A Dark Month | Page 3

laughed
were seven
Sweet years old.
X
Why should May remember?March, if March forget?The days that began with December?The nights that a frost could fret?
All their griefs are done with?Now the bright months bless?Fit souls to rejoice in the sun with,?Fit heads for the wind's caress;
Souls of children quickening?With the whole world's mirth,?Heads closelier than field-flowers thickening?That crowd and illuminate earth,
Now that May's call musters?Files of baby bands?To marshal in joyfuller clusters?Than the flowers that encumber their hands.
Yet morose November?Found them no less gay,?With nought to forget or remember?Less bright than a branch of may.
All the seasons moving?Move their minds alike?Applauding, acclaiming, approving?All hours of the year that strike.
So my heart may fret not,?Wondering if my friend?Remember me not or forget not?Or ever the month find end.
Not that love sows lighter?Seed in children sown,?But that life being lit in them brighter?Moves fleeter than even our own.
May nor yet September?Binds their hearts, that yet?Remember, forget, and remember,?Forget, and recall, and forget.
XI
As light on a lake's face moving?Between a cloud and a cloud?Till night reclaim it, reproving?The heart that exults too loud,
The heart that watching rejoices?When soft it swims into sight?Applauded of all the voices?And stars of the windy night,
So brief and unsure, but sweeter?Than ever a moondawn smiled,?Moves, measured of no tune's metre,?The song in the soul of a child;
The song that the sweet soul singing?Half listens, and hardly hears,?Though sweeter than joy-bells ringing?And brighter than joy's own tears;
The song that remembrance of pleasure?Begins, and forgetfulness ends?With a soft swift change in the measure?That rings in remembrance of friends
As the moon on the lake's face flashes,?So haply may gleam at whiles?A dream through the dear deep lashes?Whereunder a child's eye smiles,
And the least of us all that love him?May take for a moment part?With angels around and above him,?And I find place in his heart.
XII
Child, were you kinless and lonely--?Dear, were you kin to me--?My love were compassionate only?Or such as it needs would be.
But eyes of father and mother?Like sunlight shed on you shine:?What need you have heed of another?Such new strange love as is mine?
It is not meet if unruly?Hands take of the children's bread?And cast it to dogs; but truly?The dogs after all would be fed.
On crumbs from the children's table?That crumble, dropped from above,?My heart feeds, fed with unstable?Loose waifs of a child's light love.
Though love in your heart were brittle?As glass that breaks with a touch,?You haply would lend him a little?Who surely would give you much.
XIII
Here is a rough?Rude sketch of my friend,?Faint-coloured enough?And unworthily penned.
Fearlessly fair?And triumphant he stands,?And holds unaware?Friends' hearts in his hands;
Stalwart and straight?As an oak that should bring?Forth gallant and great?Fresh roses in spring.
On the paths of his pleasure?All graces that wait?What metre shall measure?What rhyme shall relate
Each action, each motion,?Each feature, each limb,?Demands a devotion?In honour of him:
Head that the hand?Of a god might have blest,?Laid lustrous and bland?On the curve of its crest:
Mouth sweeter than cherries,?Keen eyes as of Mars,?Browner than berries?And brighter than stars.
Nor colour nor wordy?Weak song can declare?The stature how sturdy,?How stalwart his air.
As a king in his bright?Presence-chamber may be,?So seems he in height--?Twice higher than your knee.
As a warrior sedate?With reserve of his power,?So seems he in state--?As tall as a flower:
As a rose overtowering?The ranks of the rest?That beneath it lie cowering,?Less bright than their best.
And his hands are as sunny?As ruddy ripe corn?Or the browner-hued honey?From heather-bells borne.
When summer sits proudest,?Fulfilled with its mirth,?And rapture is loudest?In air and on earth,
The suns of all hours?That have ripened the roots?Bring forth not such flowers?And beget not such fruits.
And well though I know it,?As fain would I write,?Child, never a poet?Could praise you aright.
I bless you? the blessing?Were less than a jest?Too poor for expressing;?I come to be blest,
With humble and dutiful?Heart, from above:?Bless me, O my beautiful?Innocent love!
This rhyme in your praise?With a smile was begun;?But the goal of his ways?Is uncovered to none,
Nor pervious till after?The limit impend;?It is not in laughter?These rhymes of you end.
XIV
Spring, and fall, and summer, and winter,?Which may Earth love least of them all,?Whose arms embrace as their signs imprint her,?Summer, or winter, or spring, or fall?
The clear-eyed spring with the wood-birds mating,?The rose-red summer with eyes aglow,?The yellow fall with serene eyes waiting,?The wild-eyed winter with hair all snow?
Spring's eyes are soft, but if frosts benumb her?As winter's own will her shrewd breath sting:?Storms may rend the raiment of summer,?And fall grow bitter as harsh-lipped spring.
One sign for summer and winter guides me,?One for spring, and the like for fall:?Whichever from sight of my friend divides me,?That is the worst ill season of all.
XV
Worse than winter is spring?If I come not to sight of my king:?But then what a spring will it be?When my king takes homage of me!
I send his grace from afar?Homage, as though to a star;?As