I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, 'Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.'

She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose--'twas no great matter.

The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours.

And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But ah! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

'A quinsy choke thy cursed note!'

Then wax'd her anger stronger.

'Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.'

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.

The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; 'So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.'

The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.

The gla.s.s blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder.

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;

And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, 'The Devil take the goose, And G.o.d forget the stranger!'

IN AUTUMN

I

A spirit haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly.

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

II

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

AS THROUGH THE LAND AT EVE WE WENT

As thro' the land at eve we went, And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I, We fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love, And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, O there above the little grave, We kissed again with tears.

THE BUGLE

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits, old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.'

Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and n.o.blest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

THE BROOK