hy is it grown so suddenly cold at night?

The handles of the chest-of-drawers are bright

And round, and hard, and like an usurer’s eyes—

Perhaps it is the moon’s cold from the skies?

—I wish I had not wakened thus alone—

I think she pours a coldness of her own

On every loved leaf of the garden trees,

So that they never can recover. These

And ruined starry daisies all will say:

“Mother of the garden, now we go away,

Now we have known the cold of the moon that kills:

And though tomorrow all the garden fills

With golden light until the chill sun’s set,

Though for an hour the midges minuet,

Though for an hour we glisten in the sun,

Our day, our day is done.”

     · · · · ·

I’ll sleep again in this warm cave of bed;

Tomorrow all the flowers will be dead.

            he air is still gray,

              The buds are still cold;

            The sun sets early

              In a pool of dazzly gold.

But my Mamma got up to day and fastened on her gown,

And on the sheltered terraces went walking up and down.

 

            Violets blue, violets white,

              We found one of each;

            She touched with her fingers

              The buds on the peach.

A cold-stalked snow-drop I put into her hand,

And we were both more glad than we could say, or understand.

battered, burly woman selling lace

Tramps with a new-born baby on her breast.

Its little, helpless, angry, care-stained face

Peeps from her grimed plaid shawl, as from a nest.

he thistles on the sandy flats

Are courtiers with crimson hats;

The ragworts growing tall and straight

Are emperors who stand in state,

And march about most proud and bold

In crowns of fairy-story gold.

The people passing home at night

Rejoice to see the shining sight;

They quite forget the sands and sea

Which are as grey as grey can be,

Nor ever heed the gulls who cry

Like peevish children in the sky.

hen I was twenty inches long,

I could not hear the thrushes’ song;

The radiance of morning skies

Was most displeasing to my eyes.

 

For loving looks, caressing words,

I cared no more than sun or birds;

But I could bite my mother’s breast,

And that made up for all the rest.

y room’s a square and candle-lighted boat,

In the surrounding depths of night afloat.

My windows are the portholes, and the seas

The sound of rain on the dark apple-trees.

 

Seamonster-like beneath, an old horse blows

A snort of darkness from his sleeping nose,

Below, among drowned daisies. Far off, hark!

Far off one owl amidst the waves of dark.

old-headed rose, where bees do sup,

And vetch, and varnished buttercup,

And hollow-stalked hemlock—all are up.

 

Blue speedwell lovely as the dew,

And old brown-headed plantains too—

Before I knew myself these friends I knew.

 

O child to be, though my life ends

And change or chance your spirit rends,

With the same faces, these will be your friends.

ut of the complicated house, come I

To walk beneath the sky.

Here mud and stones and turf, here everything

Is mutely comforting.

Now hung upon the twigs and thorns appear

A host of lovely rain-drops cold and clear.

And on the bank

Or deep in brambly hedges dank

The small birds nip about, and say:

“Brothers, the Spring is not so far away!”

The hills like mother-giantesses old

Lie in the cold.

And with a complete patience, let

The cows come cropping on their bosoms wet,

And even tolerate that such as I

Should wander by

With paltry leathern heel which cannot harm

Their bodies calm;

And, with a heart they cannot know, to bless

The enormous power of their peacefulness.

s I looked out one May morning

  I saw the tree-tops green;

I said: “My crown I will lay down

  And live no more a queen.”

 

Then I tripped down my golden steps

  Dressed in my silken gown,

And when I stood in the open wood

  I met some gypsies brown.

 

“O gentle, gentle gypsies

  That roam the wide world through,

Because I hate my crown and state,

  O let me come with you!

 

“My councillors are old and gray

  And sit in narrow chairs,

But you can hear the birds sing clear

  And your hearts are as light as theirs.”

 

“If you would come along with us

  Then you must count the cost,

For though in Spring the sweet birds sing,

  In Winter comes the frost.

 

“Your ladies serve you all the day

  With courtesy and care,

Your fine-shod feet they tread so neat

  But a gypsy’s feet go bare.

 

“You wash in water running warm

  Through basins all of gold;

The streams where we roam have silvery foam,

  But the streams, the streams are cold.

 

“And barley bread is bitter to taste,

  Whilst sugary cakes they please.

Which will you choose, O which will you choose,

  Which will you choose of these?

 

“For if you choose the mountain streams

  And barley bread to eat,

Your heart will be free as the birds in the tree

  But the stones will cut your feet.

 

“The mud will spoil your silken gown

  And stain your insteps high,

The dogs in the farm will wish you harm

  And bark as you go by.

 

“And though your heart grow deep and gay

  And your heart grow wise and rich,

The cold will make your bones to ache

  And you will die in a ditch.”

 

“O gentle, gentle gypsies

  That roam the wide world through,

Although I praise your wandering ways

  I dare not come with you.”

 

I hung about their fingers brown

  My ruby rings and chain,

And with my head as heavy as lead

  I turned me back again.

 

As I went up the palace steps

  I heard the gypsies laugh;

The birds of Spring so sweet did sing,

  My heart it broke in half.

our youth is like a water-wetted stone,

A pebble by the living sea made rare,

Bright with a beauty that is not its own.

 

Behold it flushed like flowers newly-blown,

Miraculously fresh beyond compare—

Your youth is like a water-wetted stone.

 

For when the triumphing tide recedes, alone

The stone will stay, and shine no longer there

Bright with a beauty that is not its own.

 

But lie and dry as joyless as a bone,

Because the sorceress sea has gone elsewhere.

Your youth is like a water-wetted stone.

 

Then all your lovers will be children, shown

Their treasure only transitory-fair,

Bright with a beauty that is not its own.

 

Remember this before your hour is flown;

O you, who are so glorious, beware!

Your youth is like a water-wetted stone,

Bright with a beauty that is not its own.

am an old woman, comfortable, calm and wise

  Often I see the spirits of the dead with my own eyes.

    They come into my house. I am no more afraid

  Than of the coal-scuttle or my breakfast newly laid.

    One night over the fields the wind blew wild,

  And I thought I heard in it the ravaging voice of a child.

    Coldly and wild it swept over the cold lands,

  Like the voice of a child who suddenly misses those only hands

    That understood to make him safe, usual, and warm.

  And it cried and cried, and I knew it was not the voice of the storm.

    I tried to fall asleep; but how could I sleep,

  And hear that little desperate thing continually weep?

    Then to the grown spirits imploringly I said:

  “Friends, give to me that new spirit who is lately dead,

    Who cannot enter your strange world of light

  Because he misses the hands of his mother this first night,

    And she, poor soul, lies weeping tear on tear

  And cannot pierce the night with love. But I hear.

    Give me her wandering child!” Then, as I lay in bed,

  Against my breast I felt a small and blunt-nosed head,

    And a sob-quivering body slowly growing calm

  And toes like round cold buds that warmed inside my palm.

    Then in the warmth and hush, and in the darkness deep,

  That little comforted spirit sighed and fell asleep,

    And I slept too, most satisfied, until

  I woke and found the morrow’s light, everywhere cold and still.

    But out of my white bed where morning shone

  Away from my enclosing arms the little spirit was gone.

    Ungrievingly I knew, he was no more afraid,

  But, in the new world’s light, with new toys played.

an it be possible, when we grow old

And Time destroys us, that the image of you,

Who brought to all, serenely, like a gift,

The eternal beauty of youth—as though you had lain,

A moment since, in English grass by the river,

Thinking and dreaming under the fresh sky

When may was in the hedges—can it be

This unique image of you, yourself, your smile,

(Which kept a secret sweetness, like a child’s,

Though you might be most sad), your frowning eyes,

Must, when we die, in the vast air of Time

Be swallowed? Nothing, not a ghost, remain

To the revolving, hard, enamelled world

(For ever full of fears and births and deaths

And busyness) of all you were?

                                   Perhaps

A thousand years ago some Greek boy died,

So lovely-bodied, so adored, so young.

Like us they wept, and treasured little things,

And laughed with tears, remembering his laughter,

And there was friendship in the very sound

Of his forgotten name to them. But now,

Now we know nothing; nothing is richer now

Because of all he was.

                        O you we have loved,

Can it be so with you? and, if it can,

How futile, how absurd the life of man!

here never will be peace till Hope is dead,”

A torn Heart said.

“Die, Hope, and plead no more. I cannot bear,

Each time you fall defeated, this despair.”

 

But Hope replied: “Without me none can live.

I must creep back to you, torn Heart, forgive!

I must creep back, and sleep, and then recover

And you, O Heart, torn Heart, shall be my lover.”

ie down O woman, let the September sun

Pour with huge bounty on your bleachéd skin,

The little, last, remaining spiders run

From the dry leaves about your fingers thin.

 

Heed not, O Sun, her cares or her desires;

Renew her body, let her spirit pass

Into the spirit of the autumn fires,

Far noises, mountains, and the stalks of grass.

y brain is like the ravaged shores—the sand

Torn cruelly by footsteps from the land.

O hushing waves; O profound sea of sleep,

Send your curved ripples surely-lapping. Creep,

Pour on the scarrèd surface of my brain;

With your vast pity, wash it smooth again.

rave English language, you are strong as trees,

Yet intricate and stately—Thus one sees

Through branches clear-embroidered stars.

                                    You please

Our sense as damask roses on the breeze,

And barns that smell of hay, and bread and cheese.

Rustic yet Roman—yours are dignities

Sonorous as the sea’s sound. On my knees

I would give thanks for all your words. Yet these

—Our legacy and our delight—he’d squeeze

And nip and dock and drill, to write with ease

Comershul memoz faw the Pawchoogeese.

dreamt Death called my friend. And I

Went too—for both of us must die.

 

But neither of us dared alone

To face him sitting on his throne;

 

And so we called, both I and he,

On our Good Deeds for company.

 

I took a trumpet and a drum,

And proudly summoned mine to come.

 

I thought they could not hear at first;

I beat my drum until it burst,

 

I blew my trumpet—till at last

From that walled city of the past,

 

(Where in the inmost citadel

In luxury I let them dwell)

 

A little postern was undone

And out they struggled, one by one.

 

In thin procession on they came

They all seemed weak and mostly lame,

 

Their faces, smug and strained and small,

They turned to me. I knew them all.

 

Then spoke my comrade, haltingly:

“If you exist—then come to me.”

 

And suddenly, as swift as flame,

A host of dancing children came,

 

And like the waves, without an end

They danced and leapt about my friend.

 

He stared. He said: “For Heaven’s sake,

Who are you? Here is some mistake.”

 

But like the sea upon the shores

They thundered: “Father, we are yours!”

 

And even then a trumpet spoke:

“Come both before your Judge!”

                          —I woke.