And about the forest hut
Blows the roaring wood of dreams,
From deep clay, from desert rock,
From the sunk sands of the main,
Come not at my door to knock,
Hearts that loved me not again.
Sleep, be still, turn to your rest
In the lands where you are laid;
In far lodgings east and west
Lie down on the beds you made.
In gross marl, in blowing dust,
In the drowned ooze of the sea,
Where you would not, lie you must,
Lie you must, and not with me.
And brooding on my heavy ill,I met a statue standing still.Still in marble stone stood he,And stedfastly he looked at me.‘Well met,’ I thought the look would say,‘We both were fashioned far away;We neither knew, when we were young,These Londoners we live among.’Still he stood and eyed me hard,An earnest and a grave regard:‘What, lad,…
White in the moon the long road liesThat leads me from my love.Still hangs the hedge without a gust,Still, still the shadows stay:My feet upon the moonlit dustPursue the ceaseless way.The world is round, so travellers tell,And straight though reach the track,Trudge on, trudge on, ’twill all be well,The way will guide one back.But ere…
And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
Those are as beautiful againThat in the water are;The pools and rivers wash so cleanThe trees and clouds and air,The like on earth was never seen,And oh that I were there.These are the thoughts I often thinkAs I stand gazing downIn act upon the cressy brinkTo strip and dive and drown;But in the golden-sanded brooksAnd…
Round both the shires they ring themIn steeples far and near,A happy noise to hear.Here of a Sunday morningMy love and I would lie,And see the coloured counties,And hear the larks so highAbout us in the sky.The bells would ring to call herIn valleys miles away:‘Come all to church, good people;Good people, come and pray.But…
For many a rose-lipt maidenAnd many a lightfoot lad.By brooks too broad for leapingThe lightfoot boys are laid;The rose-lipt girls are sleepingIn fields where roses fade.
