BEYOND these hills where sinks the sun in amber,
Imperial in purple, gold and blood,
I keep the garden walks where roses clamber,
Set in still rows with shrub and flower and bud.
After the clash of all the swords that sunder,
After the headstrong pride of youth that fails,
After the shattered heavens and the thunder
Remain the summer woods and nightingales!
So when the fever has died down that urges
My lips to utterance of whirling words,
Which, blown among the winds and stormy surges,
Skim the wild sea-waves like the wild sea-birds.
So when has ceased the tumult and the riot,
A man may rest his soul a little space,
And seek your solitary eyes in quiet,
And all the gracious calmness of your face.
FULFILMENT
(An Inscription for a Book of Poems)
YOU who will hold these gathered songs,
Made, darling, long before we met,
Must keep the prophecy which belongs
To those dear eyes, so strangely set
With peace and laughter, where fulfils
The rapture of my alien hills.
Unknown, unknown you softly trod
Among my fruitful silences,
The last and splendid gift of God.
The quest of all my Odysseys,
The meaning of those quiet lands
Where I found comfort at your hands.
And when the yellowing woods awake,
And small birds’ twittered loves are told,
When streams run silver, and there break
The crocuses to tender gold,
When quick light winds shall stir my hair,
Some part of you will wander there.