Volume Iii Part 29 (2/2)

Here is the bride a G.o.d may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The G.o.d shall leap--and, lo,

Over the lake's end strikes the sun-- White, flameless fire; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world's heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires.

So the old mating goes apace, Wind with the sea, and blood with thought, Lover with lover; and the grace Of understanding comes unsought When stars into the twilight steer, Or thrushes build among the may, Or wonder moves between the hills, And day Comes up on Rydal mere.

John Drinkwater [1882-

THE DESERTED PASTURE

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have.

The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For b.u.t.tercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October pa.s.ses In gorgeous livery,-- In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive To pitch their tents therein.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green; Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

Ye've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, Ye're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.

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