Poems By the Way Part 22

But here within our orchard-close, The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree The banners of the Spring to be.

TAPESTRY TREES.

_Oak_.

I am the Roof-tree and the Keel; I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

_Fir._

High o'er the lordly oak I stand, And drive him on from land to land.

_Ash_.

I heft my brother's iron bane; I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

_Yew_.

Dark down the windy dale I grow, The father of the fateful Bow.

_Poplar_.

The war-shaft and the milking-bowl I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

_Olive_.

The King I bless; the lamps I trim; In my warm wave do fishes swim.

_Apple-tree_.

I bowed my head to Adam's will; The cups of toiling men I fill.

_Vine_.

I draw the blood from out the earth; I store the sun for winter mirth.

_Orange-tree_.

Amidst the greenness of my night, My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

_Fig-tree_.

I who am little among trees In honey-making mate the bees.

_Mulberry-tree_.

Love's lack hath dyed my berries red: For Love's attire my leaves are shed.

_Pear-tree_.

High o'er the mead-flowers' hidden feet I bear aloft my burden sweet.

_Bay_.

Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown Of living song and dead renown!

THE FLOWERING ORCHARD.

_Silk Embroidery_.

Lo silken my garden, and silken my sky, And silken my apple-boughs hanging on high; All wrought by the Worm in the peasant carle's cot On the Mulberry leaf.a.ge when summer was hot!

THE END OF MAY.

How the wind howls this morn About the end of May, And drives June on apace To mock the world forlorn And the world's joy pa.s.sed away And my unlonged-for face!

The world's joy pa.s.sed away; For no more may I deem That any folk are glad To see the dawn of day Sunder the tangled dream Wherein no grief they had.

Ah, through the tangled dream Where others have no grief Ever it fares with me That fears and treasons stream And dumb sleep slays belief Whatso therein may be.

Sleep slayeth all belief Until the hopeless light Wakes at the birth of June More lying tales to weave, More love in woe's despite, More hope to perish soon.

THE HALF OF LIFE GONE.

The days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by And brought me the summer again; and here on the gra.s.s I lie As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong.

Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream; And grey o'er its. .h.i.ther lip the quivering rushes gleam.

There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the hay, While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day.

The forks s.h.i.+ne white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain, Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer, And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag o'er the narrow bridge of the weir.

High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit So high o'er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it, And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne; In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn; The dear sun, floods the land as the morning falls toward noon, And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June.

They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make, If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake; For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest, While one's thought wends over the world north, south, and east and west.

There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change!

Strange are they grown unto me; yea I to myself am strange.