Foliage: Various Poems | Page 6

fruit by a strong thrush.?I felt this earth did move; more slow,?And slower yet began to go;?And not a bird was heard to sing,?Men and great beasts were shivering;?All living things knew well that when?This earth stood still, destruction then?Would follow with a mighty crash.?'Twas then I broke that awful hush:?E'en as a mother, who does come?Running in haste back to her home,?And looks at once, and lo, the child?She left asleep is gone; and wild?She shrieks and loud--so did I break?With a mad cry that dream, and wake.
CHILDREN AT PLAY
I hear a merry noise indeed:?Is it the geese and ducks that take?Their first plunge in a quiet pond?That into scores of ripples break--?Or children make this merry sound?
I see an oak tree, its strong back?Could not be bent an inch though all?Its leaves were stone, or iron even:?A boy, with many a lusty call,?Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven.
I see two children dig a hole?And plant in it a cherry-stone:?"We'll come to-morrow," one child said--?"And then the tree will be full grown,?And all its boughs have cherries red."
Ah, children, what a life to lead:?You love the flowers, but when they're past?No flowers are missed by your bright eyes;?And when cold winter comes at last,?Snowflakes shall be your butterflies.
WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS
In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,?And clouds like greater moons can shine;?When every leafy tree doth hold?A loving heart that beats with mine:?Now, when the Brook has cresses green,?As well as stones, to check his pace;?And, if the Owl appears, he's forced?By small birds to some hiding-place:?Then, like red Robin in the spring,?I shun those haunts where men are found;?My house holds little joy until?Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;?Let none invade that wilderness?Into whose dark green depths I go--?Save some fine lady, all in white,?Comes like a pillar of pure snow.
RETURN TO NATURE
My song is of that city which?Has men too poor and men too rich;?Where some are sick, too richly fed,?While others take the sparrows' bread:?Where some have beds to warm their bones,?While others sleep on hard, cold stones?That suck away their bodies' heat.?Where men are drunk in every street;?Men full of poison, like those flies?That still attack the horses' eyes.?Where some men freeze for want of cloth,?While others show their jewels' worth?And dress in satin, fur or silk;?Where fine rich ladies wash in milk,?While starving mothers have no food?To make them fit in flesh and blood;?So that their watery breasts can give?Their babies milk and make them live.?Where one man does the work of four,?And dies worn out before his hour;?While some seek work in vain, and grief?Doth make their fretful lives as brief.?Where ragged men are seen to wait?For charity that's small and late;?While others haunt in idle leisure,?Theatre doors to pay for pleasure.?No more I'll walk those crowded places?And take hot dreams from harlots' faces;?I'll know no more those passions' dreams,?While musing near these quiet streams;?That biting state of savage lust?Which, true love absent, burns to dust.?Gold's rattle shall not rob my ears?Of this sweet music of the spheres.?I'll walk abroad with fancy free;?Each leafy, summer's morn I'll see?The trees, all legs or bodies, when?They vary in their shapes like men.?I'll walk abroad and see again?How quiet pools are pricked by rain;?And you shall hear a song as sweet?As when green leaves and raindrops meet.?I'll hear the Nightingale's fine mood,?Rattling with thunder in the wood,?Made bolder by each mighty crash;?Who drives her notes with every flash?Of lightning through the summer's night.?No more I'll walk in that pale light?That shows the homeless man awake,?Ragged and cold; harlot and rake,?That have their hearts in rags, and die?Before that poor wretch they pass by.?Nay, I have found a life so fine?That every moment seems divine;?By shunning all those pleasures full,?That bring repentance cold and dull.?Such misery seen in days gone by,?That, made a coward, now I fly?To green things, like a bird. Alas!?In days gone by I could not pass?Ten men but what the eyes of one?Would burn me for no kindness done;?And wretched women I passed by?Sent after me a moan or sigh.?Ah, wretched days: for in that place?My soul's leaves sought the human face,?And not the Sun's for warmth and light--?And so was never free from blight.?But seek me now, and you will find?Me on some soft green bank reclined;?Watching the stately deer close by,?That in a great deep hollow lie?Shaking their tails with all the ease?That lambs can. First, look for the trees,?Then, if you seek me, find me quick.?Seek me no more where men are thick,?But in green lanes where I can walk?A mile, and still no human folk?Tread on my shadow. Seek me where?The strange oak tree is, that can bear?One white-leaved branch among the green--?Which many a woodman has not seen.?If you would find me, go where cows?And