134. BEAUTY
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing gra.s.s and the soft warm April rain.
I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships; But the loveliest things of beauty G.o.d ever has showed to me, Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.
_John Masefield._
135. MY WIFE
Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel-true and blade-straight, The great artificer Made my mate.
Honour, anger, valour, fire; A love that life could never tire, Death quench or evil stir, The mighty master Gave to her.
{158}
Teacher, tender, comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free The august father Gave to me.
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
138. FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY"
Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river"s light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.
Deals she an unkindness, "tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West,
{159}
Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.
Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she.
Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.
Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens, Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-sh.e.l.ls.
Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.
Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.
Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest?
Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.
_George Meredith._
{160}
137. TO THE BELOVED
Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices, Mingling alike with pensive lays, And with the music that rejoices, Than thou art present in my days.
My silence, life returns to thee In all the pauses of her breath, Hush back to rest the melody That out of thee awakeneth; And thou, wake ever, wake for me!
Thou art like silence all unvexed, Though wild words part my soul from thee.
Thou art like silence unperplexed, A secret and a mystery Between one footfall and the next.
Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
Thou art inwoven with every air.
With thee the wildest tempests play, And s.n.a.t.c.hes of thee everywhere Make little heavens throughout a day.
Darkness and solitude shine, for me.
For life"s fair outward part are rife The silver noises; let them be.
It is the very soul of life Listens for thee, listens for thee.
{161}
O pause between the sobs of cares; O thought within all thought that is; Trance between laughters unawares: Thou art the shape of melodies, And thou the ecstasy of prayers!
_Alice Meynell._
138. WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
_W. B. Yeats_