And so men call him "Saint," yet some Deemed this an unearned crown, Since 'twas not for the Church or faith He laid his brave life down; But otherwise men deemed of it In Canterbury town.
"Not for the Church he died," they said, "Yet he our saint shall be, Since for Christ's poor he gave his life, So for Christ's self died he. 'Who does it to the least of these, Has done it unto Me!'"
It was about the time of day When all the lawns with dew are wet; I wandered down a steep wood-way, And there I met with Margaret-- Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met: I could not find a word to say, And she was silent too--and yet For hand and lips I dared to pray-- And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay, Her eyes are like the violet; Will time take this joy, too, away, And ever teach me to forget-- And to forget without regret-- The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of God or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace-- A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not God laugh out in my face? Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
When autumn winds the river grieve, And autumn mists about it creep, The river maids all shivering leave The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow Alike are impotent to break The spell of sleep that laid them low-- The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace Strews blossom on the river's breast, Flowers fall upon each sleeping face And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar Through alders green and willows gray, They rise where sedge and iris are, And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
They lie beside the river's edge, By fields with buttercups a-blaze; They whisper in the whispering sedge, They say the spell the cuckoo says.