They come shaking in triumph their long green hair: They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore. My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair? My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels
The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.
The silence of maternal hills Is round me in my evening dreams; And round me music-making rills And mingling waves of pastoral streams.
Whatever way I turn I find The path is old unto me still. The hills of home are in my mind, And there I wander as I will.
He shall not hear the bittern cry In the wild sky, where he is lain, Nor voices of the sweeter birds Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill, Blowing to flame the golden cup Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor, And pastures poor with greedy weeds, Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
Still are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland com, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn.
The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall.
My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say.
As I walked in Petty Cury on Trinity Day, While the cuckoos in the fields did shout, Right through the city stole the breath of the may, And the scarlet doctors all about
Lifted up their heads to snuff at the breeze, And forgot they were bound for great St. Mary's To listen to a sermon from the Master of Caius, And "How balmy," they said, "the air is!"