Now, O now, in this brown land

Vales and many a wasted sun,Oread let thy laughter run,Till the irreverent mountain airRipple all thy flying hair.Lightly, lightly — – ever so:Clouds that wrap the vales belowAt the hour of evenstarLowliest attendants are;Love and laughter song-confessedWhen the heart is heaviest.

Calling to them, a voice they know,He drives his beasts above Cabra.The voice tells them home is warm.They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.He drives them with a flowering branch before him,Smoke pluming their foreheads.Boor, bond of the herd,Tonight stretch full by the fire!I bleed by the black streamFor my torn bough!

Of cool sweet dew and radiance mildThe moon a web of silence weavesIn the still garden where a childGathers the simple salad leaves.A moondew stars her hanging hairAnd moonlight kisses her young browAnd, gathering, she sings an air:Fair as the wave is, fair, art thou!Be mine, I pray, a waxen earTo shield me from her…

With joy and griefMy heart is torn.Calm in his cradleThe living lies.May love and mercyUnclose his eyes!Young life is breathedOn the glass;The world that was notComes to pass.A child is sleeping:An old man gone.O, father forsaken,Forgive your son!

Yet must thou fold me unawareTo know the rapture of thy heart,And I but render and confessThe malice of thy tenderness.For elegant and antique phrase,Dearest, my lips wax all too wise;Nor have I known a love whose praiseOur piping poets solemnize,Neither a love where may not beEver so little falsity.

Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,At grey moonrise.Love, hear thouHow soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,Then as now.Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie and coldAs his sad heart has lainUnder the moongrey nettles, the black mouldAnd muttering rain.