The mother told her little child the story
Of the gold trees the heavenly gardens hold.
In golden dreams the child sees golden rivers,
Gold trees, gold blossoms, golden boughs and leaves,
Without, the cypress in the night wind shivers,
Weeps with the rain and with the darkness grieves.
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When I was little and good
Where light white windflowers grew,And hyacinths heavy and blue.The windflowers fluttered light,Like butterflies white and bright;The bluebells tremulous stoodDeep in the heart of the wood.I gathered the white and the blue,The wild wet woodland through,With hands too silly and smallTo clasp and carry them all.Some dropped from my hands and diedBy the home-road’s grassy side;And…
(IRIS.)
And I’d rather not be more:Four’s the nicest age to be–Two and two, or one and three.All I love is two and two,Mother, Fabian, Paul and you;All you love is one and three,Mother, Fabian, Paul and me.Give your little girl a kissBecause she learned and told you this.
WE climb the hill; the mist conceals
Surely this hill’s crest, gained, revealsThe glory of the sunlit day.The hill is climbed. Still shadow-land–Still darkling looms another hill.Oh, weary feet!–climb that to findA new ascent, ‘mid shadows still!We dare not stop or think of rest,This one hill may be all that liesBetween us and our souls’ desire–The splendour of the eastern skies.Through long…
WE might have held back from Love’s draught divine
Tasting the voluntary sweet delayOf lips that at the cup’s edge touch the wine,Yet will not drink, knowing that when the fineEagerly tasted thirst grows pain, they mayDrink deep. We might have missed Love’s only way,And thou and I been never mine and thine.Instead, we sprang straight to the hidden shrine,Nor lingered in the temple’s…
OH God! if I do my duty
Will you pay me with heavens of beauty,Millions of lives away?Will you give me the music of heaven,And the joy that none understands,In place of what life would have givenIf I had held out my hands?I have lived in a narrow prison,I have writhed ‘neath a bitter creed,And I dare to say that no heaven…
THE lilies in my garden grow,
In that green copse wild violets blow,And pale, frail cuckoo flowers are found.For all you see and all you hear,The city might be miles away,And yet you feel the city nearThrough all the quiet of the day.Sweet smells the earth–wet with sweet rain–Sweet lilac waves in moonlight pale,And from the wood beyond the laneI hear…