And, O song that I sing now while we are together, Go, sing to some new year of women and men, How I and she loved in the long loving weather, And ask if they love on as we two loved then.
AS ONE WOULD STAND WHO SAW A SUDDEN LIGHT.
As one would stand who saw a sudden light Flood down the world, and so encompass him, And in that world illumined Seraphim Brooded above and gladdened to his sight; So stand I in the flame of one great thought, That broadens to my soul from where she waits, Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates Of all my being to the hopes I sought. Her words come to me like a summer-song, Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale; I stand within her light the whole day long, And think upon her till the white stars fail: I lift my head towards all that makes life wise, And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.
It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten’d eye, Upon your journey of so many days, Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well, To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten’d eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you passed: ’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.
The ancient memories buried lie, And the olden fancies pass; The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly, And die as the April cowslips die That scatter the bloomy grass.
All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead, And the happy blossoming spring; The winter comes with its iron tread, The fields with the dying sun are red, And the birds have ceased to sing.