Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses Part 9

I drew the letter out, while gleamed The sloping sun from under a roof Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.

The burning ball flung rays that seemed Stretched like a warp without a woof Across the levels of the lea

To where I stood, and where they beamed As brightly on the page of proof That she had shown her false to me

As if it had shown her true--had teemed With pa.s.sionate thought for my behoof Expressed with their own ardency!

THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE

The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, And centres its gaze on me; The stars, like eyes in reverie, Their westering as for a while forborne, Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in, The green logs steam and spit; The half-awakened sparrows flit From the riddled thatch; and owls begin To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know Sweet scenes are impending here; That all is prepared; that the hour is near For welcomes, fellowships, and flow Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung; That soon will arise the sound Of measures trod to tunes renowned; That She will return in Love's low tongue My vows as we wheel around.

MISCONCEPTION

I busied myself to find a sure Snug hermitage That should preserve my Love secure From the world's rage; Where no unseemly saturnals, Or strident traffic-roars, Or hum of intervolved cabals Should echo at her doors.

I laboured that the diurnal spin Of vanities Should not contrive to suck her in By dark degrees, And cunningly operate to blur Sweet teachings I had begun; And then I went full-heart to her To expound the glad deeds done.

She looked at me, and said thereto With a pitying smile, "And THIS is what has busied you So long a while?

O poor exhausted one, I see You have worn you old and thin For naught! Those moils you fear for me I find most pleasure in!"

THE VOICE OF THE THORN

I

When the thorn on the down Quivers naked and cold, And the mid-aged and old Pace the path there to town, In these words dry and drear It seems to them sighing: "O winter is trying To sojourners here!"

II

When it stands fully tressed On a hot summer day, And the ewes there astray Find its shade a sweet rest, By the breath of the breeze It inquires of each farer: "Who would not be sharer Of shadow with these?"

III

But by day or by night, And in winter or summer, Should I be the comer Along that lone height, In its voicing to me Only one speech is spoken: "Here once was nigh broken A heart, and by thee."

FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY

I thought and thought of thy cra.s.s clanging town To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, I held my heart in bond, and tethered down Fancy to where I was, by force of will.

I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, One little bud is far more sweet to me Than all man's urban shows; and then I stood Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;

And strove to feel my nature brought it forth Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; But it was vain; for I could not see worth Enough around to charm a midge or fly,

And mused again on city din and sin, Longing to madness I might move therein!

16 W. P. V., 1866.

HER CONFESSION

As some bland soul, to whom a debtor says "I'll now repay the amount I owe to you,"

In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness That such a payment ever was his due

(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh, By such suspension to enhance my bliss.

And as his looks in consternation fall When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed, The debtor makes as not to pay at all, So faltered I, when your intention seemed

Converted by my false uneagerness To putting off for ever the caress.

W. P. V., 1865-67.

TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND

Did he who drew her in the years ago - Till now conceived creator of her grace - With telescopic sight high natures know, Discern remote in Time's untravelled s.p.a.ce

Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we, And with a copyist's hand but set them down, Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy When his Original should be forthshown?

For, kindled by that animated eye, Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim, And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly The wild conviction welling up in him