When the stupid people were not looking
– They sat in shadow of the sail –
I softly slid down the plunging boat-bow
To the trembling waters, glimmering pale.
I said to myself, "Now I will follow
The long white track of this summer moon;
Since a little child I have burned and longed to,
And this sweet night is never too soon."
How the waters danced 'neath my light, swift footsteps,
How cool they seemed to my eager feet!
I gathered my white things closely about me,
But my hair was caught by the breezes sweet,
And they loosened and spread it and held it flowing;
I looked before and never behind:
I Hurried on in the lustrous pathway
Where light was the moon and shadow the wind.
O the sweet long path of silver and diamond!
O the joyous splendour I travelled o'er!
I said to myself, "No – I never, never,
Trod such a beautiful path before!"
I seemed alone on the whole great ocean:
The sky bent down to the water's rim
On every side, and kissed it so closely
It trembled as if with deep love for him.
I stooped to gather the white foam-flowers
Till my hands were full of the creamy things,
Then I bound them with a long sea-ribbon –
I understood what the old sea sings,
Just for a while; I listened intently,
And all at once it occurred to me,
And it was something very important –
But has escaped my memory.
The dolphins rose and stared at my passing.
I waved my gathered flowers to them;
They must have wondered that I could wander
So far without wetting my garment's hem.
How far I went and I was not tired!
How far I went in the moon's white way! –
But all at once aught came against me
That made my footsteps falter and stay:
A white face 'neath a veil of water,
With golden loose hair streaming round –
I stooped to kiss it and sighed unto it,
"I am so sorry you were drowned!"
Now the moon approached the low sea-level,
I thought "I must hurry all I can" –
I gathered the white folds closer and higher
And over the swelling billows ran.
The moon was half way down the water
When panting I reached the silvern gate –
How great it was, and white and fulgent! –
I knocked, and hoped it was not too late.
The guardian came and looked and pondered,
Then asked, "Little maid, have you ever died?"
And I said, "Nay." And he said sadly,
"Little maid, in vain then you have tried."
So I was forced to turn and leave it;
The beautiful guardian said, "Some day" . . .
And I came home with saddened footsteps
Over a moonless darkling way.
~~
Gertrude Hall (1863-1961)
from Verses, 1890
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
O who would dwell in the dingy town
When June is fair and green?
O who would stay in the chimneyed town
Where brooks are never seen?
Come! roses blow: sweet flower
Will snow the virgin's-bower:
The shaded lane, the woodland wild,
Are better both for man and child.
O who would live in the narrow street
When skies are broad and free?
O who would bide in the stony street
When the sun is on the sea?
Come! leave the dust and hasten
To the breath of winds that chasten:
The surging waves, the starry span,
Are better both for child and man.
~~ Laurence Alma-Tadema from Songs of Womanhood, 1913
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]
Now Summer is in flower, and Nature’s hum
Is never silent round her bounteous bloom;
Insects, as small as dust, have never done
With glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun;
And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,
Are never weary of their melody.
Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,
Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine,
That lift athirst their slender throated flowers,
Agape for dew-falls, and for honey showers;
These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run,
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.
The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weaves
His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,
Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye,
Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry.
The wheat swells into ear, and hides below
The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,
Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest,
The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest.
The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass,
Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying ass
Will turn his wishes from the meadow paths,
List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths.
The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales,
And down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails;
Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply,
Where, brushing eagerly the bushes by
For coolest water, he disturbs the rest
Of ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest.
The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now;
No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough,
On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile;
The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile.
With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold,
He drives the bleating sheep from fallow fold
To wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean,
Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean;
Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again,
He brings them homeward to the clipping pen,
Of hurdles form’d, where elm or sycamore
Shut out the sun—or to some threshing-floor.
There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,
He lightens annual toil, while merry ale
Goes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praise
The threadbare customs of his early days:
How the high bowl was in the middle set
At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,
Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swum
The streaking sugar and the spotting plum.
The maids could never to the table bring
The bowl, without one rising from the ring
To lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss,
Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.
The large stone pitcher in its homely trim,
And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,
Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high,
Healths of the best the cellar could supply;
While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,
Songs that were pictures of the good old times.
Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail,
Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale,
And break it off—for now the timid sheep,
His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap,
Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys,
While others are brought in by sturdy boys.
Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown aside
Half the old forms simplicity supplied,
Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare,
Left like green ivy when the trees are bare.
And now, when shearing of the flocks is done,
Some ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun,
Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid,
Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,
Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,
But such as every farmer’s garden yields —
Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face;
The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace;
The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers;
The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers;
The London tufts, of many a mottled hue;
The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue:
The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay
Ling’ring, in blossom, summer half away;
The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell,
Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well;
The columbines, stone-blue, or deep night-brown,
Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down,
Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child,
Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild;
With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass,
And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass,
And sprigs of lad’s-love—all familiar names,
Which every garden through the village claims.
These the maid gathers with a coy delight,
And ties them up, in readiness for night;
Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame,
Her “clipping posies” as his yearly claim.
He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:—
With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,
She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude;
Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued;
While one, to whom the hint may be applied,
Follows to gain it, and is not denied.
The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,—
She blushes silent, and will not disown!
Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,
Keep up a shadow still of former days;
But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied
The feast of furmety, is thrown aside;
And the old freedom that was living then,
When masters made them merry with their men;
When all their coats alike were russet brown,
And his rude speech was vulgar as their own —
All this is past, and soon will pass away
The time-torn remnant of the holiday.
~~
John Clare (1793-1864) from The Shepherd's Calendar, 1827
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
~~ Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) from Lyrics of the Hearthside, 1899
