Chapter 4

No vision fair entrances My weary open eye, No marvellous romances Make night go swiftly by; But only feverish fancies Beset me where I lie.

The black midnight is steeping The hillside and the lawn, But still I lie unsleeping, With curtains backward drawn, To catch the earliest peeping Of the desired dawn.

Perhaps, when day is breaking; When birds their song begin, And, worn with all night waking, I call their music din, Sweet sleep, some pity taking, At last may enter in.

LOVE'S PHANTOM

Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may bear.

At night when I would go to sleep, Thinking of you, awake I keep, And still repeat the words you said, Like sick men murmuring prayers in bed.

And when, with weariness oppressed, I sink in spite of you to rest, Your image, like a lovely sprite, Haunts me in dreams through half the night.

I wake upon the autumn morn To find the sunrise hardly born, And in the sky a soft pale blue, And in my heart your image true.

When out I walk to take the air, Your image is for ever there, Among the woods that lose their leaves, Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.

By what enchantment shall be laid This ghost, which does not make afraid, But vexes with dim loveliness And many a shadowy caress?

There is no other way I know But unto you forthwith to go, That I may look upon the maid Whereof that other is the shade.

As the strong sun puts out the moon, Whose borrowed rays are all his own, So, in your living presence, dies The phantom kindled at your eyes.

By this most blessed spell, each day The vexing ghost awhile I lay. Yet am I glad to know that when I leave you it will rise again.

COME BACK TO ST. ANDREWS

Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.

Oh, it's dreary along South Street when the rain is coming down, And the east wind makes the student draw more close his warm red gown, As I often saw you do, when I watched you going by On the stormy days to College, from my window up on high.

I wander on the Lade Braes, where I used to walk with you, And purple are the woods of Mount Melville, budding new, But I cannot bear to look, for the tears keep coming so, And the Spring has lost the freshness which it had a year ago.

Yet often I could fancy, where the pathway takes a turn, I shall see you in a moment, coming round beside the burn, Coming round beside the burn, with your swinging step and free, And your face lit up with pleasure at the sudden sight of me.

Beyond the Rock and Spindle, where we watched the water clear In the happy April sunshine, with a happy sound to hear, There I sat this afternoon, but no hand was holding mine, And the water sounded eerie, though the April sun did shine.

Oh, why should I complain of what I know was bound to be? For you had your way to make, and you must not think of me. But a woman's heart is weak, and a woman's joys are few-- There are times when I could die for a moment's sight of you.

It may be you will come again, before my hair is grey As the sea is in the twilight of a weary winter's day. When success is grown a burden, and your heart would fain be free, Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.

THE SOLITARY

I have been lonely all my days on earth, Living a life within my secret soul, With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth, Beyond the world's control.

Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought To walk the paths where other mortals tread, To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought, And eat the selfsame bread--

Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove To mould my life upon the common plan, That I was furthest from all truth and love, And least a living man.

Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy, Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense; No man could love me, for all men could see The hollow vain pretence.

Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air, Upon their easy road I tripped and fell, And still I sickened of the wholesome fare On which they nourished well.

I was a stranger in that company, A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed, And when they lifted up their songs of glee, My voice sad discord made.

Peace for mine own self I could never find, And still my presence marred the general peace, And when I parted, leaving them behind, They felt, and I, release.

So will I follow now my spirit's bent, Not scorning those who walk the beaten track, Yet not despising mine own banishment, Nor often looking back.

Their way is best for them, but mine for me. And there is comfort for my lonely heart, To think perhaps our journeys' ends may be Not very far apart.

TO ALFRED TENNYSON--1883

Familiar with thy melody, We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hour, Contemn the skylark's minstrelsy--

As shepherds on a Highland lea Think lightly of the heather flower Which makes the moorland's purple dower, As far away as eye can see.

Let churl or shepherd change his sky, And labour in the city dark, Where there is neither air nor room-- How often will the exile sigh To hear again the unwearied lark, And see the heather's lavish bloom!

ICHABOD

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year In all her tributary rills.

A sense of change obscurely chills The misty twilight atmosphere, In which familiar things appear Like alien ghosts, foreboding ills.

The twilight hour a month ago Was full of pleasant warmth and ease, The pearl of all the twenty-four. Erelong the winter gales shall blow, Erelong the winter frosts shall freeze-- And oh, that it were June once more!

AT A HIGH CEREMONY

Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress Outshining not her loveliness,

A loveliness not born of art, But growing outwards from her heart, Illuminating all her face, And filling all her form with grace.

Said I, of dress the borrowed light Could rival not her beauty bright? Yet, looking round, 'tis truth to tell, No damsel here is dressed so well.

Only in them the dress one sees, Because more greatly it doth please Than any other charm that's theirs, Than all their manners, all their airs.

But dress in her, although indeed It perfect be, we do not heed, Because the face, the form, the air Are all so gentle and so rare.

THE WASTED DAY

Another day let slip! Its hours have run, Its golden hours, with prodigal excess, All run to waste. A day of life the less; Of many wasted days, alas, but one!

Through my west window streams the setting sun. I kneel within my chamber, and confess My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress, In place of honest joy for work well done.

At noon I passed some labourers in a field. The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face, Which shone like copper in the ardent glow. And one looked up, with envy unconcealed, Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace, Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

INDOLENCE

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand, Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.

How can I work, when that seductive sky Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland, And seems to half entreat and half command My presence out of doors beneath its eye?

Will not the air be fresh, the water blue, The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore, Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers? Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you! And think it strange if I return before The sea grows purple in the evening hours.

DAWN SONG

I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the words! It shall not want them long, For I will set some to the note Which bubbles from the thrush's throat.

O jewelled night, that reign'st on high, Where is thy crescent moon? Thy stars have faded from the sky, The sun is coming soon. The summer night is passed away, Sing welcome to the summer day.

CAIRNSMILL DEN--TUNE: 'A ROVING'

As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown, With love o'erthrown, with love o'erthrown, And this is truth I tell, As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown, Was sadly walking all alone,

I met my love one morning In Cairnsmill Den. One morning, one morning, One blue and blowy morning, I met my love one morning In Cairnsmill Den.

A dead bough broke within the wood Within the wood, within the wood, And this is truth I tell. A dead bough broke within the wood, And I looked up, and there she stood.

I asked what was it brought her there, What brought her there, what brought her there, And this is truth I tell. I asked what was it brought her there. Says she, 'To pull the primrose fair.'

Says I, 'Come, let me pull with you, Along with you, along with you,' And this is truth I tell. Says I, 'Come let me pull with you, For one is not so good as two.'

But when at noon we climbed the hill, We climbed the hill, we climbed the hill, And this is truth I tell. But when at noon we climbed the hill, Her hands and mine were empty still.

And when we reached the top so high, The top so high, the top so high, And this is truth I tell. And when we reached the top so high Says I, 'I'll kiss you, if I die!'

I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den, In Cairnsmill Den, in Cairnsmill Den, And this is truth I tell. I kissed my love in Cairnsmill Den, And my love kissed me back again.

I met my love one morning In Cairnsmill Den. One morning, one morning, One blue and blowy morning, I met my love one morning In Cairnsmill Den.

A LOST OPPORTUNITY

One dark, dark night--it was long ago, The air was heavy and still and warm-- It fell to me and a man I know, To see two girls to their father's farm.

There was little seeing, that I recall: We seemed to grope in a cave profound. They might have come by a painful fall, Had we not helped them over the ground.

The girls were sisters. Both were fair, But mine was the fairer (so I say). The dark soon severed us, pair from pair, And not long after we lost our way.

We wandered over the country-side, And we frightened most of the sheep about, And I do not think that we greatly tried, Having lost our way, to find it out.

The night being fine, it was not worth while. We strayed through furrow and corn and grass We met with many a fence and stile, And a quickset hedge, which we failed to pass.

At last we came on a road she knew; She said we were near her father's place. I heard the steps of the other two, And my heart stood still for a moment's space.

Then I pleaded, 'Give me a good-night kiss.' I have learned, but I did not know in time, The fruits that hang on the tree of bliss Are not for cravens who will not climb.

We met all four by the farmyard gate, We parted laughing, with half a sigh, And home we went, at a quicker rate, A shorter journey, my friend and I.

When we reached the house, it was late enough, And many impertinent things were said, Of time and distance, and such dull stuff, But we said little, and went to bed.

We went to bed, but one at least Went not to sleep till the black turned grey, And the sun rose up, and the light increased, And the birds awoke to a summer day.

And sometimes now, when the nights are mild, And the moon is away, and no stars shine, I wander out, and I go half-wild, To think of the kiss which was not mine.

Let great minds laugh at a grief so small, Let small minds laugh at a fool so great. Kind maidens, pity me, one and all. Shy youths, take warning by this my fate.

THE CAGED THRUSH

Alas for the bird who was born to sing! They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing; They have shut him up in a dingy street, And they praise his singing and call it sweet. But his heart and his song are saddened and filled With the woods, and the nest he never will build, And the wild young dawn coming into the tree, And the mate that never his mate will be. And day by day, when his notes are heard They freshen the street--but alas for the bird

MIDNIGHT

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour.

The leaves forget to whisper Of soft and secret things, And every bird is silent, With folded eyes and wings.

O blessed hour of midnight, Of sleep and of release, Thou yieldest to the toiler The wages of thy peace.

And I, who have not laboured, Nor borne the heat of noon, Receive thy tranquil quiet-- An undeserved boon.

Yes, truly God is gracious, Who makes His sun to shine Upon the good and evil, And idle lives like mine.

Upon the just and unjust He sends His rain to fall, And gives this hour of blessing Freely alike to all.

WHERE'S THE USE

Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money? And where's the use of singing, when there's no one wants to hear? It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey, But where's the use of honey, when the loaf of bread is dear?

A MAY-DAY MADRIGAL

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright, Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew, Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.

Because you are a princess, a princess of the land, You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand, A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes; But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

'Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring, Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing. They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command, Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

SONG IS NOT DEAD

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say, Song is not dead.

While still the evening sky is red, While still the morning gold and grey, While still the autumn leaves are shed,

While still the heart of youth is gay, And honour crowns the hoary head, While men and women love and pray Song is not dead.

A SONG OF TRUCE

Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown street Of the little town shall come, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang, While the bugles do not clang, While is hushed the clamorous drum, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death, While the sword is in its sheath, While the cannon's mouth is dumb, Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be. Soon enough, to Death and thee, The assembly call shall come. Soldier, rest awhile at home.

ONE TEAR

Last night, when at parting Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting, There fell on my hand

Something that burned it, Something that shone In the moon as I turned it, And then it was gone.

One bright stray jewel-- What made it stray? Was I cold or cruel, At the close of day?

Oh, do not cry, lass! What is crying worth? There is no lass like my lass In the whole wide earth.

A LOVER'S CONFESSION

When people tell me they have loved But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved To speak the truth?

Not that they wilfully deceive: They fondly cherish A constancy which they would grieve To think might perish.

They cherish it until they think 'Twas always theirs. So, if the truth they sometimes blink, 'Tis unawares.

Yet unawares, I must profess, They do deceive Themselves, and those who questionless Their tale believe.

For I have loved, I freely own, A score of times, And woven, out of love alone, A hundred rhymes.

Boys will be fickle. Yet, when all Is said and done, I was not one whom you could call A flirt--not one

Of those who into three or four Their hearts divide. My queens came singly to the door, Not side by side.

Each, while she reigned, possessed alone My spirit loyal, Then left an undisputed throne To one more royal,

To one more fair in form and face Sweeter and stronger, Who filled the throne with truer grace, And filled it longer.

So, love by love, they came and passed, These loves of mine, And each one brighter than the last Their lights did shine.

Until--but am I not too free, Most courteous stranger, With secrets which belong to me? There is a danger.

Until, I say, the perfect love, The last, the best, Like flame descending from above, Kindled my breast,

Kindled my breast like ardent flame, With quenchless glow. I knew not love until it came, But now I know.

You smile. The twenty loves before Were each in turn, You say, the final flame that o'er My soul should burn.

Smile on, my friend. I will not say You have no reason; But if the love I feel to-day Depart, 'tis treason!

If this depart, not once again Will I on paper Declare the loves that waste and wane, Like some poor taper.

No, no! This flame, I cannot doubt, Despite your laughter, Will burn till Death shall put it out, And may be after.

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

These verses have I pilfered like a bee Out of a letter from my C. C. C. In London, showing what befell him there, With other things, of interest to me.

One page described a night in open air He spent last summer in Trafalgar Square, With men and women who by want are driven Thither for lodging, when the nights are fair.

No roof there is between their heads and heaven, No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given, No comfort but the company of those Who with despair, like them, have vainly striven.

On benches there uneasily they doze, Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose, And if through weariness they might sleep sound, Their eyes must open almost ere they close.

With even tramp upon the paven ground, Twice every hour the night patrol comes round To clear these wretches off, who may not keep The miserable couches they have found.

Yet the stern shepherds of the poor black sheep Will soften when they see a woman weep. There was a mother there who strove in vain, With sobs, to hush a starving child to sleep.

And through the night which took so long to wane, He saw sad sufferers relieving pain, And daughters of iniquity and scorn Performing deeds which God will not disdain.

There was a girl, forlorn of the forlorn, Whose dress was white, but draggled, soiled, and torn, Who wandered like a ghost without a home. She spoke to him before the day was born.

She, who all night, when spoken to, was dumb, Earning dislike from most, abuse from some, Now asked the hour, and when he told her 'Two,' Wailed, 'O my God, will daylight never come?'

Yes, it will come, and change the sky anew From star-besprinkled black to sunlit blue, And bring sweet thoughts and innocent desires To countless girls. What will it bring to you?

A SUMMER MORNING

Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore.

A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee--and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine.

WELCOME HOME

The fire burns bright And the hearth is clean swept, As she likes it kept, And the lamp is alight. She is coming to-night.

The wind's east of late. When she comes, she'll be cold, So the big chair is rolled Close up to the grate, And I listen and wait.

The shutters are fast, And the red curtains hide Every hint of outside. But hark, how the blast Whistled then as it passed!

Or was it the train? How long shall I stand, With my watch in my hand, And listen in vain For the wheels in the lane?

Hark! A rumble I hear (Will the wind not be still?), And it comes down the hill, And it grows on the ear, And now it is near.

Quick, a fresh log to burn! Run and open the door, Hold a lamp out before To light up the turn, And bring in the urn.

You are come, then, at last! O my dear, is it you? I can scarce think it true I am holding you fast, And sorrow is past.

AN INVITATION

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly, And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by. Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

The sea is at its bluest, and the Spring is new creating The woods and dens we know of, and the fields rejoicing lie, And the air is soft as summer, and the hedge-birds all are mating.

The Links are full of larks' nests, and the larks possess the sky, Like a choir of happy spirits, melodiously debating, All is ready for your coming, dear Ritchie--yes, and I, Dear Ritchie, I am waiting.

FICKLE SUMMER

Fickle Summer's fled away, Shall we see her face again? Hearken to the weeping rain, Never sunbeam greets the day.

More inconstant than the May, She cares nothing for our pain, Nor will hear the birds complain In their bowers that once were gay.

Summer, Summer, come once more, Drive the shadows from the field, All thy radiance round thee fling, Be our lady as of yore; Then the earth her fruits shall yield, Then the morning stars shall sing.

SORROW'S TREACHERY

I made a truce last night with Sorrow, The queen of tears, the foe of sleep, To keep her tents until the morrow, Nor send such dreams to make me weep.

Before the lusty day was springing, Before the tired moon was set, I dreamed I heard my dead love singing, And when I woke my eyes were wet.

THE CROWN OF YEARS

Years grow and gather--each a gem Lustrous with laughter and with tears, And cunning Time a crown of years Contrives for her who weareth them.

No chance can snatch this diadem, It trembles not with hopes or fears, It shines before the rose appears, And when the leaves forsake her stem.

Time sets his jewels one by one. Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie In attic chambers of the past? They withered ere the day was done. This coronal will never die, Nor shall you lose it at the last.

HOPE DEFERRED

When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say, 'Surely she will come to-day.'

In the golden blaze of noon, 'Surely she is coming soon.' In the twilight, 'Will she come?' Then my heart with fear is dumb.

When the night wind in the trees Plays its mournful melodies, Then I know my trust is vain, And she will not come again.

THE LIFE OF EARTH

The life of earth, how full of pain, Which greets us on our day of birth, Nor leaves us while we yet retain The life of earth.

There is a shadow on our mirth, Our sun is blotted out with rain, And all our joys are little worth.

Yet oh, when life begins to wane, And we must sail the doubtful firth, How wild the longing to regain The life of earth!

GOLDEN DREAM

Golden dream of summer morn, By a well-remembered stream In the land where I was born, Golden dream!

Ripples, by the glancing beam Lightly kissed in playful scorn, Meadows moist with sunlit steam.

When I lift my eyelids worn Like a fair mirage you seem, In the winter dawn forlorn, Golden dream!

TEARS

Mourn that which will not come again, The joy, the strength of early years. Bow down thy head, and let thy tears Water the grave where hope lies slain.