But not, my friend, not these I sing,
My voice shall fill a narrower ring.
Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,
I seek to cheer:
Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring,
Life’s cantineer!
Some song that shall be suppling oil
To weary muscles strained with toil,
Shall hearten for the daily moil,
Or widely read
Make sweet for him that tills the soil
His daily bread.
Such songs in my flushed hours I dream
(High thought) instead of armour gleam
Or warrior cantos ream by ream
To load the shelves—
Songs with a lilt of words, that seem
To sing themselves.
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!