The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 51

And still of all my dreams In turn so swiftly past, Each in its fancy seems A n.o.bler than the last.

And every eve I say, Noting my step in bliss, That I have known no day In all my life like this.

18

Angel spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scattered dream:

Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light?

19

ANNIVERSARY

What is sweeter than new-mown hay, Fresher than winds o'er-sea that blow, Innocent above children's play, Fairer and purer than winter snow, Frolic as are the morns of May?

--If it should be what best I know!

What is richer than thoughts that stray From reading of poems that smoothly flow?

What is solemn like the delay Of concords linked in a music slow Dying thro' vaulted aisles away?

--If it should be what best I know!

What gives faith to me when I pray, Setteth my heart with joy aglow, Filleth my song with fancies gay, Maketh the heaven to which I go, The gladness of earth that lasteth for aye?

--If it should be what best I know!

But tell me thou--'twas on this day That first we loved five years ago-- If 'tis a thing that I can say, Though it must be what best we know.

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The summer trees are tempest-torn, The hills are wrapped in a mantle wide Of folding rain by the mad wind borne Across the country side.

His scourge of fury is lashing down The delicate-ranked golden corn, That never more shall rear its crown And curtsey to the morn.

There shews no care in heaven to save Man's pitiful patience, or provide A season for the season's slave, Whose trust hath toiled and died.

So my proud spirit in me is sad, A wreck of fairer fields to mourn, The ruin of golden hopes she had, My delicate-ranked corn.

21

The birds that sing on autumn eves Among the golden-tinted leaves, Are but the few that true remain Of budding May's rejoicing train.

Like autumn flowers that brave the frost, And make their show when hope is lost, These 'mong the fruits and mellow scent Mourn not the high-sunned summer spent.

Their notes thro' all the jocund spring Were mixed in merry musicking: They sang for love the whole day long, But now their love is all for song.

Now each hath perfected his lay To praise the year that hastes away: They sit on boughs apart, and vie In single songs and rich reply:

And oft as in the copse I hear These anthems of the dying year, The pa.s.sions, once her peace that stole, With flattering love my heart console.

22

When my love was away, Full three days were not sped, I caught my fancy astray Thinking if she were dead,

And I alone, alone: It seemed in my misery In all the world was none Ever so lone as I.

I wept; but it did not shame Nor comfort my heart: away I rode as I might, and came To my love at close of day.

The sight of her stilled my fears, My fairest-hearted love: And yet in her eyes were tears: Which when I questioned of,

O now thou art come, she cried, 'Tis fled: but I thought to-day I never could here abide, If thou wert longer away.

23

The storm is over, the land hushes to rest: The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone, Is fallen back in the west To couch with the sinking sun.

The last clouds fare With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly In melting drifts of the sky.

Already the birds in the air Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt, And one by one, Proclaiming aloud their care, Renew their peaceful chant.

Torn and shattered the trees their branches again reset, They trim afresh the fair Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm, And awhile will be handsome yet.

To-morrow's sun shall caress Their remnant of loveliness: In quiet days for a time Sad Autumn lingering warm Shall humour their faded prime.

But ah! the leaves of summer that lie on the ground!

What havoc! The laughing timbrels of June, That curtained the birds' cradles, and screened their song, That sheltered the cooing doves at noon, Of airy fans the delicate throng,-- Torn and scattered around: Far out afield they lie, In the watery furrows die, In gra.s.sy pools of the flood they sink and drown, Green-golden, orange, vermilion, golden and brown, The high year's flaunting crown Shattered and trampled down.

The day is done: the tired land looks for night: She prays to the night to keep In peace her nerves of delight: While silver mist upstealeth silently, And the broad cloud driving moon in the clear sky Lifts o'er the firs her shining shield, And in her tranquil light Sleep falls on forest and field.

See! sleep hath fallen: the trees are asleep: The night is come. The land is wrapt in sleep.

24

Ye thrilled me once, ye mournful strains, Ye anthems of plaintive woe, My spirit was sad when I was young; Ah sorrowful long-ago!

But since I have found the beauty of joy I have done with proud dismay: For howsoe'er man hug his care The best of his art is gay.

And yet if voices of fancy's choir Again in mine ear awake Your old lament, 'tis dear to me still, Nor all for memory's sake: 'Tis like the dirge of sorrow dead, Whose tears are wiped away; Or drops of the shower when rain is o'er, That jewel the brightened day.

25

Say who is this with silvered hair, So pale and worn and thin, Who pa.s.seth here, and pa.s.seth there, And looketh out and in?

That useth not our garb nor tongue And knoweth things untold: Who teacheth pleasure to the young, And wisdom to the old?

No toil he maketh his by day, No home his own by night; But wheresoe'er he take his way, He killeth our delight.

Since he is come there's nothing wise Nor fair in man or child, Unless his deep divining eyes Have looked on it and smiled.