128. WHEN JUNE IS COME
When June is come, then all the day I"ll sit with my love in the scented hay And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.
She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home.
Oh, life is delight when June is come.
_Robert Bridges._
129. IN MISTY BLUE
In misty blue the lark is heard Above the silent homes of men; The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd Or silver oak boughs, carolling With happy throat from tree to tree, Sing into light this morn of spring That sang my dear love home to me.
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Be starry, buds of cl.u.s.tered white, Around the dark waves of her hair!
The young fresh glory you prepare Is like my ever-fresh delight When she comes shining on my sight With meeting eyes, with such a cheek As colours fair like flushing tips Of shoots, and music ere she speak Lies in the wonder of her lips.
Airs of the morning, breathe about Keen faint scents of the wild wood side From thickets where primroses hide Mid the brown leaves of winter"s rout.
Chestnut and willow, beacon out For joy of her, from far and nigh, Your English green on English hills: Above her head, song-quivering sky, And at her feet, the daffodils.
Because she breathed, the world was more, And breath a finer soul to use, And life held lovelier hopes to choose; But O, to-day my heart brims o"er, Earth glows as from a kindled core, Like shadows of diviner things Are hill and cloud and flower and tree-- A splendour that is hers and spring"s,--- The day my love came home to me.
_Laurence Binyon._
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130. IN FOUNTAIN COURT
The fountain murmuring of sleep, A drowsy tune; The flickering green of leaves that keep The light of June; Peace, through a slumbering afternoon, The peace of June.
A waiting ghost, in the blue sky, The white curved moon; June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I Wait, too, with June; Come, through the lingering afternoon, Soon, love, come soon.
_Arthur Symons._
131. THE PRAISE OF DUST
"What of vile dust?" the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke, The dead stone lived beneath my foot, And my whole body spoke.
"You that play tyrant to the dust, And stamp its wrinkled face, This patient star that flings you not Far into homeless s.p.a.ce,
"Come down out of your dusty shrine The living dust to see, The flowers that at your sermon"s end Stand blazing silently,
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"Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones, Lichens like fire encrust; A gleam of blue, a glare of gold, The vision of the dust.
"Pa.s.s them all by; till, as you come Where, at a city"s edge, Under a tree--I know it well--.
Under a lattice ledge,
"The sunshine falls on one brown head.
You, too, O cold of clay, Eater of stones, may haply hear The trumpets of that day
"When G.o.d to all his paladins By his own splendour swore To make a fairer face than heaven, Of dust and nothing more."
_G. K. Chesterton._
132. AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED
Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen l.u.s.tres slake The o"ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!
She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee; Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,
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Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
And if thou tarry from her,--if this could be,-- She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!
Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come more adored, O adored, for his coming"s sake, And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!"
_Robert Bridges._
133. AEDH WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN
Had I the heavens" embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
_W. B. Yeats._
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