The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life’s wheel too must go,-- But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know. Her window’s blank. The garden’s bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart’s delight is there, And still the wheel goes round.
My love and I among the mountains strayed, When heaven and earth in summer heat were still, Aware anon that at our feet were laid, Within a sunny hollow of the hill, A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid.
They saw nor heard us, who a space above, With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his, Marked how the gentle golden sunlight strove To play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kiss Their burnished slender limbs, half-barèd to his love.
But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow, For while upon the grass unfingered lay The slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slow Dream-laden looks the ridge that far away Surmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow.
These things we saw; moreover we could hear The girl’s soft voice of laughter, grown more bold With the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear: “Why dost thou think? By thinking one grows old. Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear?”
Here my love turned to me, but her eyes told Her thought with smiles before she spoke a word; And being quick their meaning to behold, I could not chuse but echo what we heard: “Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be old?”
The restless years that come and go, The cruel years so swift and slow, Once in our lives perchance will show What they can give that we may know;
Too soon perchance, or else too late; We may look back or we may wait; The years are incompassionate, And who shall touch the robe of fate?
Once only; haply if we keep Watch with our lamps and do not sleep, Our eyes shall, when the night is deep, Behold the bridegroom’s face,--and weep.
Alas! for better far it were That Love were heedless of our prayer Than that his glory he should bare And show himself to our despair.
Better to wander till we die And never come the door anigh, Than weeping sore without to lie And get no answer to our cry.
O child! the night is cold and blind, The way is rough with rain and wind, Narrow and steep and hard to find; But I have found thee--love, be kind.