Poems By the Way Part 21

_Night_.

I am Night: I bring again Hope of pleasure, rest from pain: Thoughts unsaid 'twixt Life and Death My fruitful silence quickeneth.

FOR THE BRIAR ROSE.

_The Briarwood_.

The fateful slumber floats and flows About the tangle of the rose; But lo! the fated hand and heart To rend the slumberous curse apart!

_The Council Room_.

The threat of war, the hope of peace, The Kingdom's peril and increase Sleep on, and bide the latter day, When fate shall take her chain away.

_The Garden Court_.

The maiden pleasance of the land Knoweth no stir of voice or hand, No cup the sleeping waters fill, The restless shuttle lieth still.

_The Rosebower_.

Here lies the h.o.a.rded love, the key To all the treasure that shall be; Come fated hand the gift to take, And smite this sleeping world awake.

ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR-ROSE.

O treacherous scent, O th.o.r.n.y sight, O tangle of world's wrong and right, What art thou 'gainst my armour's gleam But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam Of hope, they lie and dully dream; Men once, but men no more, that Love Their waste defeated hearts should move.

Here sleeps the world that would not love!

Let it sleep on, but if He move Their hearts in humble wise to wait On his new-wakened fair estate.

O won at last is never late!

Thy silence was the voice of fate; Thy still hands conquered in the strife; Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life.

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.

I once a King and chief Now am the tree-bark's thief, Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf Chasing the prey.

THE LION.

The Beasts that be In wood and waste, Now sit and see, Nor ride nor haste.

THE FOREST.

_Pear-tree_.

By woodman's edge I faint and fail; By craftsman's edge I tell the tale.

_Chestnut-tree_.

High in the wood, high o'er the hall, Aloft I rise when low I fall.

_Oak-tree_.

Unmoved I stand what wind may blow.

Swift, swift before the wind I go.

POMONA.

I am the ancient Apple-Queen, As once I was so am I now.

For evermore a hope unseen, Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold!

And where the windy grave of Troy?

Yet come I as I came of old, From out the heart of Summer's joy.

FLORA.

I am the handmaid of the earth, I broider fair her glorious gown, And deck her on her days of mirth With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain And play about the Mother's hem I scatter every gift I gain From sun and wind to gladden them.

THE ORCHARD.

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn, The world without is waste and worn,