TEN years ago it seemed impossible That she should ever grow so calm as this, With self- remembrance in her warmest kiss And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well. Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell, Silent with long-unbroken silences, Centred in self yet not unpleased to please, For she henceforth must bear a load Gravely monotonous like a passing alone Borne until now in part. Christ help the desolate Woman in her home, Broken of heart, indeed bereft : Shrinking from solitary days to come, Beggared though much is left. Rise up, O Sons and Daughters of the Dead, Weep with your Mother where she weeps: Yet not as sorrowing without hope be shed Your tears he only sleeps. Rise up, O Sons and Daughters of the realm, In pale reflected sorrow move : Revere the widowed hand that holds the helm, Love her with double love. bell. Mindful of drudging daily common things, Patient at pastime, patient at her work, Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly. Sometimes I fancy we may one day see Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings. 31 March 1862. ON THE WING ONCE in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, : Sporting at ease and courting full in view: When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed; Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield; So farewell life and love and pleasures new. Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep: But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. 17 December 1862. THE QUEEN OF HEARTS How comes it, Flora, that, when ever we Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts, Still hold the Queen of Hearts? I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze, Resolved to fathom these your secret ways: But, sift them as I will, Your ways are secret still. I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again; But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain : Vain hope, vain forethought too; BECAUSE one loves you, Helen Grey, Is that a reason you should pout, And like a March wind veer about, And frown, and say your shrewish say? Don't strain the cord until it snaps, Don't split the sound heart with your wedge, Don't cut your fingers with the edge Of your keen wit; you may perhaps. Because you're handsome, Helen Grey, Is that a reason to be proud ? Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud, Your steps go mincing on their way; A YEAR'S WINDFALLS ON the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs. On the wind in February Snowflakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea: If the winter ever ends, How pleasant it will be! |