they’ll bend.

 

Sometimes one hand must fetch strange tools,

  The other then must work alone;

But when more instruments are brought,

  See both make up the time that’s gone.

 

Now that her hair is bound secure,

  Coil top of coil, in smaller space,

Ah, now I see how smooth her brow,

  And her simplicity of face.

AH, Music! it doth sound more sweet

  Than rain on crispèd leaves; or when

Beauty doth stroke a kitten rose,

  And screams, to feel her fingers then

Scratched by its little claws.

 

Drowned, Music, in thy waves, I saw

  My whole long Past before me go;

Now, rouse me with a merry shout—

  Such as charm children, when Winds blow

The light they love clean out.

 

Laugh thee, sweet Music, like those girls,

  When each was fit, but none were wed;

As they did banter a shy boy,

  Who could not raise on high his head

And face their wicked joy.

WHEN I did wake this morn from sleep,

  It seemed I heard birds in a dream;

Then I arose to take the air—

  The lovely air that made birds scream;

Just as a green hill launched the ship

Of gold, to take its first clear dip.

 

And it began its journey then,

  As I came forth to take the air;

The timid Stars had vanished quite,

  The Moon was dying with a stare;

Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen

As still as pictures, in fields green.

 

It seemed as though I had surprised

  And trespassed in a golden world

That should have passed while men still slept!

  The joyful birds, the ship of gold,

The horses, kine and sheep did seem

As they would vanish for a dream.

THERE was a battle in her face,

  Between a Lily and a Rose:

My Love would have the Lily win

  And I the Lily lose.

 

I saw with joy that strife, first one,

  And then the other uppermost;

Until the Rose roused all its blood,

  And then the Lily lost.

 

When she’s alone, the Lily rules,

  By her consent, without mistake:

But when I come that red Rose leaps

  To battle for my sake.

WHEN farmers sweat and toil at ploughs,

  Their wives give me cool milk and sweet;

When merchants in their office brood,

  Their ladies give me cakes to eat,

And hot tea for my happy blood;

  This is a jolly life indeed,

  To do no work and get my need.

 

I have no child for future thought,

  I feed no belly but my own,

And I can sleep when toilers fail;

  Content, though sober, sleeps on stone,

But Care can’t sleep with down and ale;

  This is a happy life indeed,

  To do no work and get my need.

 

I trouble not for pauper’s grave,

  There is no feeling after death;

The king will be as deaf to praise

  As I to blame—when this world saith

A word of us in after days;

  It is a jolly life indeed,

  To do no work and get my need.

SAY, silent Moth,

  Why thou hast let

The midnight come,

  And no dance yet.

 

Man’s life is years,

  Thy life a day;

Is thine too long

  To be all play?

 

Man’s life is long,

  He lives for years;

So long a time

  Breeds many fears.

 

Thy life is short:

  What’er its span,

Life’s worth seems small

  Be’t Moth or Man.

IS it that small black star,

  Twinkling in broad daylight,

Upon the bosom of

  Yon clouds so white—

Is it that small black thing

Makes earth and all Heaven ring!

 

Sing, you black star; and soar

  Until, alas! too soon

You fall to earth in one

  Long singing swoon;

But you will rise again

To heaven, from this green plain.

 

Sing, sing, sweet star; though black,

  Your company’s more bright

Than any star that shines

  With a white light;

Sing, Skylark, sing; and give

To me thy joy to live.

GO angry One, and let tears cold

Put out the fires thine eyes now hold;

Let those dark clouds, that make my pain,

Clear themselves pure with thine eyes’ rain;

Let Thy cheeks’ roses, that once stood

Unblemished by wild Passion’s blood,

Be washed by thee in penance dew,

To gain back their first happy hue;

Recover thy voice, sweet and low,

That has such little music now.

But let not anger frost, and kill

The trembling flowers of Love that will

Come pleading unto you for me—

Which would for both great pity be.

Go, angry Beauty, and get calm;

And, when thou art all spent of harm,

Look how I come with greater love;

And anger once again will move

Thee, my wild Pet—but not so strong

That you will think my kisses wrong.

A PERFECT child, with hands and feet,

  With heart and bones;

Which no man’s hand could fashion out

  Of clay or stones.

 

Yet this, Alas! is but cold clay;

  The mortal breath

Is lacking, for this perfect child

  Is born in death.

 

Oft have I seen its mother’s joy—

  A new-made wife;

And knew she fed on secret hope

  For her child’s life.

 

And now her heart breaks; she can hear

  No sweet cries wild;

There needs no joyful soothing for

  Her dead-born child.

NOW Winter’s here; he and his ghostly Winds

That day and night swing on the branches bare.

There’s February, with his weak, running eyes,

And dog-like nose, that’s always damp and cold.

November, who doth make Heaven like one cloud;

And, if he shines at all, his sunsets are

A ghastly white; no sound of birds—save, now

And then, a pheasant hiccups like a child.

There’s cold December too; he takes the Brook,

And lodges him in a strong tomb of ice—

The last sweet voice that Nature charms us with.

I cannot help but think of Autumn now,

Ere any leaves begin to fall, and when

He made the dark and sullen forest smile,

And gave the trees gold tresses for their dark;

And was, as I have heard, so generous

That men could feed their pigs on his rich fruit.

And I go farther back: how Spring did clothe

The aged Oak—whose four tremendous arms

Might well be bodies of still noble trees.

And how Spring’s sparkling meadows stormed the Clouds

With little black balls that went singing up;

And how rain-arrows struck the earth so hard,

Giving no wound to little Leaves and Buds,

But only tickling them to laugh and dance.

And I think too of Summer in her prime—

The tidal wave of Summer’s yellow fields;

And her gold tresses, cut and loose on earth,

With merry men and women there all day

Laughing and combing them; when Swallows made

Bewildering dives of forty feet and more;

And Winds sang only loud enough in trees

To give Love confidence for whispering.

And now the world’s so bare and cold by day:

It seems but yesterday I welcomed Night

That she hung out her silver orb so cool,

In place of Day’s red danger-lamp, which forced

Me into shade all day.

YOU Nightingales, that came so far,

  From Afric’s shore;

With these rich notes, unloaded now

  Against my door;

 

Most true they are far richer freight

  Than ships can hold;

That come from there with ivory tusks,

  And pearls, and gold.

 

But you’ll return more rich, sweet birds,

  By many notes;

When you take my Love’s sweeter ones

  Back in your throats,

 

And Afric’s coast will be enriched

  By how you sing!

What! you’ll bring others back with you,

  To learn—next Spring.

GIRLS scream,

  Boys shout;

Dogs bark,

  School’s out.

 

Cats run,

  Horses shy;

Into trees

  Birds fly.

 

Babes wake

  Open-eyed;

If they can,

  Tramps hide.

 

Old man,

  Hobble home;

Merry mites,

  Welcome.

O WHAT a life is this I lead,

Far from the hum of human greed;

Where Crows, like merchants dressed in black,

Go leisurely to work and back;

Where Swallows leap and dive and float,

And Cuckoo sounds his cheerful note;

Where Skylarks now in clouds do rave,

Half mad with fret that their souls have

By hundreds far more joyous notes

Than they can manage with their throats.

 

The ploughman’s heavy horses run

The field as if in fright—for fun,

Or stand and laugh in voices shrill;

Or roll upon their backs until

The sky’s kicked small enough—they think;

Then to a pool they go and drink.

The kine are chewing their old cud,

Dreaming, and never think to add

Fresh matter that will taste—as they

Lie motionless, and dream away.

 

I hear the sheep a-coughing near;

Like little children, when they hear

Their elders’ sympathy—so these

Sheep force their coughs on me, and please;

And many a pretty lamb I see,

Who stops his play on seeing me,

And runs and tells his mother then.

Lord, who would live in towns with men,

And hear the hum of human greed—

With such a life as this to lead.

NAY, no more bitterness from me;

The past is gone, so let it be;

And I will keep smiles softer than

The sad smiles of a dying man

For a child comforter—to give

My sweetest dream, that still must live.

 

My sweetest dream, that comes more bold;

Of one sweet, simple child of old;

Who, though a queen, and a great one,

Would wear her jewels like a nun;

When miser leaves unlocked his door,

I may forget her—not before.

THE City has dull eyes,

  The City’s cheeks are pale;

The City has black spit,

  The City’s breath is stale.

 

The Country has red cheeks,

  The Country’s eyes are bright;

The Country has sweet breath,

  The Country’s spit is white.

 

Dull eyes, breath stale; ink spit

  And cheeks like chalk—for thee;

Eyes bright, red cheeks; sweet breath

  And spit like milk—for me.

WEALTH, Power, and Fame—aye, even Love,

  Are but an hour’s delight, and go;

But Sleep’s a blessing to hold fast

  Till her warm dew becomes Death’s snow;

All men that scorned Sleep in the past,

  For any thing beneath the Sun,

  Will rue it ere their life be done.

 

Much it perplexed of late to know

  What made my heart with joy so light;

Until I thought of how sweet Sleep

  Did, for so many hours each night,

Keep me in her delicious deep:

  Charmed me each night with her sweet powers,

  In one unbroken stretch of hours.

 

All-powerful Sleep, thou canst give slaves

  Kings for attendants; and their straw

Becomes in thy soft hands like down;

  Thou one real gem, without a flaw,

That purely shineth in Life’s crown;

  For Wealth, and Power, and Fame are paste,

  That into common ashes waste.

NOW, Joy is born of parents poor,

  And Pleasure of our richer kind;

Though Pleasure’s free, she cannot sing

  As sweet a song as Joy confined.

 

Pleasure’s a Moth, that sleeps by day

  And dances by false glare at night;

But Joy’s a Butterfly, that loves

  To spread its wings in Nature’s light.

 

Joy’s like a Bee that gently sucks

  Away on blossoms its sweet hour;

But Pleasure’s like a greedy Wasp,

  That plums and cherries would devour.

 

Joy’s like a Lark that lives alone,

  Whose ties are very strong, though few;

But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,

  Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

 

Joy from her heart doth sing at home,

  With little care if others hear;

But Pleasure then is cold and dumb,

  And sings and laughs with strangers near.

AS long as I see Nature near,

I will, when old, cling to life dear:

E’en as the old dog holds so fast

With his three teeth, which are his last.

For Lord, how merry now am I!

Tickling with straw the Butterfly,

Where she doth in her clean, white dress,

Sit on a green leaf, motionless,

To hear Bees hum away the hours.

I shake those Bees too off the Flowers,

So that I may laugh soft to hear

Their hoarse resent and angry stir.

I hear the sentry Chanticleer

Challenge each other far and near,

From farm to farm, and it rejoices

Me this hour to mock their voices;

There’s one red Sultan near me now,

Not all his wives make half his row.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! was that a bird,

Or but a mocking boy you heard?

You heard the Cuckoo first, ’twas he;

The second time—Ha, ha! ’twas Me.

I HEARD a voice methought was sweet;

  Skylark, I mused, thy praise is done;

That voice I’d rather hear than thine

  With twenty songs in one.

 

And she, in sooth, is fair, thought I,

  Looking at her with cold, calm eyes—

As the Lily at May’s feet, or Rose

  That on June’s bosom lies.

 

I heard one day a step; a voice,

  Heard in a room next door to mine;

And then, I heard long, laughing peals,

  For him! from Rosaline.

 

Again she laughs; what, mocking me?

  I shook like coward in the night—

Who fears to either lie in dark

  Or rise to make a light.

 

For weeks I cursed the day I met

  That fair sleep-robber, Rosaline;

Till Love came pure from smoke and flame—

  I swore she should be mine.

 

And in her house I held her firm,

  She closed her eyes and lay at rest;

But still she laughed, as if a bird

  Should sing in its warm nest.

I LIKE the showers that make the grass so fresh,

And birds’ notes fresher too; and like the Mist,

Who makes thin shadows of those heavy hills,

That carried in the light a hundred fields,

A score of woods, and many a house of stone.

Or see the jealous Sun appear, and make

That Mist, Morn’s phantom lover, go;

And drive him to the farthest hill in sight,

On which he’ll make his last and dying stand;

A lover, he? Ah, no; a vampire, who

Comes out of Night’s black grave to suck Morn’s blood.

I like to see the Sun appear at last,

To meet the Clouds, Clouds armed with arrow-rain;

And see him lift his rainbow banner high.

Or see upon a misty night how Stars

Half ope their eyes and close, as if in doubt

To keep awake or not; how sometimes they

Do seem so far and faint, I almost think

My eyes play false, and they are Fancy’s stars.

I welcome Nature in her every mood:

To see a hundred crows toss wild about,

Blowing in Heaven’s face like balls of soot,

As they make their delirious cries, sure signs

Of coming storm—not half a one, I hope.

MY walls outside must have some flowers,

  My walls within must have some books;

A house that’s small; a garden large,

  And in it leafy nooks.

 

A little gold that’s sure each week;

  That comes not from my living kind,

But from a dead man in his grave,

  Who cannot change his mind.

 

A lovely wife, and gentle too;

  Contented that no eyes but mine

Can see her many charms, nor voice

  To call her beauty fine.

 

Where she would in that stone cage live,

  A self-made prisoner, with me;

While many a wild bird sang around,

  On gate, on bush, on tree.

 

And she sometimes to answer them,

  In her far sweeter voice than all;

Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,

  Will doat on a stone wall.

 

With this small house, this garden large,

  This little gold, this lovely mate,

With health in body, peace at heart—

  Show me a man more great.

AH, what fond memories that voice doth bring!

Even to strangers sweet: no others sing

Their common speech, like men of Cambria’s race;

How much more sweet to me then was that voice!

It filled me with sweet memories; as when

I heard one hum the March of Harlech Men,

Dying, five thousand miles from home! Now we

Lived in a city dark, where Poverty,

More hard than rocks, and crueller than foam,

Keeps many a great Ulysses far from home,

With neither kings nor gods to help him forth.

Tell me, sweet voice, what part of that dear earth

Thou callest thine? I asked, to please my whim:

His answer could not cool my pride in him.

For Wales is Wales; one patriotic flame

From North to South, from East to West the same;

There is no difference in our Cymric breed

Of Highlander and Lowlander; no creed

Can enter there to make their hearts divide;

Nay, Wales is Wales throughout, and of one pride.

So, in that city, by stone walls confined,

We of our native land spake with one mind.

We could breathe in vast spaces there: the eye

Could lead proud Fancy in captivity

Mile after mile adown the valleys long,

The kindest hearts in all the world among.

One woman’s tears could moisten all the land,

As in that very hour was known: band upon band

Of Cymry swarming from their collieries

To search the hills, in hours of sleep and ease,

For one lost child; a woman’s grief could claim

The fiery hearts that tyrants ne’er could tame.

The noblest hearts on earth are in those hills,

For they make national their local ills;

Theirs are the hearts of oak, in truth they are,

So soft in peace, yet knotted hard in war;

Of such an oak as, smoothed down by Pain,

Shows flowers of Pity deep in its clear grain.

We did compare this City dame with neat

And simple Jenny Jones, with her charms sweet

As are shy berries under shady leaves,

Hiding from light to sweeten of themselves;

This City dame, with plumes and satin trail—

An empty craft that carries finer sail

Than one whose hull is full of pearls and gold;

For, save in song, our Jenny is not bold.

And so we talked till, with an oath, we swore

We would return and never wander more.

WHITE lily clouds

  In violet skies;

The Sun is at

  His highest rise.

 

The Bee doth hum,

  Every bird sings;

The Butterflies

  Full stretch their wings.

 

The Brook doth dance

  To his own song;

The Hawthorn now

  Smells sweet and strong.

 

The green Leaves clap

  Their wings to fly;

Like Birds whose feet

  Bird lime doth tie.

 

Sing all you Birds,

  Hum all you Bees;

Clap your green wings,

  Leaves on the trees—

 

I’m one with all,

  This present hour:

Things-far-away

  Have lost their power.

ALONE beneath Heaven’s roof I stand;

  It is a cold and frosty night;

Big, spider stars, with many legs,

  Upon Heaven’s ceiling spin in sight;

I hear afar the homeless Wind,

  Carrying abroad her wailing child

That, when she hurries faster, screams

  The louder and more wild.

 

Now thoughts of Life make me feel sick;

  No other joy on earth, it seems,

Than to pursue our quest for some

  False Eldorado of our dreams;

Pale Fear doth like a spider pull,

  Sucking my heart; it seems I grow

A man of feathers and light down,

  And cold winds through me blow.

 

For Life seems empty of all worth;

  No wisdom in the morning shows

The day its duty; yet each night

  Is wise to show us its vain close.

Time’s hours are precious—What! To whom?

  Is there one man has faith at night

That he has bought true worth with them,

  And spent his day aright?

I HAD a sweet companion once,

  And in the meadows we did roam;

And in the one-star night returned

  Together home.

 

When Bees did roar like midget bulls,

  Or quietly rob nodding Flowers—

We two did roam the fields so green,

  In Summer hours.

 

She like the Rill did laugh, when he

  Plays in the quiet woods alone;

She was as red as Summer’s rose—

  The first one blown.

 

Her hair as soft as any moss

  That running water still keeps wet;

And her blue eye—it seemed as if

  A Violet

 

Had in a Lily’s centre grown,

  To see the blue, and white around—

’Twas tender as the Glowworm’s light

  On a lost mound.

 

And, like the face of a sweet well

  Buried alive in a stone place—

So calm, so fresh, so soft, so bright

  Was that child’s face.

THERE’S not one leaf can say to me

It shines with this year’s greenery.

A stoat-like Wind, without a sound,

Doth creep and startle from the ground

The brown leaves, and they fly about,

And settle, till again found out.

But Spring, for very sure, is born:

E’en though I see, this misty morn,

The face of Phœbus cold and white,

As hers who sits his throne at night;

For I can hear how birds—not bold

Enough to sing full songs—do scold

Their timid hearts to make a try.

The unseen hand of Spring doth lie

Warm on my face; the air is sweet

And calm; it has a pleasant heat

That makes my two hands swell, as though

They had gloves on. Spring makes no show

Of leaves and blossoms yet, but she

Has worked upon this blood in me;

And everything of flesh I meet

Can feel, it seems, her presence sweet.

MARY and Maud have met at the door,

  Oh, now for a din; I told you so:

They’re laughing at once with sweet, round mouths,

  Laughing for what? does anyone know?

 

Is it known to the bird in the cage,

  That shrieketh for joy his high top notes,

After a silence so long and grave—

  What started at once those two sweet throats?

 

Is it known to the Wind that he takes

  Advantage at once and comes right in?

Is it known to the cock in the yard,

  That crows—the cause of that merry din?

 

Is it known to the babe that he shouts?

  Is it known to the old, purring cat?

Is it known to the dog, that he barks

  For joy—what Mary and Maud laugh at?

 

Is it known to themselves? It is not,

  But beware of their great shining eyes;

For Mary and Maud will soon, I swear,

  Find a cause to make far merrier cries.

THIEVES, Death and Absence, come

No more to my heart’s home:

Behold my chambers bare,

I make no thing my care.

 

As fast as I aught bring

In place of stolen thing,

One of ye two doth come

Again to my heart’s home.

 

Henceforth I’ll leave it bare,

Cold winds shall enter there;

For nothing keep I can—

Of plant, or beast, or man.

YES, Solitude indeed: for I can see

Trees all around and, to the west of me—

So near I could almost throw there a stone—

A mountain and a forest stand in one!

I’ve watched that mountain-top an hour and more,

To see some bird-discoverer sail o’er

That mighty wave of earth and settle here—

For to go back that way he would not dare.

And, did I see that bird, ’twould give such joy

As in days gone, when I, a little boy,

Saw lying in a dock the ten-foot boat

That did across the deep Atlantic float;

With one old man, who strapped himself fast down

Three days and nights, knowing that he must drown,

If once a Wind or Wave could lift him free.

Yes, this is Solitude, for I can see

Nothing around but mountains and their trees,

And all the sweet flowers close, and birds, and bees.

The bees, that drink from tankards every size,

Colour and shape, do heave no feeble sighs,

But murmur loud their praise; and every bird

Sang sweet—till but a moment since they heard

A Blackbird’s startled shriek, when suddenly

He saw me motionless beneath a tree,

And made them dumb in leaves and out; and made

Even tame Robin look around, afraid.

I see a house or two adown the lane,

But no sign there of human life; in vain

The Cuckoo makes his strange but cheerful note,

To get an answer sweet from Childhood’s throat.

In this green valley, deep and silent, roam

Cattle that seem to have no other home,

Nor dream of any from their open vale.

And now I see a wall and gate, so stale

And old—black without paint; which seems to me

Could tell some sweet, half dreadful history.

And then I walked and saw a field close by,

And what was seen there opened wide my eye;

A man with a white horse and, this I swear,

Both of them in their sleep were ploughing there.

Then home I went and, till I reached that place,

I never saw another mortal’s face.

A week here now; not one hard living tramp,

Of England’s many, finds this quiet camp,

To cheat with ready lies and solemn looks

Me, when a dreamer I come straight from books;

And still I would with gladness, now and then,

Be cheated by those happy, wandering men.

AUSTRALIAN BILL is dying fast,

  For he’s a drunken fool:

He either sits in an alehouse,

  Or stands outside a school.

 

He left this house of ours at seven,

  And he was drunk by nine;

And when I passed him near a school

  He nods his head to mine.

 

When Bill took to the hospital,

  Sick, money he had none—

He came forth well, but lo! his home,

  His wife and child had gone.

 

‘I’ll watch a strange school every day,

  Until the child I see;

For Liz will send the child to school—

  No doubt of that,’ says he.

 

And ‘Balmy’ Tom is near as bad,

  A-drinking ale till blind:

No absent child grieves he, but there’s

  A dead love on his mind.

 

But Bill, poor Bill, is dying fast,

  For he’s the greater fool;

He either sits in an alehouse

  Or stands outside a school.

GO little boy,

  Fill thee with joy;

  For Time gives thee

Unlicensed hours,

  To run in fields,

And roll in flowers.

 

A little boy

Can life enjoy;

  If but to see

The horses pass,

  When shut indoors

Behind the glass.

 

Go, little boy,

Fill thee with joy;

  Fear not, like man,

The kick of wrath,

  That you do lie

In some one’s path.

 

Time is to thee

Eternity,

  As to a bird

Or butterfly;

  And in that faith

True joy doth lie.

I GIVE thee back thy freedom, bird,

  But know, I am amazed to see

These lovely feathers, which thou hast

  Concealed so many years from me.

 

Oft have I watched thee cut the name

  Of Summer in the clear, blue air,

And praised thy skilful lettering—

  But never guessed thou wert so fair.

 

It is, maybe, thou hast no wish

  For praise save for thy works of grace:

Thou scornest beauty, like the best

  And wisest of our human race.

NOW I can see what Helen was:

Men cannot see this woman pass

And be not stirred; as Summer’s Breeze

Sets leaves in battle on the trees.

A woman moving gracefully,

With golden hair enough for three,

Which, mercifully! is not loose,

But lies in coils to her head close;

With lovely eyes, so dark and blue,

So deep, so warm, they burn me through.

I see men follow her, as though

Their homes were where her steps should go.

She seemed as sent to our cold race

For fear the beauty of her face

Made Paradise in flames like Troy—

I could have gazed all day with joy.

In fancy I could see her stand

Before a savage, fighting band,

And make them, with her words and looks,

Exchange their spears for shepherds’ crooks,

And sing to sheep in quiet nooks;

In fancy saw her beauty make

A thousand gentle priests uptake

Arms for her sake, and shed men’s blood.

The fairest piece of womanhood,

Lovely in feature, form and grace,

I ever saw, in any place.

WHEN I had money, money, O!

  I knew no joy till I went poor;

For many a false man as a friend

  Came knocking all day at my door.

 

Then felt I like a child that holds

  A trumpet that he must not blow

Because a man is dead; I dared

  Not speak to let this false world know.

 

Much have I thought of life, and seen

  How poor men’s hearts are ever light;

And how their wives do hum like bees

  About their work from morn till night.

 

So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,

  And see the rich ones coldly frown—

Poor men, think I, need not go up

  So much as rich men should come down.

 

When I had money, money, O!

  My many friends proved all untrue;

But now I have no money, O!

  My friends are real, though very few.

YES, let the truth be heard,

  Bacchus, you rosy cheat:

That you do rob this world

  Of pictures and songs sweet;

You give men dreams, ’tis true,

But take their will to do.

 

You send them sleep as kings—

  They wake as trembling slaves;

Sent singing to their beds,

  They rise like ghosts from graves;

They drink to get will power—

Then wait a sober hour.

 

They shake, like leaves with stems

  Part broken on a tree;

As bees from flower to flower,

  Men go from spree to spree;

Until their days are run,

And not one sweet task done.

TO think my thoughts all hers,

  Not one of hers is mine;

She laughs—while I must sigh;

  She sings—while I must whine.

 

She eats—while I must fast;

  She reads—while I am blind;

She sleeps—while I must wake;

  Free—I no freedom find.

 

To think the world for me

  Contains but her alone,

And that her eyes prefer

  Some ribbon, scarf, or stone.

WHEN I returned to that great London Town,

  And saw Old Father Thames, one August night,

Looking at me with half a thousand eyes;

  When I at morn saw how the Heavenly light

Could burnish that dull gold on dome and spire—

I lost all instinct, like a horse near fire.

 

No thought of ragged youths, and ghastly girls

  Whose metal laughter oft had pained my ear,

For many a pleasant hour; but soon, Alas!

  So shaken was my mind by Traffic’s stir,

I felt an impulse mad to shriek out loud,

As if my voice could quiet that vast crowd.

 

Soon saw how false that empty glitter was,

  For men did drop of hunger there, and die;

There I saw many a homeless man, with death

  The silver lining to his cloud—then I

Saw woolly sheep, fat cows in meadows green,

In place of such men ragged, pale and lean.

I KNOW not why thy beauty should

  Remind me of the cold, dark grave—

Thou Flower, as fair as Moonlight, when

  She kissed the mouth of a black Cave.

 

All other Flowers can coax the Bees,

  All other Flowers are sought but thee:

Dost thou remind them all of Death,

  Sweet Flower, as thou remindest me?

 

Thou seemest like a blessèd ghost,

  So white, so cold, though crowned with gold;

Among these glazèd Buttercups,

  And purple Thistles, rough and bold.

 

When I am dead, nor thought of more,

  Out of all human memory—

Grow you on my forsaken grave,

  And win for me a stranger’s sigh.

 

A day or two the lilies fade;

  A month, aye less, no friends are seen:

Then, claimant to forgotten graves,

  Share my lost place with the wild green.

WHAT art thou, Life, and what am I?

Here, every day that passes by

Doth prove an idle, empty cheat;

And hint at some false scheme to meet

The coming day and get more mirth—

Which will pass by with no more worth.

I fear to give one thing my heart,

That Death or Absence may us part;

And ’tis a misery to live

Alone, and have much love to give.

I envy oft that vagrant poor:

He has no landlady next door;

For beauty he has ne’er a care—

More happy bald than with much hair;

He has no child to save gold for,

No patriot’s love calls him to war;

No house to burn, no ship to sink,

No wish for fame; no cause to think

Of landlord, rent, or decent cloth;

No wish for Pleasure’s hall: in sooth,

With a plain crust, the Sun o’erhead,

Some straw at night to make his bed,

And drinking water, on his knee,

That is the life for him—and me.

POOR, luckless Bee, this sunny morn;

  That in the night a Wind and Rain

Should strip this Apple-tree of bloom,

  And make it green again.

 

You, luckless Bee, must now seek far

  For honey on the windy leas;

No sheltered garden, near your hive,

  To fill a bag with ease.

 

My Love was like this Apple-tree,

  In one sweet bloom, all yesterday;

But something changed her too, Alas!

  And I am turned away.

WHEN first I left a town,

  And lived in Nature’s parts,

I heard the march of men,

  And whistles, horses, carts;

And it to me did seem

Nature was but a dream.

 

I heard blows struck outside,

  And bodies fall all day,

And laughter, shrieks, and groans;

  And who, think you, did play

These mad pranks on my mind?

It was the merry Wind.

 

He blubbered oft near by,

  Against the corner stone;

Like sulking child, who’ll not

  Come in, nor yet be gone—

To whom full well ’tis known

His mother’s home alone.

YOUTH thinks green apples sweet,

  Age thinks red cherries sour;

Age calls a flower a weed,

  Youth calls a weed a flower.

 

Youth thinks the world is large,

  But Age doth think it small;

Youth walks on stilts, but Age

  Fears, on his feet, to fall.

 

Youth claims eternal life,

  With hours, too long to sum;

Age counts his few hours gone,

  And fewer hours to come.

 

Age sits and feebly chirps,

  But Youth does dance and sing;

Age is Time’s pensioner,

  Youth is Time’s king—his king!

HOW can she safely walk this earth,

And not be robbed of all her worth,

By bulls and bees that may catch sight

Of her lips waving their red light.

Birds could make bedding of her hair,

And her ripe lips could tempt wasps there;

If Summer’s moths should see her eyes,

They’d drop on them, and never rise,

But, filled at once with mad desire,

Would soon put out those lamps of fire,

With their lives sacrificed: no gem

Shines on Night’s ebon breast like them.

Even the hawk a foe might prove,

To see her bosom in a move;

And thinking there she hid young mice,

Or birds, that would not sleep in peace.

For never doth that bosom rest;

If she doth hold her breath, there must

Follow a storm; the only boat

That ever on that sea did float

Is this blessed hand of mine: when I

As helpless as a boat must lie—

When seamaids’ music makes the Breeze

Drop on the sails and sleep. O she’s

An everlasting spring, that flows

When all my other springs do close.

MY heart’s a coffin cold,

  In which my Childhood lies

Unburied yet; and will—

  Until this body dies.

 

I think me every hour

  Of those sweet, far-off days

That draw so very close,

  And show their pretty ways.

 

Where’er I am they come,

  Those ghosts, my Childhood Hours

They run up to my knees,

  Laughing and waving flowers.

 

They run up to my knees,

  They shout and cry Cuckoo!

They mock the bleating lambs,

  And like young calves they moo.

 

Some of their flowers are weeds,

  Are weeds, and nothing more;

But sweeter far they smell

  Than roses at my door.

 

It is a merry crew,

  And I curse Time that he

Has made me what I am—

  A man and mystery.

HER cheeks were white, her eyes were wild,

Her heart was with her sea-gone child.

“Men say you know and love the sea?

It is ten days, my child left me;

Ten days, and still he doth not come,

And I am weary of my home.”

 

I thought of waves that ran the deep

And flashed like rabbits, when they leap,

The white part of their tails; the glee

Of captains that take brides to sea,

And own the ships they steer; how seas

Played leapfrog over ships with ease.

 

The great Sea-Wind, so rough and kind;

Ho, ho! his strength; the great Sea-Wind

Blows iron tons across the sea!

Ho, ho! his strength; how wild and free!

He breaks the waves, to our amaze,

Into ten thousand little sprays!

 

“Nay, have no fear”; I laughed with joy,

“That you have lost a sea-gone boy;

The Sea’s wild horses, they are far

More safe than Land’s tamed horses are;

They kick with padded hoofs, and bite

With teeth that leave no marks in sight.

 

True, Waves will howl when, all day long

The Wind keeps piping loud and strong;

For in ships’ sails the wild Sea-Breeze

Pipes sweeter than your birds in trees;

But have no fear”—I laughed with joy,

“That you have lost a sea-gone boy.”

 

That night I saw ten thousand bones

Coffined in ships, in weeds and stones;

Saw how the Sea’s strong jaws could take

Big iron ships like rats to shake;

Heard him still moan his discontent

For one man or a continent.

 

I saw that woman go from place

To place, hungry for her child’s face;

I heard her crying, crying, crying;

Then, in a flash! saw the Sea trying,

With savage joy, and efforts wild,

To smash his rocks with a dead child.

AH, what is Beauty but vain show—

  If nothing in the heart is sweet;

As oft the spider finds a moth—

  All wings and little meat.

 

Thy look as warm as Autumn’s is,

  As false—both he and thou art cold;

Then, since thou art unkind and vain,

  Let thy true worth be told.

 

Worms form thy flesh, and ’tis that flesh

  Makes thee so beautiful to see;

When dying thou refuse them food,

  They’ll help themselves to thee.

 

Thy laugh was falser than men make

  Ere they in dreadful battle fall;

I found thee false, thy looks deceived

  Like short men that sit tall.

 

Beauty can make thy two lips red—

  But not thy voice sound soft and sweet;

Beauty made thy cheeks smooth, but gave

  Thine eyes no pleasant heat.

 

I see thee move like a vain horse

  Whose neck is archèd to his knee;

His head will soon drop there through age—

  And age will so bend thee.

 

Age with his frost will warn thee soon,

  And pinch and mark thee here and there;

Will dry thy lip, and dim thine eye,

  And pull out thy long hair.

 

The flowers that spread their charms too far

  Must soon be served like common weeds;

With my respect love also died—

  No longer my heart bleeds.

WHO can abide indoors this morn,

Now sunny May is ten days born;

In his house caged, a moping thing,

When all the merry free birds sing?

It is a pleasant time, and all

The sky’s so full of cloudlets small,

That white doth seem Heaven’s natural hue,

And clouds themselves are painted blue.

Now lusty May doth grow and burst

Her bodice green; her hawthorn breast,

Breaking those laces once so tight,

Doth more than peep its lovely white.

Come forth, my Love, for Nature wears

This hour her bridal smile; she hears

Ten thousand bantering birds, as they

Do hop upon her blossomed way.

The Sun doth shine, all things rejoice;

The cows forget the milkmaid’s voice;

Of gardeners flowers have little care,

The sheep care not where shepherds are,

Dewdrops are in the grass, and they

Are twenty times more bright than day;

And if we look them close their rays

Will even make our own eyes daze;

But from that red and fiery Sun

Some timid drops of dew have run

Down the green blades of grass, and found

At once a cool place underground;

The birds sing at their high, sweet pitch,

And bees sing basso deep and rich.

May is Love’s month: her flowers and voice

Call youth and maiden to rejoice,

And fill their hearts with Love’s sweet pains

They meet with laughter in green lanes,

And then they turn to whispering,

Under the leaves where the birds sing.

Fie, fie, my love; you wait too long

To hear that old, black kettle’s song;

He’ll keep thee suffering long for him,

And a true lover for his whim

I’ve seen where you did stand last night,

Near the old stile: that spot is white

With daisies, and I swear, they were

Never in that green place before;

But that those sweet flowers came to sight

Since we two parted there last night,

At sunset, when that western world

Had four green rainbows rimmed with gold.

You indoors when the skylark long

Has sung on high his matin song!

The humble bees, dressed in black cloth,

Like mourners for the dead, come forth

With their false groans—for soon they’ll stop

With red-faced flowers to drink a drop;

Until they are so tight with drink,

They must lie down awhile and think.

So quiet lie the Butterflies,

Some Bees can scarce believe their eyes,

But what they’re Blossoms, lovelier far,

And sweeter than all others are.

But one black Bee did come along,

A big, black bully, fat and strong,

And saw my Lady Butterfly,

Who, dreaming sweet romance, did lie

Lazy on a red flower; and he,

Vexed she’d not toil like Ant or Bee,

Buzzed in her ears, and grumbled so—

She must at last arise and go.

Come, Love, and breathe on these small flowers,

So they may live a few more hours.

Had I been near, you had not ta’en

Sleep’s second draught and drowsed again,

But waked for good at my first kiss—

As Phœbus made these flowers with his.

Young Buds are here, that wait to see

How you do part your lips for me,

Ere they ope theirs the least—who wait

Your coming, Love, which is so late.

We’ll miss, when summer is no more,

The very weed that chokes a flower.

Alas! too soon the time must come

When leaves will fall, and birds be dumb;

And but red Robin’s breast will show

How the late fruits and flowers did glow.

The leafy Elm, that now has made

For twenty kine a pleasant shade,

Will in its scraggy bones stand bare,

With not one leaf seen anywhere.

The Stream will take and bury one

By one, till Willow’s leaves are gone;

The Hedge—see how it dances now!

Will stand to its broad waist in snow.

Yet what care I? If I have thee,

’Twill still be summer time to me;

Though no Sun shines, when you come forth

A light must fall across the earth.