The hue of highland rivers Careering, full and cool, From sable on to golden, From rapid on to pool— The hue of heather-honey, The hue of honey-bees, Shall tinge her golden shoulder, Shall gild her tawny knees.
Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams, Beauty awake from rest! Let Beauty awake For Beauty’s sake In the hour when the birds awake in the brake And the stars are bright in the west!
Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day, Awake in the crimson eve! In the day’s dusk end When the shades ascend, Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend To render again and receive!
I know not how it is with you— _I_ love the first and last, The whole field of the present view, The whole flow of the past.
One tittle of the things that are, Nor you should change nor I— One pebble in our path—one star In all our heaven of sky.
Our lives, and every day and hour, One symphony appear: One road, one garden—every flower And every bramble dear.
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
XII—WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE (_To an air of Diabelli_)
Berried brake and reedy island, Heaven below, and only heaven above, Through the sky’s inverted azure Softly swam the boat that bore our love. Bright were your eyes as the day; Bright ran the stream, Bright hung the sky above. Days of April, airs of Eden, How the glory died through golden hours, And the shining moon arising, How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers! Bright were your eyes in the night: We have lived, my love— O, we have loved, my love.
Frost has bound our flowing river, Snow has whitened all our island brake, And beside the winter fagot Joan and Darby doze and dream and wake. Still, in the river of dreams Swims the boat of love— Hark! chimes the falling oar! And again in winter evens When on firelight dreaming fancy feeds, In those ears of agèd lovers Love’s own river warbles in the reeds. Love still the past, O my love! We have lived of yore, O, we have loved of yore.