Poems by the Way Love Is Enough | Page 2

LOVE IS ENOUGH
POEMS BY THE WAY
FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA
Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet
pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave.

Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
Through the garth, and go our
ways,
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance
needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,

Lonely on the hillside grey,
Whence the sheep have gone away;

Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,

Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting

low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white
hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off
Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine,
But not touching;
and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom
and thy brow.
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine
hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst
move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine
eyes to me.
Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard,

In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And
the daffodils downcast,
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the
lonely Sun-Crowned one,
Then the meads fade at our back,
And the
spring day 'gins to lack
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we
twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the
grassy slope and low
Dieth in the shingly sand:
Then we wander
hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee

Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
'Twixt thy
lips and mine, O love!
Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!
OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG
A STORY FROM THE LAND-SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND,
CHAPTER XXX.
At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,
So many times over comes
summer again,
Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.
What healing
in summer if winter be vain?

Dim and dusk the day was grown,
As
he heard his folded wethers moan.
Then through the garth a man
drew near,
With painted shield and gold-wrought spear.
Good was
his horse and grand his gear,
And his girths were wet with
Whitewater.
"Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long!
How fare the
folk at Deildar-Tongue?"
"All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong!
How
fare the folk by the Brothers'-Tongue?"
"Meat have we there, and
drink and fire,
Nor lack all things that we desire.
But by the other
Whitewater
Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear."
"Tales enow may

my daughter make
If too many words be said for her sake."
"What
saith thine heart to a word of mine,
That I deem thy daughter fair and
fine?
Fair and fine for a bride is she,
And I fain would have her
home with me."
"Full many a word that at noon goes forth
Comes
home at even little worth.
Now winter treadeth on autumn-tide,
So
here till the spring shalt thou abide.
Then if thy mind be changed no
whit.
And ye still will wed, see ye to it!
And on the first of summer
days,
A wedded man, ye may go your ways.
Yet look, howso the
thing will fall,
My hand shall meddle nought at all.
Lo, now the
night and rain draweth up.
And within doors glimmer stoop and cup.

And hark, a little sound I know,
The laugh of Snæbiorn's
fiddle-bow,
My sister's son, and a craftsman good,
When the red
rain drives through the iron wood."
Hallbiorn laughed, and followed
in,
And a merry feast there did begin.
Hallgerd's hands undid his
weed,
Hallgerd's hands poured out the mead.
Her fingers at his
breast he felt,
As her hair fell down about his belt.
Her fingers with
the cup he took,
And o'er its rim at her did look.
Cold cup, warm
hand, and fingers slim.
Before his eyes were waxen dim.
And if the
feast were foul or fair,
He knew not, save that she was there.
He
knew not if men laughed or wept,
While still 'twixt wall and daïs she
stept.
Whether she went or stood that eve,
Not once his eyes her
face did leave.
But Snæbiorn laughed and Snæbiorn sang,
And
sweet his smitten fiddle rang.

And Hallgerd stood beside him there,

So many times over comes summer again
Nor ever once he turned to
her,
What healing in summer if winter be vain?
Master Odd on the morrow spake,
So many times over comes summer
again.
"Hearken, O guest, if ye be awake,"
What healing in summer
if winter be vain?
"Sure ye champions of the south
Speak many
things from a silent mouth.
And thine, meseems, last night did pray

That ye might well be wed to-day.
The year's ingathering feast it is,

A goodly day to give thee bliss.
Come hither, daughter, fine and fair,

Here is a wooer from Whitewater.
Fast away hath he gotten fame,


And his father's name is e'en my name.
Will ye lay hand within his
hand,
That blossoming fair our house may stand?"
She laid her
hand within his hand;
White she was as the lily wand.
Low sang
Snæbiorn's brand in its sheath,
And his lips were waxen grey as death.

"Snæbiorn, sing us a song of worth.
If your song must be