HAD I THE POWER THAT HAVE THE WILL
Had I the power that have the will,
The enfeebled will—a modern curse—
This book of mine should blossom still
A perfect garden-ground of verse.
White placid marble gods should keep
Good watch in every shadowy lawn;
And from clean, easy-breathing sleep
The birds should waken me at dawn.
—A fairy garden;—none the less
Throughout these gracious paths of mine
All day there should be free access
For stricken hearts and lives that pine;
And by the folded lawns all day—
No idle gods for such a land—
All active Love should take its way
With active Labour hand in hand.
O DULL COLD NORTHERN SKY
O dull cold northern sky,
O brawling sabbath bells,
O feebly twittering Autumn bird that tells
The year is like to die!
O still, spoiled trees, O city ways,
O sun desired in vain,
O dread presentiment of coming rain
That cloys the sullen days!
Thee, heart of mine, I greet.
In what hard mountain pass
Striv’st thou? In what importunate morass
Sink now thy weary feet?
Thou run’st a hopeless race
To win despair. No crown
Awaits success, but leaden gods look down
On thee, with evil face.
And those that would befriend
And cherish thy defeat,
With angry welcome shall turn sour the sweet
Home-coming of the end.
Yea, those that offer praise
To idleness, shall yet
Insult thee, coming glorious in the sweat
Of honourable ways.
APOLOGETIC POSTSCRIPT OF A YEAR LATER
If you see this song, my dear,
And last year’s toast,
I’m confoundedly in fear
You’ll be serious and severe
About the boast.
Blame not that I sought such aid
To cure regret.
I was then so lowly laid
I used all the Gasconnade
That I could get.
Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
Believe, my sweet;
And I needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
To its conceit.
Come and smile, dear, and forget
I boasted so,
I apologise—regret—
It was all a jest;—and—yet—
I do not know.
TO MARCUS
You have been far, and I
Been farther yet,
Since last, in foul or fair
An impecunious pair,
Below this northern sky
Of ours, we met.
Now winter night shall see
Again us two,
While howls the tempest higher,
Sit warmly by the fire
And dream and plan, as we
Were wont to do.
And, hand in hand, at large
Our thoughts shall walk
While storm and gusty rain,
Again and yet again,
Shall drive their noisy charge
Across the talk.
The pleasant future still
Shall smile to me,
And hope with wooing hands
Wave on to fairy lands
All over dale and hill
And earth and sea.
And you who doubt the sky
And fear the sun—
You—Christian with the pack—
You shall not wander back
For I am Hopeful—I
Will cheer you on.
Come—where the great have trod,
The great shall lead—
Come, elbow through the press,
Pluck Fortune by the dress—
By God, we must—by God,
We shall succeed.