From shade to light, from light to shade,
The overbending boughs between,
I glide, as in a fairy glade,
Till the sweet summer day is made
A melody of summer green.
The meadows all are clothed with light,
As with a garment, and the heat
Swims dreamful where the grass is dight
With ox-eye daisies and the white
Of lady’s smock and meadow-sweet.
And clear-cut in the quiet air
Move large brown outlines of the cows,
That nose Earth’s verdure fresh and fair
And scatter far its perfume where
With peaceful onward push they browse.
Beside the brink the swift stream lags,
And spreads its liquid arms to cool
The golden-flowered phalanx of flags
Whereby the water-wagtail wags
Its mirrored head in many a pool.
And here a swallow lightly skims
Or strikes the broad flood, breast to breast,
And there in shady hollow swims
The lazy roach between wet rims
Of water-lilies, where they rest.
Here by an overhanging bank
The sunlit soft transparent wave
Reveals a myriad lives that prank
In giddy dance within the dank
Deep water-world which is their grave;
And there a wild rose overblown
Showers red rain on the shining way,
And the fair moving fields are sown
With countless blossoms random-thrown
And gliding downwards with the day;
And here and there a willow dips
And dallies with the dimpling plain,
But evermore the river slips
Onward—as from a maiden’s lips
Some low melodious refrain.
And with a soft and rippling sound
The little bark fleets onward too,
By bushy brake and meadow-bound,
The swimming swirling curves around,
Till in a slumbrous swoon the view
Slides swiftly shifting, and the shades
Grow longer, and the evening light
Dies, and the sunset splendour fades
Slowly against the stars of night.
THE ARTIST TO HIS LADY
I put my hands together, palm to palm,
And say: Take these; and, whereso’er thou wilt
Go,—I will follow. For indeed I have
No other life than this—to follow Thee.
The lady of my love is very fair;
Often when morning rose above the rain
She waved her white hand at the window-pane,
And passed and mounted through the fields of air.
I never saw her face or felt her smile,
She seemed to pine among the haunts of men;
Till at the last I left my city den,
And followed in her footsteps for a while.
She led me where the light shines freely down,
She set me by the river-fringes green,
And turned herself, and in her face, I ween,
The glories of all worlds to me were shown.
Her marble front is not of mortal mould,
Her look is of the lands which are not seen,
Broad is her brow, somewhat austere her mien,
Yet magical her beauty to behold.
For all the friendless way hedged with offence,
For all the hours forsaken of her face,
Now to behold in peace her peerless grace
Is and remains my perfect recompense.