A thief I met on the lonely way-- Lira, la, la! He took my gold; I cried to him, "Stay! And take my pocket and make an end." Lira, la, la! And O within my flowering heart (Sing, soft nightingale!) is my Friend.
Now on the plain I have met with death-- Lira, la, la! My bread is gone, my gold, my breath. But O this heart is not afraid-- Lira, la, la! For O within this lonely heart (Sing, sad nightingale!) is my Maid.
There's much afoot in heaven and earth this year; The winds hunt up the sun, hunt up the moon, Trouble the dubious dawn, hasten the drear Height of a threatening noon.
No breath of boughs, no breath of leaves, of fronds, May linger or grow warm; the trees are loud; The forest, rooted, tosses in her bonds, And strains against the cloud.
No scents may pause within the garden-fold; The rifled flowers are cold as ocean-shells; Bees, humming in the storm, carry their cold Wild honey to cold cells.
A flock of winds came winging from the North, Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth With a resounding call:--
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries-- Between what warming seas and conquering skies-- And fold, and fall?
Another day awakes. And who-- Changing the world--is this? He comes at whiles, the winter through, West Wind! I would not miss His sudden tryst: the long, the new Surprises of his kiss.
Vigilant, I make haste to close With him who comes my way, I go to meet him as he goes; I know his note, his lay, His colour and his morning-rose, And I confess his day.
My window waits; at dawn I hark His call; at morn I meet His haste around the tossing park And down the softened street; The gentler light is his: the dark, The grey--he turns it sweet.
So too, so too, do I confess My poet when he sings. He rushes on my mortal guess With his immortal things. I feel, I know, him. On I press-- He finds me 'twixt his wings.
Behold, The time is now! Bring back, bring back Thy flocks of fancies, wild of whim. O lead them from the mountain-track Thy frolic thoughts untold, O bring them in--the fields grow dim-- And let me be the fold!
Behold, The time is now! Call in, O call Thy pasturing kisses gone astray For scattered sweets; gather them all To shelter from the cold. Throng them together, close and gay, And let me be the fold!