Poems by the Way Love Is Enough | Page 5

I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream
that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope's body dead!

Count o'er and o'er, and one by one,
The minutes of the happy sun

That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is
dead.
Weep, though no hair's breadth thou shalt move
The living
Earth, the heaven above,
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and
cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,

Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not,
though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak,
love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
"Mock
not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!"
I
bless thee, O my love, who say'st:
"Mock not the thistle-cumbered
waste;
I hold Love's hand, and make no haste
Down the long way,
now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long
years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,

Mock not our lost hope lying dead.

Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,

No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since
ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The
master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the
less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!"
ERROR AND LOSS

Upon an eve I sat me down and wept,
Because the world to me
seemed nowise good;
Still autumn was it, and the meadows slept,

The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood
Seemed listening to the
sorrow of my mood:
I knew not if the earth with me did grieve,
Or
if it mocked my grief that bitter eve.
Then 'twixt my tears a maiden did I see,
Who drew anigh me on the
leaf-strewn grass,
Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully
With
grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pass
From me to her, and tearless
now I was,
And she mid tears was asking me of one
She long had
sought unaided and alone.
I knew not of him, and she turned away
Into the dark wood, and my
own great pain
Still held me there, till dark had slain the day,
And
perished at the grey dawn's hand again;
Then from the wood a voice
cried: "Ah, in vain,
In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet!
In what
lone land are set thy longed-for feet?"
Then I looked up, and lo, a man there came
From midst the trees, and
stood regarding me
Until my tears were dried for very shame;
Then
he cried out: "O mourner, where is she
Whom I have sought o'er
every land and sea?
I love her and she loveth me, and still
We meet
no more than green hill meeteth hill."
With that he passed on sadly, and I knew
That these had met and
missed in the dark night,
Blinded by blindness of the world untrue,

That hideth love and maketh wrong of right.
Then midst my pity for
their lost delight,
Yet more with barren longing I grew weak,
Yet
more I mourned that I had none to seek.
THE HALL AND THE WOOD
'Twas in the water-dwindling tide
When July days were done,
Sir
Rafe of Greenhowes 'gan to ride
In the earliest of the sun.

He left the white-walled burg behind,
He rode amidst the wheat.

The westland-gotten wind blew kind
Across the acres sweet.
Then rose his heart and cleared his brow,
And slow he rode the way:

"As then it was, so is it now,
Not all hath worn away."
So came he to the long green lane
That leadeth to the ford,
And saw
the sickle by the wain
Shine bright as any sword.
The brown carles stayed 'twixt draught and draught,
And murmuring,
stood aloof,
But one spake out when he had laughed:
"God bless the
Green-wood Roof!"
Then o'er the ford and up he fared:
And lo the happy hills!
And the
mountain-dale by summer cleared,
That oft the winter fills.
Then forth he rode by Peter's gate,
And smiled and said aloud:
"No
more a day doth the Prior wait;
White stands the tower and proud."
There leaned a knight on the gateway side
In armour white and wan,

And after the heels of the horse he cried,
"God keep the hunted
man!"
Then quoth Sir Rafe, "Amen, amen!"
For he deemed the word was
good;
But never a while he lingered then
Till he reached the Nether
Wood.
He rode by ash, he rode by oak,
He rode the thicket round,
And
heard no woodman strike a stroke,
No wandering wife he found.
He rode the wet, he rode the dry,
He rode the grassy glade:
At
Wood-end yet the sun was high,
And his heart was unafraid.
There on the bent his rein he drew,
And looked o'er field and fold,

O'er all the merry meads he knew
Beneath the mountains old.

He gazed across to the good Green Howe
As he smelt the
sun-warmed sward;
Then his face grew pale from chin to brow,

And he cried, "God save the sword!"
For there beyond the winding way,
Above the orchards green,

Stood up the ancient gables grey
With ne'er a roof between.
His naked