SHINE ON
Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song!
And in her light my heart fashions a tune
Not wholly sad, most like a tender rune
Sung by some knight in days gone overlong,
When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian grove
Looked out towards his England, and then drew
From a sweet instrument a sound that grew
From twilight unto morning of his love.
Go, then, beloved, bearing as you go
These songs that have more sunlight far than cloud;
More summer flowers than dead leaves ‘neath the snow;
That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud.
My lady, bright benignant star, shine on—
I lift to thee my low Trisagion!
HE that hath pleasant dreams is more fortunate
than one who hath a cup-bearer.
—Egyptian Proverb.
SO, THOU ART GONE
So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear
Thy memory as a golden amulet
Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette
Of winter tones, when summer time is here.
And yet, my heart arises from the dark,
Where it fell back in silence when you went
To seaward, and a sprite malevolent
Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.
‘Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame,
Burning in love’s areanum; ‘twas a cry
Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame
Life’s holy calm, or wasting agony.
But now between the warring strings there grows
A space of peace, as ‘tween truce-honoured foes.
THE THOUSAND THINGS
Here one by one come back the thousand things
Which made divinely sweet our intercourse;
Love summons them here straightway to divorce
The heart from melancholy wanderings.
“Here laid she her white hand upon my arm;
To this place came she with slow-gliding grace;
Here smiled she up serenely in my face;
And these sweet notes she sang me for a charm.”
I treasure up her words, and say them o’er
With close-shut eyes; with her again I float
Upon the Loire; I see the gems she wore,
The ruby shining at her queenly throat;
I climb with her again the Pyrenees,
And hear her laughter ringing through the trees.