Small is my secret-let it pass-
Small in your life the share I had,
Who sat beside you in the class,
Awed by the bright superior lad:
Whom yet with hot and eager face
I prompted when he missed his place.

For you the call came swift and soon:
But sometimes in your holidays
You meet me trudging home at noon
To dinner through the dusty ways,
And recognized, and with a nod
Passed on, but never guessed-thank God!

Truly our ways were separate.
I bent myself to hoe and drill,

Yea, with an honest man to mate,
Fulfilling God Almighty's will;
And bore him children. But my prayers
Were yours-and, only after, theirs.

While you-still loftier, more remote,
You sprang from stair to stair of fame,
And you've a riband on your coat,
And you've a title to your name;
But have you yet a star to shine
Above your bed, as I o'er mine?

Upon Eckington Bridge, River Avon

O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm
Of green days telling with a quiet beat-
O wave into the sunset flowing calm!
O tirèd lark descending on the wheat!
Lies it all peace beyond the western fold
Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star
Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold
Yon cloud with prophecies of linkèd ease-
Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees,
To drowse beside her implements of war?

Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept
Avon from Naseby Field to Savern Ham;
And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd
Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme.
Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower
Abides; but yet these elegant grooves remain,
Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour
By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes;
E'en so shall men turn back from violent hopes
To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again.

Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap
Like a repentant child at length he hies,
Nor in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap
Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries:
But when in winter's grave, bereft of light,
With still, small voice divinelier whispering
-Lifting the green head of the aconite,
Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot-
She feels God's finger active at the root,
Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.

To A Friend Who Sent Me A Box Of Violets

Nay, more than violets
These thoughts of thine, friend!
Rather thy reedy brook--
Taw's tributary--
At midnight murmuring,
Descried them, the delicate
Dark-eyed goddesses,
There by his cressy bed
Dissolved and dreaming
Dreams that distilled into dew
All the purple of night,
All the shine of a planet.

Whereat he whispered;
And they arising--

Of day's forget-me-nots
The duskier sisters--
Descended, relinquished
The orchard, the trout-pool,
Torridge and Tamar,
The Druid circles,
Sheepfolds of Dartmoor,
Granite and sandstone;
By Roughtor, Dozmare,
Down the vale of the Fowey
Moving in silence,
Brushing the nightshade
By bridges cyclopean,
By Trevenna, Treverbyn,
Lawharne and Largin,
By Glynn, Lanhydrock,
Restormel, Lostwithiel,
Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town;
Down the vale of the Fowey
To the tidal water
Washing the feet
Of fair St Winnow--
Each, in her exile
Musing the message,
Passed, as the starlit
Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite.

So they came,
Valley-born, valley-nurtured--
Came to the tideway
The jetties, the anchorage,
The salt wind piping,
Snoring in Equinox,
By ships at anchor,
By quays tormented,
Storm-bitten streets;
Came to the Haven
Crying, 'Ah, shelter us,
The strayed ambassadors,
Love's lost legation
On a comfortless coast!'

Nay, but a little sleep,
A little folding
Of petals to the lull
Of quiet rainfalls--
Here in my garden,
In angle sheltered
From north and east wind--
Softly shall recreate
The courage of charity,
Henceforth not to me only
Breathing the message.

Clean-breath'd Sirens!
Hencefore the mariner.

I

He.
Aglai-a! Aglai-a!
Sweet, awaken and be glad.

She.
Who is this that calls Aglaia?
Is it thou, my dearest lad?

He.
'Tis Arion, 'tis Arion,
Who calls thee from sleep-
From slumber who bids thee
To follow and number
His kids and his sheep.

She.
Nay, leave to entreat me!
If mother should spy on
Us twain, she would beat me.

He.
Then come, my love, come!
And hide with Arion
Where green woods are dumb!


She.
Ar-i-on! Ar-i-on!
Closer, list! I am afraid!


He.
Whisper, then, thy love Arion,
From thy window, lily maid.


She.
Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia
Hath heard them debate
Of wooing repenting-
'Who trust to undoing,
Lament them too late.'


He.
Nay, nay, when I woo thee,
Thy mother might spy on
All harm I shall do thee.


She.
I come, then-I come!
To follow Arion
Where green woods be dumb.


SONG

Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,
Arrow of Love-I bare my neck
Down to the bosom. See, no fleck

Of blood! I have never a wound; I go
Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho!
What 'neath my girdle flutters so?

'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,
'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;
While in the wound it nests and sings-
Heigh-ho!


He.
Of Arion, of Arion
That wound thou shalt learn;
What nothings 'tis made of,
And soft pretty soothings
In shade of the fern.


She.
When maids have a mind to,
Man's word they rely on,
Old warning are blind to-
I come, then-I come
To walk with Arion
Where green woods are dumb!


II

He.
Dear my love, and O my love,
And O my love so lately!
Did we wander yonder grove
And sit awhile sedately?
For either you did there conclude
To do at length as I did,
Or passion's fashion's turn'd a prude,
And troth's an oath derided.


She.
Yea, my love-and nay, my love-
And ask me not to tell, love,
While I delay'd an idle day
What 'twixt us there befell, love.
Yet either I did sit beside
And do at length as you did,
Or my delight is lightly by
An idle lie deluded!

Of Three Children

OF THREE CHILDREN CHOOSING
A CHAPLET OF VERSE

You and I and Burd so blithe—
Burd so blithe, and you, and I—

The Mower he would whet his scythe
Before the dew was dry.

And he woke soon, but we woke soon
And drew the nursery blind,

All wondering at the waning moon
With the small June roses twined:

Low in her cradle swung the moon
With an elfin dawn behind.

In whispers, while our elders slept,
We knelt and said our prayers,

And dress'd us and on tiptoe crept
Adown the creaking stairs.

The world's possessors lay abed,
And all the world was ours—

'Nay, nay, but hark! the Mower's tread!
And we must save the flowers!'

The Mower knew not rest nor haste—
That old unweary man:

But we were young. We paused and raced
And gather'd while we ran.

O youth is careless, youth is fleet,
With heart and wing of bird!

The lark flew up beneath our feet,
To his copse the pheasant whirr'd;

The cattle from their darkling lairs
Heaved up and stretch'd themselves;

Almost they trod at unawares
Upon the busy elves

That dropp'd their spools of gossamer,
To dangle and to dry,

And scurried home to the hollow fir
Where the white owl winks an eye.

Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe
Had driven them in this haste;

But the old, old man, so lean and lithe,
That afar behind us paced;

So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe,
And a whetstone at his waist.

Within the gate, in a grassy round
Whence they had earliest flown,

He upside-down'd his scythe, and ground
Its edge with careful hone.

But we heeded not, if we heard, the sound,
For the world was ours alone;

The world was ours!—and with a bound
The conquering Sun upshone!

And while as from his level ray
We stood our eyes to screen.

The world was not as yesterday
Our homelier world had been—

So grey and golden-green it lay
All in his quiet sheen,

That wove the gold into the grey,
The grey into the green.

Sure never hand of Puck, nor wand
Of Mab the fairies' queen,

Nor prince nor peer of fairyland
Had power to weave that wide riband
Of the grey, the gold, the green.

But the Gods of Greece had been before
And walked our meads along,

The great authentic Gods of yore
That haunt the earth from shore to shore
Trailing their robes of song.

And where a sandall'd foot had brush'd,
And where a scarfed hem,

The flowers awoke from sleep and rush'd
Like children after them.

Pell-mell they poured by vale and stream,
By lawn and steepy brae—

'O children, children! while you dream,
Your flowers run all away!'

But afar and abed and sleepily
The children heard us call;

And Burd so blithe and you and I
Must be gatherers for all.

The meadow-sweet beside the hedge,
The dog-rose and the vetch,

The sworded iris 'mid the sedge,
The mallow by the ditch—

With these, and by the wimpling burn,
Where the midges danced in reels,

With the watermint and the lady fern
We brimm'd out wicker creels:

Till, all so heavily they weigh'd,
On a bank we flung us down,

Shook out our treasures 'neath the shade
And wove this Triple Crown.

Flower after flower—for some there were
The noonday heats had dried,

And some were dear yet could not bear
A lovelier cheek beside,

And some were perfect past compare—
Ah, darlings! what a world of care
It cost us to decide!

Natheless we sang in sweet accord,
Each bending o'er her brede—

'O there be flowers in Oxenford,
And flowers be north of Tweed,

And flowers there be on earthly sward
That owe no mortal seed!'

And these, the brightest that we wove,
Were Innocence and Truth,

And holy Peace and angel Love,
Glad Hope and gentle Ruth.

Ah, bind them fast with triple twine
Of Memory, the wild woodbine
That still, being human, stays divine,
And alone is age's youth!...

But hark! but look! the warning rook
Wings home in level flight;

The children tired with play and book
Have kiss'd and call'd Good-night!

Ah, sisters, look! What fields be these
That lie so sad and shorn?

What hand has cut our coppices,
And thro' the trimm'd, the ruin'd, trees
Lets wail a wind forlorn?

'Tis Time, 'tis Time has done this crime
And laid our meadows waste—

The bent unwearied tyrant Time,
That knows nor rest nor haste.

Yet courage, children; homeward bring
Your hearts, your garlands high;

For we have dared to do a thing
That shall his worst defy.

We cannot nail the dial's hand;
We cannot bind the sun

By Gibeon to stay and stand,
Or the moon o'er Ajalon;

We cannot blunt th' abhorred shears,
Nor shift the skeins of Fate,

Nor say unto the posting years
'Ye shall not desolate.'

We cannot cage the lion's rage,
Nor teach the turtle-dove

Beside what well his moan to tell
Or to haunt one only grove;

But the lion's brood will range for food
As the fledged bird will rove.

And east and west we three may wend—
Yet we a wreath have wound

For us shall wind withouten end
The wide, wide world around:

Be it east or west, and ne'er so far,
In east or west shall peep no star,
No blossom break from ground,
But minds us of the wreath we wove
Of innocence and holy love
That in the meads we found,

And handsell'd from the Mower's scythe,
And bound with memory's living withe—
You and I and Burd so blithe—
Three maidens on a mound:

And all of happiness was ours
Shall find remembrance 'mid the flowers,
Shall take revival from the flowers
And by the flowers be crown'd.