A Dark Month | Page 4

a shepherd whose flock takes flight?May worship a star by night.
As a flock that a wolf is upon?My songs take flight and are gone:?No heart is in any to sing?Aught but the praise of my king.
Fain would I once and again?Sing deeds and passions of men:?But ever a child's head gleams?Between my work and my dreams.
Between my hand and my eyes?The lines of a small face rise,?And the lines I trace and retrace?Are none but those of the face.
XVI
Till the tale of all this flock of days alike
All be done,?Weary days of waiting till the month's hand strike
Thirty-one,?Till the clock's hand of the month break off, and end
With the clock,?Till the last and whitest sheep at last be penned
Of the flock,?I their shepherd keep the count of night and day
With my song,?Though my song be, like this month which once was May,
All too long.
XVII
The incarnate sun, a tall strong youth,?On old Greek eyes in sculpture smiled:?But trulier had it given the truth?To shape him like a child.
No face full-grown of all our dearest?So lightens all our darkness, none?Most loved of all our hearts hold nearest?To far outshines the sun,
As when with sly shy smiles that feign?Doubt if the hour be clear, the time?Fit to break off my work again?Or sport of prose or rhyme,
My friend peers in on me with merry?Wise face, and though the sky stay dim?The very light of day, the very?Sun's self comes in with him.
XVIII
Out of sight,?Out of mind!?Could the light?Prove unkind?
Can the sun?Quite forget?What was done?Ere he set?
Does the moon?When she wanes?Leave no tune?That remains
In the void?Shell of night?Overcloyed?With her light?
Must the shore?At low tide?Feel no more?Hope or pride,
No intense?Joy to be,?In the sense?Of the sea--
In the pulses?Of her shocks?It repulses,?When its rocks
Thrill and ring?As with glee??Has my king?Cast off me,
Whom no bird?Flying south?Brings one word?From his mouth?
Not the ghost?Of a word.?Riding post?Have I heard,
Since the day?When my king?Took away?With him spring,
And the cup?Of each flower?Shrivelled up?That same hour,
With no light?Left behind.?Out of sight,?Out of mind!
XIX
Because I adore you?And fall?On the knees of my spirit before you--?After all,
You need not insult,?My king,?With neglect, though your spirit exult?In the spring,
Even me, though not worth,?God knows,?One word of you sent me in mirth,?Or one rose
Out of all in your garden?That grow?Where the frost and the wind never harden?Flakes of snow,
Nor ever is rain?At all,?But the roses rejoice to remain?Fair and tall--
The roses of love,?More sweet?Than blossoms that rain from above?Round our feet,
When under high bowers?We pass,?Where the west wind freckles with flowers?All the grass.
But a child's thoughts bear?More bright?Sweet visions by day, and more fair?Dreams by night,
Than summer's whole treasure?Can be:?What am I that his thought should take pleasure,?Then, in me?
I am only my love's?True lover,?With a nestful of songs, like doves?Under cover,
That I bring in my cap?Fresh caught,?To be laid on my small king's lap--?Worth just nought.
Yet it haply may hap?That he,?When the mirth in his veins is as sap?In a tree,
Will remember me too?Some day?Ere the transit be thoroughly through?Of this May--
Or perchance, if such grace?May be,?Some night when I dream of his face.?Dream of me.
Or if this be too high?A hope?For me to prefigure in my?Horoscope,
He may dream of the place?Where we?Basked once in the light of his face,?Who now see
Nought brighter, not one?Thing bright,?Than the stars and the moon and the sun,?Day nor night.
XX
Day by darkling day,?Overpassing, bears away?Somewhat of the burden of this weary May.
Night by numbered night,?Waning, brings more near in sight?Hope that grows to vision of my heart's delight.
Nearer seems to burn?In the dawn's rekindling urn?Flame of fragrant incense, hailing his return.
Louder seems each bird?In the brightening branches heard?Still to speak some ever more delightful word.
All the mists that swim?Round the dawns that grow less dim?Still wax brighter and more bright with hope of him.
All the suns that rise?Bring that day more near our eyes?When the sight of him shall clear our clouded skies.
All the winds that roam?Fruitful fields or fruitless foam?Blow the bright hour near that brings his bright face home.
XXI
I hear of two far hence?In a garden met,?And the fragrance blown from thence?Fades not yet.
The one is seven years old,?And my friend is he:?But the years of the other have told?Eighty-three.
To hear these twain converse?Or to see them greet?Were sweeter than softest verse?May be sweet.
The hoar old gardener there?With an eye more mild?Perchance than his mild white hair?Meets the child.
I had rather hear the words?That the twain exchange?Than the songs of all the birds?There that range,
Call, chirp, and twitter there?Through the garden-beds?Where the sun alike sees fair?Those two heads,
And which may holier be?Held in heaven of those?Or more worth heart's thanks to see?No man knows.
XXII
Of such is the kingdom of heaven,?No glory that ever was shed?From the crowning star of the seven?That crown the north world's head,
No word that ever was spoken?Of human or godlike tongue,?Gave ever such