VIII.
By mead and marsh and sandhill
clad with bent,
Soothed by the wistful musings
of the wind
That in scarce listening ears
are mildly dinned,
On plods the traveller till
the day be spent,
And day-dreams end in dreamless
night at last.
He hears, beyond the grey
bent’s silken waves,
The foam-embroidered waters
ever cast
On sighing sands and into
echoing caves.
And from the west, where the
last sunset glow
Still lingers on the border
hills afar,
Come pastoral sounds, attenuate
and low,
Thence where the night shall
bring, ’neath cloud and star,
Silence to yearn o’er
folk worn with day’s strife,
Lost in blank sleep to hope,
regret, death, life.
[An alternative ending:
While from the West comes
murmuring earthly noise,
Sweet, slumberous, attenuate
and afar;
Sad sunglows in the border
mountains poise,
There where he knows to-night,
mid cloud and star,
Silence shall yearn o’er
folk worn out with strife,
Lost in blank sleep to hope,
regret, death, life.]
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
I.
What though my voice cease
like a moan o’ the wind?
Not the less shall I
Cast on this life a kindly
eye,
Glad if through its mystery
Faint gleams of love and truth
glance o’er my mind.
What though I end like a spring
leaf shed on the wind?
Restrained by pure-eyed Sorrow’s
hand,
Lithe Joy through this wondrous
land
Leads me; nothing have I scanned
Unmixed with good. Fate’s
sharpest stroke is kind.
To me, thoughts lived of old
anew are born
From glances at the unsullied
sea,
Or breath of morning purity,
From cloud or blown grass
tossing free,
Or frail dew quivering on
leaf, rose or thorn.
What though behind me all
is mist and shade,
Yet warmth of afterglow bathes
all.
Hallowed spirits move and
call
Each to me, a willing thrall,
With kindly speech of mountain,
plain or glade.
Before me, through the veil
that covers all,
Rays of a vasty Dawn strike
high
To the zenith of the sky.
Intense, yet low as true love’s
sigh,
Prophetic voices to my spirit
call.
So, though my voice cease
like a moan o’ the wind,
Not the less shall I
Cast on life a kindly eye,
Glad if through its mystery
Stray gleams of love and truth
illume my mind.
II.
An Afternoon Soliloquy.
How good some years of life
may be!
Ah, once it was not guessed
by me,
Past years would shine, like
some bright sea,
In golden dusks of memory.