LOTUS LEAVES

There is no peace beneath the noon.

Ah! In those meadows is there peace

Where, girdled with a silver fleece,

As a bright shepherd, strays the moon?

Queen of the gardens of the sky,

Where stars like lilies, white and fair,

Shine through the mists of frosty air,

Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh!

Oh, tarry, for the envious day

Stretches long hands to catch thy feet,

Alas! But thou art over-fleet,

Alas! I know thou wilt not stay.

Up sprang the sun to run his race,

The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea;

But in the west I seemed to see

The likeness of a human face.

A linnet on the hawthorn spray

Sang of the glories of the spring,

And made the flow’ring copses ring

With gladness for the new-born day.

A lark from out the grass I trod

Flew wildly, and was lost to view

In the great seamless veil of blue

That hangs before the face of God.

The willow whispered overhead

That death is but a newer life,

And that with idle words of strife

We bring dishonour on the dead.

I took a branch from off the tree,

And hawthorn-blossoms drenched with dew,

I bound them with a sprig of yew,

And made a garland fair to see.

I laid the flowers where He lies,

(Warm leaves and flowers on the stone);

What joy I had to sit alone

Till evening broke on tired eyes:

Till all the shifting clouds had spun

A robe of gold for God to wear,

And into seas of purple air

Sank the bright galley of the sun.

Shall I be gladdened for the day,

And let my inner heart be stirred

By murmuring tree or song of bird,

And sorrow at the wild wind’s play?

Not so: such idle dreams belong

To souls of lesser depth than mine;

I feel that I am half divine;

I know that I am great and strong.

I know that every forest tree

By labour rises from the root;

I know that none shall gather fruit

By sailing on the barren sea.