Chapter 2

XXIV

Good things I keep to console me For lack of the best of all, A child to command and control me, Bid come and remain at his call.

Sun, wind, and woodland and highland, Give all that ever they gave: But my world is a cultureless island, My spirit a masterless slave.

And friends are about me, and better At summons of no man stand: But I pine for the touch of a fetter, The curb of a strong king's hand.

Each hour of the day in her season Is mine to be served as I will: And for no more exquisite reason Are all served idly and ill.

By slavery my sense is corrupted, My soul not fit to be free: I would fain be controlled, interrupted, Compelled as a thrall may be.

For fault of spur and of bridle I tire of my stall to death: My sail flaps joyless and idle For want of a small child's breath.

XXV

Whiter and whiter The dark lines grow, And broader opens and brighter The sense of the text below.

Nightfall and morrow Bring nigher the boy Whom wanting we want not sorrow, Whom having we want no joy.

Clearer and clearer The sweet sense grows Of the word which hath summer for hearer, The word on the lips of the rose.

Duskily dwindles Each deathlike day, Till June rearising rekindles The depth of the darkness of May.

XXVI

"In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere."

Stars in heaven are many, Suns in heaven but one: Nor for man may any Star supplant the sun.

Many a child as joyous As our far-off king Meets as though to annoy us In the paths of spring.

Sure as spring gives warning, All things dance in tune: Sun on Easter morning, Cloud and windy moon,

Stars between the tossing Boughs of tuneful trees, Sails of ships recrossing Leagues of dancing seas;

Best, in all this playtime, Best of all in tune, Girls more glad than Maytime, Boys more bright than June;

Mixed with all those dances, Far through field and street Sing their silent glances, Ring their radiant feet.

Flowers wherewith May crowned us Fall ere June be crowned: Children blossom round us All the whole year round.

Is the garland worthless For one rose the less, And the feast made mirthless? Love, at least, says yes.

Strange it were, with many Stars enkindling air, Should but one find any Welcome: strange it were,

Had one star alone won Praise for light from far: Nay, love needs his own one Bright particular star.

Hope and recollection Only lead him right In its bright reflection And collateral light.

Find as yet we may not Comfort in its sphere: Yet these days will weigh not When it warms us here;

When full-orbed it rises, Now divined afar: None in all the skies is Half so good a star;

None that seers importune Till a sign be won: Star of our good fortune, Rise and reign, our sun!

XXVII

I pass by the small room now forlorn Where once each night as I passed I knew A child's bright sleep from even to morn Made sweet the whole night through.

As a soundless shell, as a songless nest, Seems now the room that was radiant then And fragrant with his happier rest Than that of slumbering men.

The day therein is less than the day, The night is indeed night now therein: Heavier the dark seems there to weigh, And slower the dawns begin.

As a nest fulfilled with birds, as a shell Fulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn, Again shall be this bare blank cell, Made sweet again with him.

XXVIII

Spring darkens before us, A flame going down, With chant from the chorus Of days without crown-- Cloud, rain, and sonorous Soft wind on the down.

She is wearier not of us Than we of the dream That spring was to love us And joy was to gleam Through the shadows above us That shift as they stream.

Half dark and half hoary, Float far on the loud Mild wind, as a glory Half pale and half proud From the twilight of story, Her tresses of cloud;

Like phantoms that glimmer Of glories of old With ever yet dimmer Pale circlets of gold As darkness grows grimmer And memory more cold.

Like hope growing clearer With wane of the moon, Shines toward us the nearer Gold frontlet of June, And a face with it dearer Than midsummer noon.

XXIX

You send me your love in a letter, I send you my love in a song: Ah child, your gift is the better, Mine does you but wrong.

No fame, were the best less brittle, No praise, were it wide as earth, Is worth so much as a little Child's love may be worth.

We see the children above us As they might angels above: Come back to us, child, if you love us, And bring us your love.

XXX

No time for books or for letters: What time should there be? No room for tasks and their fetters: Full room to be free.

The wind and the sun and the Maytime Had never a guest More worthy the most that his playtime Could give of its best.

If rain should come on, peradventure, (But sunshine forbid!) Vain hope in us haply might venture To dream as it did.

But never may come, of all comers Least welcome, the rain, To mix with his servant the summer's Rose-garlanded train!

He would write, but his hours are as busy As bees in the sun, And the jubilant whirl of their dizzy Dance never is done.

The message is more than a letter, Let love understand, And the thought of his joys even better Than sight of his hand.

XXXI

Wind, high-souled, full-hearted South-west wind of the spring! Ere April and earth had parted, Skies, bright with thy forward wing, Grew dark in an hour with the shadow behind it, that bade not a bird dare sing.

Wind whose feet are sunny, Wind whose wings are cloud, With lips more sweet than honey Still, speak they low or loud, Rejoice now again in the strength of thine heart: let the depth of thy soul wax proud.

We hear thee singing or sighing, Just not given to sight, All but visibly flying Between the clouds and the light, And the light in our hearts is enkindled, the shadow therein of the clouds put to flight.

From the gift of thine hands we gather The core of the flowers therein, Keen glad heart of heather, Hot sweet heart of whin, Twin breaths in thy godlike breath close blended of wild spring's wildest of kin.

All but visibly beating We feel thy wings in the far Clear waste, and the plumes of them fleeting, Soft as swan's plumes are, And strong as a wild swan's pinions, and swift as the flash of the flight of a star.

As the flight of a planet enkindled Seems thy far soft flight Now May's reign has dwindled And the crescent of June takes light And the presence of summer is here, and the hope of a welcomer presence in sight.

Wind, sweet-souled, great-hearted Southwest wind on the wold! From us is a glory departed That now shall return as of old, Borne back on thy wings as an eagle's expanding, and crowned with the sundawn's gold.

There is not a flower but rejoices, There is not a leaf but has heard: All the fields find voices, All the woods are stirred: There is not a nest but is brighter because of the coming of one bright bird.

Out of dawn and morning, Noon and afternoon, The sun to the world gives warning Of news that brightens the moon; And the stars all night exult with us, hearing of joy that shall come with June.

{Transcriber's note:

The line in number VII

To far outshines the sun,

appears thus in the original. It may be a misprint.}

End of Project Gutenberg's A Dark Month, by Algernon Charles Swinburne