by Edith Nesbit
Mystical and tender,
Morn, born of starlit night,
Clothes herself with splendour.
Rose-glows in eastern sky,
In the north faint flushes;
Boat, float idly by
Past the sedge and rushes!
Here, near the willow screen
River-gods bathe gaily;
White, bright against the green,
Poets see them daily.
See, we, we alone
Greet this fresh sun-waking,
Too few, who hail day done,
See it in the making!
Sad, glad, we two see
Dawn the earth adorning,
Sigh: “Why can no noon be
Worth so gold a morning?”
III.
It was beside a wide, white weir,
Where the foam dances in the sun,
The butterflies are fair this year,
And o’er the weir there hovered one —
A far-off cottage curled its smoke
Against a blue and perfect sky;
There love triumphant laughed and woke,
And we were silent — you and I.
Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands,
And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright,
Then fell the careful cobweb bands
With which our will had bound his might;
His royal presence made us still,
Our will was water, matched with his;
Like water-spray he broke our will
And joined our lips in our first kiss.
IV.
Look out! The stars are shining,
The dew makes gray the meadow!
The jasmine stars are twining
About your window bright;
The glow-worms green are creeping
On lawns all dressed in shadow,
The roses all are sleeping —
Good-night, my heart, good-night!
The nightingale is singing
Her song of ceaseless sorrow,
The night’s slow feet pass, bringing
The day when I rejoice;
Belovèd beyond measure,
Our bridal is to-morrow —
Oh, thrill the night with pleasure!
Oh, let me hear thy voice!
From cloudy confines sliding,
The moon sails white and splendid;
No roses now are hiding
The glory of their grace;
So, if my song thou hearest —
For thee begun and ended —
Light up the night, my dearest,
And let me see thy face!
V.
O gleaming, gliding river,
Where ash and alder lean,
Where sighing sedges shiver
By willows gray and green;
Upon thy shifting shadows
The yellow lily lies,
And all along thy meadows
Grow flowers of Paradise.
The red-roofed village sleeping,
Soft sounds of farm and fold,
The dappled shadows creeping,
The sunset’s rose and gold,
Twilight of mist and glamour,
Noontide of sunlit ease,
How, ‘mid life’s sordid clamour,
Our hearts will long for these!
Yet, since at heart we treasure
These weirs and woods and fields,
This crown of lovely leisure
Which Kentish country yields —
These, these are ours for ever,
Though dream-sweet days be done;
Through all our dreams our river
Will evermore flow on.
VI.
When all is over, lay me down
Far from this dull and jaded town,
Not in a churchyard’s ordered bound,
But in some wide green meadow-ground.
No stone upon me! Above all
Let no cold railing’s shadows fall
Across my rest. Dead, let me be
What no one may be living — free.
Let no one mourning garments wear,
And if you love me, shed no tear;
Don’t weight me with a clay-built heap,
But plant the daisies where I sleep.
There is a certain field I know,
I met my dear there, years ago;
Perhaps, if you should speak them fair,
They’d let you lay her lover there.
Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear
The ceaseless singing of the weir,
The soft wind sighing thro’ the grass,
And hear the little children pass.
Or, if my ears were stopped with clay
From all sweet sounds of night and day,
I should at least (so lay me there)
Sleep better there than anywhere!
THE BETROTHAL.
There is none anywhere
So beautiful as she nor half so dear;
My heart sings ever when she draweth near,
Because she is so good and sweet and fair.
I may not be the one
To break the cloistered stillness of her life,
To teach her passion and love and grief and strife,
And lead her through the garden of the sun.
For I am sad and wise;
I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies — none;
Yet she has taught me that I am alone,
And what men mean who talk of Paradise.
But, when her joybells ring,
I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh
And wish the roses did not have to die,
And that the birds might never cease to sing.
A TRAGEDY.
I.
Among his books he sits all day
To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
The roses red and white.
I walk among them all alone,
His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done —
An empty thing is life.
At night his window casts a square
Of light upon the lawn;
I sometimes walk and watch it there
Until the chill of dawn.
I have no brain to understand
The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand
He does not seem to need.
He calls me “Child” — lays on my hair
Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
I wish I were a child!
And no one sees and no one knows
(He least would know or see)
That ere Love gathers next year’s rose
Death will have gathered me;
And on my grave will bindweed pink
And round-faced daisies grow;
He still will read and write and think,
And never, never know!
II.
It’s lonely in my study here alone
Now you are gone;
I loved to see your white gown ‘mid the flowers,
While, hours on hours,
I studied — toiled to weave a crown of fame
About your name.
I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring;
To hear you sing
About the house while I sat reading here,
My child, my dear;
To know you glad with all the life-joys fair
I dared not share.
I thought there would be time enough to show
My love, to throw
Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet
Love’s roses sweet;
I thought I could taste love when fame was won —
Now both are done!
Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to miss
The passionate kiss
Which I dar
ed never give, lest love should rise
Mighty, unwise,
And bind me, with my life-work incomplete,
Beside your feet.
You never knew, you lived and were content;
My one chance went;
You died, my little one, and are at rest —
And I, unblest,
Look at these broken fragments of my life,
My child, my wife.
LOVE.
I.
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR.
The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep,
Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air,
Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep
Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.
No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering,
But in her garden — risen from Summer’s tomb
To bear the gospel of eternal Spring —
The Christmas roses bloom.
O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days
Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain,
Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways —
Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!
We, too, in bitterest sorrow’s wintry hour,
Too chill to let the redder roses blow,
We, too, had our delicious hidden flower
That blossomed in life’s snow.
O heart, if we again might hope to be
Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white!
If dreams and deeds might but be one to me,
And one to thee be duty and delight!
If that may ever be, one hand we know
Must beckon us along the way she goes,
The hand of her — as pure as any snow,
And sweet as any rose.
II.
WORSHIP.
I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,
I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,
I passed between the pillars tall and slender,
That yearn to heaven as man’s soul yearns to God.
The coloured glory of the pictured windows
Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine
Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden,
The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.
The hymn rose on the wings of children’s voices,
The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer
With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten —
And all the soul of all the past was there.
But in my heart as there I kneeled before her,
Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew —
They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence;
The incense of my soul was burned for you.
For you, for you were all the tapers lighted,
For you the flowers were on the altar laid,
For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel
To the clerestory’s mysteries of shade.
To you the anthems of a thousand churches
Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear;
To you — through all these leagues of deathly distance,
To you — as unattainable as dear.
Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom,
Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew,
Pure as the love which only you could waken,
Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!
III.
SPLENDIDE MENDAX.
When God some day shall call my name
And scorch me with a blaze of shame,
Bringing to light my inmost thought
And all the evil I have wrought,
Tearing away the veils I wove
To hide my foulness from my love,
And leaving my transgressions bare
To the whole heaven’s clear, cold air —
When all the angels weep to see
The branded, outcast soul of me,
One saint at least will hide her face —
She will not look at my disgrace.
“At least, O God, O God Most High,
He loved me truly!” she will cry,
And God will pause before He send
My soul to find its fitting end.
Then, lest heaven’s light should leave her face
To think one loved her and was base,
I will speak out at judgment day —
“I never loved her!” I will say.
LOVE SONG.
Light of my life! though far away,
My sun, you shine,
Your radiance warms me every day
Like fire or wine.
Life of my heart! in every beat
This sad heart gives,
It owns your sovereignty complete,
By which it lives.
Heart of my soul! serene and strong,
Eyes of my sight!
Together we can do no wrong,
Apart, no right.
THE QUARREL.
Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill,
Where the wild plovers scream against the sky;
Down in the valley everything is still —
We also will be silent, you and I.
Come down, and hold my hand as we go down.
A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar;
The lights come out down in the little town,
‘Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.
Did my heart forge the bitter words I said?
Did your heart breed those bitterer replies —
Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead
In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?
Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid,
Life being so little and love so great a thing?
The price of all life’s follies has been paid
When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.
Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass
Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed.
Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass;
Tread softly over these forgotten dead.
We are alive, and here — O love! O wife!
While life is ours, and we are yours and mine,
How dare we crush the blossom of our life?
How dare we spill love’s sacramental wine?
Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now,
And life is all too short for love, my dear.
When one of us beneath these flowers lies low,
The other will remember we kissed here.
Some one some day will come here all alone
And look out on the desolated years,
With bitter tears of longing for the one
Who will not then be here to dry the tears!
CHANGE.
There’s a little house by an orchard side
Where the Spring wears pink and white;
There’s a garden with pansies and London pride,
And a bush of lad’s delight.
Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen
As trim as a garden can be,
And the grass of the orchard is much more green
Than most of the grass you see.
There used to be always a mother’s smile
And a father’s face at the door,
When one clambered over the orchard stile,
So glad to be home once more.
But now I never go by that way,
For when I was there of late,
A stranger was cutting the orchard hay,
And a stranger leaned on the gate.
THE MILL.
The wheel goes round — the wheel goes round
With drip and whir and plash,
It keeps all green the grassy ground,
The alder, beech and ash.
The ferns creep out ‘mid mosses cool,
Forget-m
e-nots are found
Blue in the shadow by the pool —
And still the wheel goes round.
Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel,
The foam is white like cream,
The merry waters dance and reel
Along the stony stream.
The little garden of the mill,
It is enchanted ground,
I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still,
And still the wheel goes round.
The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round,
And life’s wheel too must go —
But all their clamour has not drowned
A voice I used to know.
Her window’s blank. The garden’s bare
As her chill new-made mound,
But still my heart’s delight is there,
And still the wheel goes round.
RONDEAU.
A red, red rose, all wet with dew,
With leaves of green by red shot through,
And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings
Delicious memories of lost things,
A red rose, sweet — yet sad as rue.
’Twas a red rose you gave me — you
Whose gifts so sacred were, and few —
And that is why your lover sings
A red, red rose.
I sing — with lute untuned, untrue,
And worse than other lovers do,
Because perplexing memory stings —
Because from your green grave there springs,
With your spilt life-blood coloured through,
A red, red rose.
A MÉSALLIANCE.
I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,
I live in splendour and state;
But I’d give it all to be young once more,
And steal through the old low-lintelled door,
To watch at the orchard gate.
There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,
Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;
But all the flowers that a hot-house grows
I would give for the scent of a certain rose
That a cottage garden grew!
Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,
Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow —
I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!
I would give you all for a daisy or two
From a little grave I know.
THE LAST THOUGHT.
It’s weary lying here,
While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,
And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,
When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom —
Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are —
So far away, so far!
They say that I shall die —
And I’m tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:
