The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 53

The love, from which began My question sad and vain, Justifies thee to man.

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Since to be loved endures, To love is wise: Earth hath no good but yours, Brave, joyful eyes:

Earth hath no sin but thine, Dull eye of scorn: O'er thee the sun doth pine And angels mourn.

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THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER

Now thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams Of the September sun: his golden gleams On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers; Where tomt.i.ts, hanging from the drooping heads Of giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds; And in the feathery aster bees on wing Seize and set free the honied flowers, Till thousand stars leap with their visiting: While ever across the path mazily flit, Unpiloted in the sun, The dreamy b.u.t.terflies With dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms, White, black and crimson stripes, and peac.o.c.k eyes, Or on chance flowers sit, With idle effort plundering one by one The nectaries of deepest-throated blooms.

With gentle flaws the western breeze Into the garden saileth, Scarce here and there stirring the single trees, For his sharpness he vaileth: So long a comrade of the bearded corn, Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are borne, O'er dewy lawns he turns to stray, As mindful of the kisses and soft play Wherewith he enamoured the light-hearted May, Ere he deserted her; Lover of fragrance, and too late repents; Nor more of heavy hyacinth now may drink, Nor spicy pink, Nor summer's rose, nor garnered lavender, But the few lingering scents Of streaked pea, and gillyflower, and stocks Of courtly purple, and aromatic phlox.

And at all times to hear are drowsy tones Of dizzy flies, and humming drones, With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky, Or the wild cry Of thirsty rooks, that scour ascare The distant blue, to watering as they fare With creaking pinions, or--on business bent, If aught their ancient polity displease,-- Come gathering to their colony, and there Settling in ragged parliament, Some stormy council hold in the high trees.

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So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell--let truth be told-- That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be.

And in the end 'twill come to pa.s.s Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all.

His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.

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LARKS

What voice of gladness, hark!

In heaven is ringing?

From the sad fields the lark Is upward winging.

High through the mournful mist that blots our day Their songs betray them soaring in the grey.

See them! Nay, they In sunlight swim; above the furthest stain Of cloud attain; their hearts in music rain Upon the plain.

Sweet birds, far out of sight Your songs of pleasure Dome us with joy as bright As heaven's best azure.

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THE PALM WILLOW

See, whirling snow sprinkles the starved fields, The birds have stayed to sing; No covert yet their fairy harbour yields.

When cometh Spring?

Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unborn Are quenched each morn.

The lenten lilies, through the frost that push, Their yellow heads withhold: The woodland willow stands a lonely bush Of nebulous gold; There the Spring-G.o.ddess cowers in faint attire Of frightened fire.

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ASIAN BIRDS

In this May-month, by grace of heaven, things shoot apace.

The waiting mult.i.tude of fair boughs in the wood, How few days have arrayed their beauty in green shade.

What have I seen or heard?

it was the yellow bird Sang in the tree: he flew a flame against the blue; Upward he flashed. Again, hark! 'tis his heavenly strain.

Another! Hush! Behold, many, like boats of gold, From waving branch to branch their airy bodies launch.

What music is like this, where each note is a kiss?

The golden willows lift their boughs the sun to sift: Their sprays they droop to screen the sky with veils of green, A floating cage of song, where feathered lovers throng.

How the delicious notes come bubbling from their throats!

Full and sweet how they are shed like round pearls from a thread!

The motions of their flight are wishes of delight.

Hearing their song I trace the secret of their grace.

Ah, could I this fair time so fashion into rhyme, The poem that I sing would be the voice of spring.

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JANUARY

Cold is the winter day, misty and dark: The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent: And patches of thin snow outlying, mark The landscape with a drear disfigurement.

The trees their mournful branches lift aloft: The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust, With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft; The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust.

No birds sing, but the starling chaps his bill And chatters mockingly; the newborn lambs Within their strawbuilt fold beneath the hill Answer with plaintive cry their bleating dams.

Their voices melt in welcome dreams of spring, Green gra.s.s and leafy trees and sunny skies: My fancy decks the woods, the thrushes sing, Meadows are gay, bees hum and scents arise.

And G.o.d the Maker doth my heart grow bold To praise for wintry works not understood, Who all the worlds and ages doth behold, Evil and good as one, and all as good.

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A ROBIN

Flame-throated robin on the topmost bough Of the leafless oak, what singest thou?