THE HAWTHORN TREE
Across the shimmering meadows—
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land—
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine—
Not what he said to me!
THE POOR MINSTREL
Does the darkness cradle thee
Than mine arms more tenderly?
Do the angels God hath put
There to guard thy lonely sleep—
One at head and one at foot—
Watch more fond and constant keep?
When the black-bird sings in May,
And the spring is in the wood,
Would you never trudge the way
Over hill-tops, if you could?
Was my harp so hard a load
Even on the sunny morns
When the plumèd huntsmen rode
To the music of their horns?
Hath the love that lit the stars,
Fills the sea and moulds the flowers,
Whose completeness nothing mars,
Made forgot what once was ours?
Christ hath perfect rest to give—
Stillness and perpetual peace;
You, who found it hard to live,
Sleep and sleep, without surcease.
Christ hath stars to light thy porch,
Silence after fevered song;—
I had but a minstrel’s torch
And the way was wet and long.
Sleep. No more on winter nights,
Harping at some castle gate,
Thou must see the revel lights
Stream upon our cold estate.
Bitter was the bread of song
While you tarried in my tent,
And the jeering of the throng
Hurt you, as it came and went.
When you slept upon my breast
Grief had wed me long ago:
Christ hath his perpetual rest
For thy weariness. But oh!
When I sleep beside the road,
Thanking God thou liest not so,
Brother to the owl and toad,
Could’st thou, Dear, but let me know,
Does the darkness cradle thee
Than mine arms more tenderly?
ANTINOUS
With attributes of gods they sculptured him,
Hermes, Osiris, but were never wise
To lift the level, frowning brow of him
Or dull the mortal misery in his eyes,
The scornful weariness of every limb,
The dust-begotten doubt that never dies,
Antinous, beneath thy lids, though dim,
The curling smoke of altars rose to thee,
Conjuring thee to comfort and content.
An emperor sent his galleys wide and far
To seek thy healing for thee. Yea, and spent
Honour and treasure and red fruits of war
To lift thy heaviness, lest thou should’st mar
The head that was an empire’s glory, bent
A little, as the heavy poppies are.
Did the perfection of thy beauty pain
Thy limbs to bear it? Did it ache to be,
As song hath ached in men, or passion vain?
Or lay it like some heavy robe on thee?
Was thy sick soul drawn from thee like the rain,
Or drunk up as the dead are drunk each hour
To feed the colour of some tulip flower?