Or where, amid the empty fields, Among the bracken of the glen, Her yellow wreath October yields, To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide, You never heard the ringing reel, The music of the water side!
Though Gods have walked your woods among, Though nymphs have fled your banks along; You speak not that familiar tongue Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
My cradle song,—nor other hymn I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim, Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear!
LIGHT has flown! Through the grey The wind’s way The sea’s moan Sound alone! For the day These repay And atone!
Scarce I know, Listening so To the streams Of the sea, If old dreams Sing to me!
WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here, The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
When clamour that doves in the lindens keep Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer, Where kine knee deep in the water stand, On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
BETWEEN the moonlight and the fire In winter twilights long ago, What ghosts we raised for your desire To make your merry blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! No Christmas ghost can make us chill, Save _those_ that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will!