November
As I walk the misty hill
All is languid, fogged and still;
Not a note of any bird,
Nor any motion's hint is heard
Save from soaking thickets round
Trickle or water's rushing sound,
And from ghostly trees the drip
Of runnel dews or whispering slip
Of leaves, which in a body launch
Listlessly from the stagnant branch,
To strew the marl, already strown
With litter sodden as its own.
A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briers,
And from the clammy ground suspires
A sweet frail sick autumnal scent
Of stale frost furring weeds long spent,
And wafted on, like one who sleeps,
A feeble vapour hangs or creeps,
Exhaling on the fungus mould
A breath of age, fatigue and cold.
Oozed from the bracken's desolate track,
By dark rains havocked and drenched black,
A fog about the coppice drifts
Or slowly thickens up and lifts
Into the moist despondent air.
Mist, grief, and stillness everywhere....
And in me, too, there is no sound
Save welling as of tears profound
Where in me cloud, grief, stillness reign,
And an intolerable pain
Begins.
Rolled on as in a flood there come
Memories of childhood, boyhood, home
And that which, sudden, pangs me most,
Thought of the first-beloved, long lost,
Too easy lost! My cold lips frame
Tremulously the familiar name,
Unheard of her upon my breath:
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
No voice answers on the hill.
All is shrouded, sad and still ...
Stillness, fogged brakes and fog on high.
Only in me the waters cry
Who mourn the hours now slipped for ever.
Hours of boding, joy and fever,
When we loved, by chance beguiled,
I a boy and you a child;
Child! But with an angel's air.
Astonished, eager, unaware,
Or elfin, wandering with grace
Foreign to any fireside race;
And with a gaiety unknown
In the light feet and hair back-blown;
And with a sadness yet more strange
In meagre cheeks which knew to change
Or faint or fired more swift than sight,
And forlorn hands and lips pressed white,
And fragile voice and head downcast
To hide tears, lifted at the last
To speed with one pale smile the wise
Glance of the grey immortal eyes.
How strange it was that we should dare
Compound a miracle so rare
As, twixt this pace and Time's next pace,
Each to discern th' elected's face;
Yet stranger that the high sweet fire,
In hearts nigh foreign to desire,
Could burn, sigh, weep and burn again,
As oh, it never has since then!
Most strange of all that we so young
Dared learn but would not speak love's tongue,
Love pledged but in the reveries
Of our sad and dreaming eyes....
Now upon such journey bound me,
Grief, disquiet and stillness round me,
As bids me where I cannot tell,
Turn I and sigh, unseen, farewell:
Breathe the name as soft as mist,
Lips, which nor kissed her nor were kissed,
And again—a sigh, a death—
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"