I went by footpath and by stile
Beyond where bustle ends,
Strayed here a mile and there a mile
And called upon some friends.
On certain ones I had not seen
For years past did I call,
And then on others who had been
The oldest friends of all.
It was the time of midsummer
When they had used to roam;
But now, though tempting was the air,
I found them all at home.
I spoke to one and other of them
By mound and stone and tree
Of things we had done ere days were dim,
But they spoke not to me.
Posted by Arborfield at 8:09 am
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
And says, Remember,
I begin again, as if it were new,
A day of like date I once lived through,
Whiling it hour by hour away;
So shall I do till my December,
When spring comes round.
I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me,
Old hours re-greeting
With the quiet sense that bring they must
Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,
And in the numbness my heartsome zest
For things that were, be past repeating
When spring comes round.
Posted by Arborfield at 8:30 am
Though I--not yet! -
Perhaps not ever. Your slighted weakness
Adds to the strength of my regret!
You'd not the art--you never had
For good or bad -
To make men see how sweet your meaning,
Which, visible, had charmed them glad.
You would, by words inept let fall,
Offend them all,
Even if they saw your warm devotion
Would hold your life's blood at their call.
You lacked the eye to understand
Those friends offhand
Whose mode was crude, though whose dim purport
Outpriced the courtesies of the bland.
I am now the only being who
It may be. What a waste that Nature
Grudged soul so dear the art its due!
Posted by Arborfield at 8:17 am
"When the air was damp
It made my curls hang slack
As they kissed my neck and back
While I footed the salt-aired track
I loved to tramp.
"When it was dry
They would roll up crisp and tight
As I went on in the light
Of the sun, which my own sprite
Seemed to outvie.
"Now I am old;
And have not one gay curl
As I had when a girl
For dampness to unfurl
Or sun uphold!"
Posted by Arborfield at 8:21 am
The wind blew words along the skies,
And these it blew to me
Through the wide dusk: "Lift up your eyes,
Behold this troubled tree,
Complaining as it sways and plies;
It is a limb of thee."
"Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round -
Dumb figures, wild and tame,
Yea, too, thy fellows who abound -
Either of speech the same
Or far and strange--black, dwarfed, and browned,
They are stuff of thy own frame."
I moved on in a surging awe
At the pathetic Me I saw
In all his huge distress,
Making self-slaughter of the law
To kill, break, or suppress.
Posted by Arborfield at 7:44 am
In your time,
Now long past your prime?"
"O, I have looked at, often looked at
Sore things, shudderful, night and noon
In my time."
"What have you mused on, Moon,
In your day,
So aloof, so far away?"
"O, I have mused on, often mused on
Nations alive, dead, mad, aswoon,
In my day!"
"Have you much wondered, Moon,
On your rounds,
Self-wrapt, beyond Earth's bounds?"
"Yea, I have wondered, often wondered
At the sounds
Reaching me of the human tune
On my rounds."
"What do you think of it, Moon,
As you go?
Is Life much, or no?"
"O, I think of it, often think of it
As a show
God ought surely to shut up soon,
As I go."
Posted by Arborfield at 6:04 pm