Lays and Legends (Second Series)

Who says that Spring is dear and fair?
It is in Spring-time that we part,
And weary heart from weary heart
Turns, as the birds begin to pair.
The sun shines on the golden dome,
The primroses in baskets come,
With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer
The town with dreams of the crownèd year.
We're both polite and insincere:
Though neither says it, yet – at heart —
We mean to part.

JUNE

Oh, I'm weary of the town,
Where life's too hard for smiling – and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs – the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's – the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?

Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side – you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze, —
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.

There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle – where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city – on this first blue day of June!

The grass is high – I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day —
It would only be to count my dead – whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow – not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way – but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

JULY

The night hardly covers the face of the sky,
But the darkness is drawn
Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July,
A veil rent at dawn,
When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver,
And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river,
And the light in the east keener grows – clearer grows,
Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose,
And o'er the hill's shoulder – the night wholly past —
The sun peeps at last!

Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song,
That soothes like a sleep;
And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along,
Where the downs slope up steep.
There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven,
Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven,
And the old earth looks new – and our hearts seem new-born,
And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn —
And hope and brave purpose awaken anew
'Mid the sunshine and dew.

NOVEMBER

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by
Across the gold sun and blue sky,
Which still are there eternally.
Above the sodden garden-bed
Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,
Where the tall lily bent its head
Over carnations white and red.

The leafless poplars, straight and tall,
Stand by the gray-green garden wall,
From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old
Sweet August spent the roses' gold,
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold
Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.

And we, by cosy fireside, muse
On what the Fates grant, what refuse;
And what we waste and what we use.
Summer returns – despite the rain
That weeps against the window-pane.
Who'd weep – 'mid fame and golden gain —
For youth, that does not come again?

ROCHESTER CASTLE

Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;
Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd
Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things —
Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.