This singing Summertime has never done With afternoons all gold and dust and fire, And windy trees blown silver in the sun, The lights of earth, her musics and desire;-- But day by day, and hour by lighted hour, Something beyond the summer earth and sky, Burns through this pa.s.sion of a world in flower,-- Some ghostly sense of lovers thronging by.

And I have thought, upon this windy hill, Where bends and sways the long, dream-troubled gra.s.s, That I may know the heart-beats, tender still, Of gone, forgotten lovers where they pa.s.s,-- Their love, too long for one brief life to hold, Beating and burning through this dust and gold.

VINES

No hint was told to these untutored seed: Along the mould wherein their roots are curled, No whisper runs of station, caste or creed, To guide their tendrils through a jealous world.

From palace wall or cottage door, these blooms, In careless disarray of white and red, Will peer through open windows into rooms Where princes sit, or women kneading bread.

Along these tender twilights where they lean, They send no whispered gossip down at all, Of cradle songs, or counsels of a queen, To roots indifferent if that upper wall Be loud with battles and the clash of Kings, Or quiet, where a mother sits and sings.

AUDIENCE

I am aware of crowds behind the night, Of eager faces just beyond our eyes, Immured in silences and lost to light, Piteous and pleading with a hurt surprise That we who live will never turn a head To speak them any answer, or to hark The pregnant whispered wisdom of the Dead, The futile finger pointed in the Dark.

THE DANCE

When we had gone from out the blazing room, Into the cool and leafy dark, at last, And found a sweetness in the summer gloom, A holy quiet on the ways we pa.s.sed,-- We turned, with only half-regretful glance At silhouettes beyond that square of light,-- Content to leave the laughter and the dance, For green, cool chambers of the summer night.

I think that we shall not be otherwise, When we have quit all rooms where once we went,-- But gazing back with grave, untroubled eyes, Shall find ourselves so quietly content, We shall not wish to alter that estate, Nor seek again the dance we left of late.

ON HEARING A BIRD SING AT NIGHT

Out of what ancient summer of soft airs Was spun this song that stills each listening leaf-- This silver, moon-bright minstreling that fares Through all old time, still laden with a grief?

Some hidden bird, by turrets and black bars, Where one had languished for her face was fair, Heard thus some troubadour beneath the stars, And learned this song of vanished hands and hair.

Who knows what golden story first gave birth To this old music that is heavy-sweet With gardens long forgotten of the earth, With pa.s.sion that was silver wings and feet, To cross the silent centuries and be heard, Calling again in this dream-troubled bird!

DAWN

The thousand m.u.f.fled noises of the dawn: The drowsy stir of birds, surprised from sleep, The faint applause of leaves above the lawn, The bleat, far off, of closely-cabined sheep,-- Are like dim perfumes blowing down the stairs, All sweetly prescient of the coming day,-- And less like sounds, than little tender airs Gone softly shod and happily astray.

The later sleepers, where the garden lies, Such heavy-lidded ladies as the rose, Hear the soft tumult with a dim surprise, There, where an early wind as roundsman goes, To rouse each languid, over-sleepy head, And shame them that they lie so long abed.

DAFFODILS OVER NIGHT

(_A Short Tale for Children_)

I think the ghost of Leerie Came by with ghostly tread, And little lighted tapers, When we had gone to bed,-- Past gravel-walk and garden, As he was wont to go, And lit these yellow lanterns, Burning where thy blow.

VALUES

It moves my heart but little to suppose That planted men, like planted seed, shall rise, That faulty dust re-blossoms as the rose, In new perfections for more perfect skies; Nor should I greatly care if one who knew Should tell that out beyond the Grievous Gate, The sleepy country that we travel to, Has never any waking, soon or late.

But what if I should hear a prophet say: Next year will bring no robins round the door, And April will not have her ancient way, The hedge will bear no blossoms any more, The earth will not be green for living men,-- For Spring will not pa.s.s by this way again!...

A GHOST OUT OF STRATFORD

For all the crowd that packed the house to-night, Marked you the vacant seat none came to claim,...

The fourth row from the front, and to the right?...

Vacant, I call it now.... But I could name A thing that happened when the lights were off, Of one who walked in buckles down the aisle, Wearing a great hat that he scorned to doff, And richly kerchiefed, wrist and neck in style.

Once in the play--I swear it--once I heard, Along the tumult of our loud applause, A sly and ghostly chuckle at a word That Falstaff mouthed with those outrageous jaws ...

I think he liked the play ... and stayed, no doubt, Long after us, and lingered going out.

WHO WALKS WITH BEAUTY

Who walks with Beauty has no need of fear: The sun and moon and stars keep pace with him; Invisible hands restore the ruined year, And time itself grows beautifully dim.

One hill will keep the footprints of the moon That came and went a hushed and secret hour; One star at dusk will yield the lasting boon: Remembered beauty's white, immortal flower.

Who takes of Beauty wine and daily bread, Will know no lack when bitter years are lean; The br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup is by, the feast is spread; The sun and moon and stars his eyes have seen, Are for his hunger and the thirst he slakes: The wine of Beauty and the bread he breaks.