The fluted wren is sobbing Beneath the mossy eaves; The throstle’s chord is throbbing In coronal of leaves; The home of love is lilies, And rose-hearts, flaming red, Red roses and white lilies-- Lo, thus the gods were wed!
But we weep on, unheeding The earth’s joys spread for us; And ever, far receding, Our fair land fades from us: One waited, patient, broken, High-hearted but opprest, One lightly took the token-- The mad Fates took the rest.
High mountains and low valleys, And shreds of silver seas, The lone brook’s sudden sallies, And all the joys of these,-- These were, but now the fire Volcanic seeks the sea, And dark wave walls retire Tyrannic seeking me.
Spirit of dreams, a vision Well hast thou wrought for us; Fold high the veil Elysian, The past held naught for us; Years, what are they but spaces Set in a day for me? Lo, here are lilied places-- My love comes back to me!
I knows a town, an’ it’s a fine town, And many a brig goes sailin’ to its quay; I knows an inn, an’ it’s a fine inn, An’ a lass that’s fair to see. I knows a town, an’ it’s a fine town; I knows an inn, an’ it’s a fine inn-- But Oh my lass, an’ Oh the gay gown, Which I have seen my pretty in!
I knows a port, an’ it’s a good port, An’ many a brig is ridin’ easy there; I knows a home, an’ it’s a good home, An’ a lass that’s sweet an’ fair. I knows a port, an’ it’s a good port, I knows a home, an’ it’s a good home-- But Oh the pretty that is my sort, What’s wearyin’ till I come!
I knows a day, an’ it’s a fine day, The day a sailor man comes back to town; I knows a tide, an’ it’s a good tide, The tide that gets you quick to anchors down. I knows a day, an’ it’s a fine day, I knows a tide, an’ it’s a good tide-- And God help the lubber, I say, What’s stole the sailor man’s bride!
Mark the faces of the children Flooded with sweet innocence! God’s smile on their foreheads glisten Ere their heart-strings have grown tense.
And they know not of the sadness, Of the palpitating pain Drawn through arid veins of manhood, Or the lusts that life disdain.
Little reek they of the shadows Fallen through the steep world’s space God hath touched them with His chrism And their sunlight is His grace.
And the green grooves of the meadows They are fair to look upon; And the silver thrush and robin Sing most sweetly on and on.