Goblin Market, The Princes Progress, and Other Poems | Page 9

he said,--'Maude Clare,' he said,--?'Maude Clare:'--and hid his face.
She turn'd to Nell: 'My Lady Nell,?I have a gift for you;?Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,?Or, were it flowers, the dew.
'Take my share of a fickle heart,?Mine of a paltry love:?Take it or leave it as you will,?I wash my hands thereof.' 40
'And what you leave,' said Nell, 'I'll take,?And what you spurn, I'll wear;?For he's my lord for better and worse,?And him I love, Maude Clare.
'Yea, though you're taller by the head,?More wise, and much more fair;?I'll love him till he loves me best,?Me best of all, Maude Clare.'
ECHO
Come to me in the silence of the night;?Come in the speaking silence of a dream;?Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright?As sunlight on a stream;?Come back in tears,?O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,?Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,?Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;?Where thirsting longing eyes 10 Watch the slow door?That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live?My very life again though cold in death:?Come back to me in dreams, that I may give?Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:?Speak low, lean low,?As long ago, my love, how long ago!
MY SECRET
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:?Perhaps some day, who knows??But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,?And you're too curious: fie!?You want to hear it? well:?Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:?Suppose there is no secret after all,?But only just my fun.?To-day's a nipping day, a biting day; 10 In which one wants a shawl,?A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:?I cannot ope to every one who taps,?And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;?Come bounding and surrounding me,?Come buffeting, astounding me,?Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.?I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows?His nose to Russian snows?To be pecked at by every wind that blows? 20 You would not peck? I thank you for good will,?Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust?March with its peck of dust,?Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,?Nor even May, whose flowers?One frost may wither through the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,?When drowsy birds sing less and less,?And golden fruit is ripening to excess, 30 If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,?And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,?Perhaps my secret I may say,?Or you may guess.
ANOTHER SPRING
If I might see another Spring?I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:?I'd have my crocuses at once,?My leafless pink mezereons,?My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet?My white or azure violet,?Leaf-nested primrose; anything?To blow at once, not late.
If I might see another Spring?I'd listen to the daylight birds 10 That build their nests and pair and sing,?Nor wait for mateless nightingale;?I'd listen to the lusty herds,?The ewes with lambs as white as snow,?I'd find out music in the hail?And all the winds that blow.
If I might see another Spring--?Oh stinging comment on my past?That all my past results in 'if'--?If I might see another Spring 20 I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;?I would not wait for anything:?I'd use to-day that cannot last,?Be glad to-day and sing.
A PEAL OF BELLS
Strike the bells wantonly,?Tinkle tinkle well;?Bring me wine, bring me flowers,?Ring the silver bell.?All my lamps burn scented oil,?Hung on laden orange-trees,?Whose shadowed foliage is the foil?To golden lamps and oranges.?Heap my golden plates with fruit,?Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; 10 Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;?Shut out showers from summer hours--?Silence that complaining lute--?Shut out thinking, shut out pain,?From hours that cannot come again.
Strike the bells solemnly,?Ding dong deep:?My friend is passing to his bed,?Fast asleep;?There's plaited linen round his head, 20 While foremost go his feet--?His feet that cannot carry him.?My feast's a show, my lights are dim;?Be still, your music is not sweet,--?There is no music more for him:?His lights are out, his feast is done;?His bowl that sparkled to the brim?Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;?My blood is chill, his blood is cold;?His death is full, and mine begun. 30
FATA MORGANA
A blue-eyed phantom far before?Is laughing, leaping toward the sun:?Like lead I chase it evermore,?I pant and run.
It breaks the sunlight bound on bound:?Goes singing as it leaps along?To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound?A dreamy song.
I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;?It is so far before, I weep: 10 I hope I shall lie down some day,?Lie down and sleep.
'NO, THANK YOU, JOHN'
I never said I loved you, John:?Why will you tease me day by day,?And wax a weariness to think upon?With always 'do' and 'pray'?
You know I never loved you, John;?No fault of mine made me your toast:?Why will you haunt me with a face as wan?As