Part 29
Blue shade of golden branches Spread for her journeying, Till he that lingered lost her Among the leaves of Spring.
Laurence Binyon [1869 -
WEARYIN' FER YOU
Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue; Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Keep a-mopin' day by day: Dull - in everybody's way; Folks they smile an' pass along Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Room's so lonesome, with your chair Empty by the fireplace there, Jest can't stand the sight o' it! Go outdoors an' roam a bit: But the woods is lonesome, too, Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Comes the wind with sounds that' jes' Like the rustlin' o' your dress; An' the dew on flower an' tree Tinkles like your steps to me! Violets, like your eyes so blue - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Mornin' comes, the birds awake (Them that sung so fer your sake!), But there's sadness in the notes That come thrillin' from their throats! Seem to feel your absence, too - Jest a-wearyin' fer you.
Evenin' comes: I miss you more When the dark is in the door; 'Pears jest like you orter be There to open fer me! Latch goes tinklin' - thrills me through, Sets me wearyin' fer you!
. . . . . . . . .
Jest a-wearyin' fer you - All the time a-feelin' blue! Wishin' fer you - wonderin' when You'll be comin' home again; Restless - don't know what to do - Jest a-wearyin' fer you!
Frank L. Stanton [1857-1927]
THE LOVERS OF MARCHAID
Dominic came riding down, sworded, straight and splendid, Drave his hilt against her door, flung a golden chain. Said: "I'll teach your lips a song sweet as his that's ended, Ere the white rose call the bee, the almond flower again."
But he only saw her head bent within the gloom Over heaps of bridal thread bright as apple-bloom, Silver silk like rain that spread across the driving loom.
Dreaming Fanch, the cobbler's son, took his tools and laces, Wrought her shoes of scarlet dye, shoes as pale as snow; "They shall lead her wildrose feet all the fairy paces Danced along the road of love, the road such feet should go" -
But he only saw her eyes turning from his gift Out towards the silver skies where the white clouds drift, Where the wild gerfalcon flies, where the last sails lift.
Bran has built his homestead high where the hills may shield her, Where the young bird waits the spring, where the dawns are fair, Said: "I'll name my trees for her, since I may not yield her Stars of morning for her feet, of evening for her hair."
But he did not see them ride, seven dim sail and more, All along the harbor-side, white from shore to shore, Nor heard the voices of the tide crying at her door.
Jean-Marie has touched his pipe down beside the river When the young fox bends the fern, when the folds are still, Said: "I send her all the gifts that my love may give her, - Golden notes like golden birds to seek her at my will."
But he only found the waves, heard the sea-gull's cry, In and out the ocean caves, underneath the sky, All above the wind-washed graves where dead seamen lie.
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]
SONG
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.
Richard Le Gallienne [1866-
THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH
Now many are the stately ships that northward steam away, And gray sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are they; And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these!
The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, The driven sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea, More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from me!
O Love, long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck Of some ship speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, I would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear!
O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat Until my waves flowed over all, and kissed your wandering feet; And if I were the winds, I'd waft you perfumes from the South, And give my pleadings to your ears, my kisses to your mouth.
Though many ships are sailing, never one will carry me, I may not hurry northward with the gulls, the winds, the sea; But fervid thoughts they say can flash across long leagues of blue - Ah, so my love and longing must be known, Dear Heart, to you!
Shaemas O Sheel [1886-
CHANSON DE ROSEMONDE
The dawn is lonely for the sun, And chill and drear; The one lone star is pale and wan As one in fear.
But when day strides across the hills, The warm blood rushes through The bared soft bosom of the blue And all the glad east thrills.
Oh, come, my king! The hounds of joy Are waiting for thy horn To chase the doe of heart's desire Across the heights of morn.
Oh, come, my Sun, and let me know The rapture of the day! Oh, come, my love! Oh, come, my love! Thou art so long away!
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
AD DOMNULAM SUAM
Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger.
I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale to grieve thee.
Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer I may love thee: we will part Ere my love grow stronger.
Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!
Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer Be a child; then we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
MARIAN DRURY
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sea! Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets free, -
Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Search and course with the roving tide, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the surge! April over the Norland now Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.
Burying, brimming, the building billows Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam. Drenched with gold weather, the idling willows Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sun! Blomidon waits for your coming home, All day long where the white wings run.
All spring through they falter and follow, Wander, and beckon the roving tide, Wheel and float with the veering swallow, Lift you a voice from the blue hillside.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the rain! April over the Norland now Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain, -
Halts before the forsaken dwelling, Where in the twilight, too spent to roam, Love, whom the fingers of death are quelling, Cries you a cheer from the Norland home.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes filled with you! Grand Pre dreams of your coming home, - Dreams while the rainbirds all night through,
Far in the uplands calling to win you, Tease the brown dusk on the marshes wide; And never the burning heart within you Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
LOVE'S ROSARY
All day I tell my rosary For now my love's away: To-morrow he shall come to me About the break of day; A rosary of twenty hours, And then a rose of May; A rosary of fettered flowers, And then a holy-day.
All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours: And here's a flower of memory, And here's a hope of flowers, And here's an hour that yearns with pain For old forgotten years, An hour of loss, an hour of gain, And then a shower of tears.
All day I tell my rosary, Because my love's away; And never a whisper comes to me, And never a word to say; But, if it's parting more endears, God bring him back, I pray; Or my heart will break in the darkness Before the break of day.
All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours, Until an hour shall bring to me The hope of all the flowers . . . I tell my rosary of hours, For O, my love's away; And - a dream may bring him back to me About the break of day.
Alfred Noyes [1880-
WHEN SHE COMES HOME
When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble - yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight - soul-sight, even - for a space; And tears - yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE
SONG
My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold? His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!
William Blake [1757-1827]
THE FLIGHT OF LOVE
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute - No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word - Farewell! - Farewell!
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry: But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain - I only feel - Farewell! - Farewell!
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
PORPHYRIA'S LOVER
The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me - she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would he heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
MODERN BEAUTY
I am the torch, she saith, and what to me If the moth die of me? I am the flame Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame. But live with that clear light of perfect fire Which is to men the death of their desire.
I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead. The world has been my mirror, time has been My breath upon the glass; and men have said, Age after age, in rapture and despair, Love's poor few words, before my image there.
I live, and am immortal; in my eyes The sorrow of the world, and on my lips The joy of life, mingle to make me wise; Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse: Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?
Arthur Symons [1865-
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful - a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."
She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.
I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried - "La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
John Keats [1795-1821]
TANTALUS - TEXAS
"If I may trust your love," she cried, "And you would have me for a bride, Ride over yonder plain, and bring Your flask full from the Mustang spring; Fly, fast as western eagle's wing, O'er the Llano Estacado!"
He heard, and bowed without a word, His gallant steed he lightly spurred! He turned his face, and rode away Toward the grave of dying day, And vanished with its parting ray On the Llano Estacado.
Night came, and found him riding on, Day came, and still he rode alone. He spared not spur, he drew not rein, Across that broad, unchanging plain, Till he the Mustang spring might gain, On the Llano Estacado.
A little rest, a little draught, Hot from his hand, and quickly quaffed, His flask was filled, and then he turned. Once more his steed the maguey spurned, Once more the sky above him burned, On the Llano Estacado.
How hot the quivering landscape glowed! His brain seemed boiling as he rode - Was it a dream, a drunken one, Or was he really riding on? Was that a skull that gleamed and shone On the Llano Estacado?
"Brave steed of mine, brave steed!" he cried, "So often true, so often tried, Bear up a little longer yet!" His mouth was black with blood and sweat - Heaven! how he longed his lips to wet On the Llano Estacado.
And still, within his breast, he held The precious flask so lately filled. Oh, for a drink! But well he knew If empty it should meet her view, Her scorn - but still his longing grew On the Llano Estacado.
His horse went down. He wandered on, Giddy, blind, beaten, and alone. While upon cushioned couch you lie, Oh, think how hard it is to die, Beneath the cruel, cloudless sky On the Llano Estacado.
At last he staggered, stumbled, fell, His day was done, he knew full well, And raising to his lips the flask, The end, the object of his task, Drank to her - more she could not ask. Ah, the Llano Estacado!
That night in the Presidio, Beneath the torchlight's wavy glow, She danced - and never thought of him, The victim of a woman's whim, Lying, with face upturned and grim, On the Llano Estacado.
Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]
ENCHAINMENT
I went to her who loveth me no more, And prayed her bear with me, if so she might; For I had found day after day too sore, And tears that would not cease night after night. And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To let me be with her a little; yea, To soothe myself a little with her sight, Who loved me once, ah many a night and day.
Then she who loveth me no more, maybe She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain To bind myself to her, and her to me; Yea, so that I might call her mine again. Lo! she forbade me not; but I and she Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain. And put gold fetters on her golden hair.
Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again; beyond release, Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, All mine, for me to do with what I please! For, after all, I find no chain whereby To chain her heart to love me as before, Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease From saying still she loveth me no more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
AULD ROBIN GRAY
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick, - and my Jamie at the sea - And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"
My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack - Why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!
My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, - for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame to marry thee."
O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
Anne Barnard [1750-1825]
LOST LIGHT