English

Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,
'Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.
Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,
Fairest of maidens.

Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaning
At the open window, thy hand deep-buried
In dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazest
O'er the wide ocean.

Yes, o'er the ocean far, far in the distance,
Is my own country, and other soil bore me
Than thy dear birthplace, other sun than England's
Nourished my spirit.

Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:

Belovèd, let me grope and lie
In the triumphant reaches of your soul;
That singing and barbaric sky
Which is my goal.

Age cannot make the way less fresh;
And bar me if I ever dare despise
The close and friendly house of flesh
Through which it lies.

But ever slowly let me move
Through twisting roads of passion, gates of care;
And the dark labyrinth of love
That leads me there.

Lonely and lovely, grave and good,
With the innocent-hearted hardihood....
Of a maid that walks in a pensive mood
My Queen comes up through the weird witch-wood.

Her presence enlightens the leafy gloom
Of the forest aisles where the shadows loom,
Where the fairest sight is a wildflower's bloom,
Or the lustrous flash of a peacock plume.

Over her, spreading, the green boughs meet,
Under her tread lies a fairy street,
Round her butterflies flaunt and fleet,
Flowers are blowing and herbs grow sweet,

Water-Boy, where are yo' hidin'?
If yo' don't-a come, I'm gwineter tell-a yo' Mammy.

Dere ain't no hammer dat's on-a dis mountain,
Dat ring-a like mine, boys, dat ring-a like mine.
Done bus' dis rock, boys, f'om hyah to Macon,
All de way to de jail, boys, yes, back to de jail.

Yo' Jack-o'-Di'monds, yo' Jack-o'-Di'monds,
I know yo' of old, boys, yas, I know yo' of old.
Yo' robbed ma pocket, yas, robba ma pocket,
Done robba ma pocket of silver an' gold.

Water-Boy, where are yo' hidin'?

What is love beyond the grave?
Is it memory or dust?
Is it spectral—is it brave?
Has it still an ought and must?

Is it fluid? Conscienceless?
Is it universal—pure?
Has it hands nor heart to bless?
Has it courage to endure?

Does it cherish—does it care?
Does it smile upon our pain?
Has it only wings and air
Where a weary head has lain?

I but vaguely have inferred—
Is it you and is it me?
Or are theme and phrasing blurred
In unrhymed obscurity?

Clear water on smooth rock
Could give no foot-hold for a single flower,
Or slenderest shaft of grain:
The stone must crumble under storm and rain—
The forests crash beneath the whirlwind's power—
And broken boughs from many a tempest-shock,
And fallen leaves of many a wintry hour,
Must mingle in the mould,

Before the harvest whitens on the plain,
Bearing an hundred-fold.
Patience, O weary heart!
Let all thy sparkling hours depart,
And all thy hopes be withered with the frost,
And every effort tempest-tost—

It is from Nectan's mossy steep,
The foamy waters flash and leap:
It is where shrinking wild-flowers grow,
They lave the nymph that dwells below.

But wherefore in this far-off dell,
The reliques of a human cell?
Where the sad stream and lonely wind
Bring man no tidings of his kind.

‘Long years agone,’ the old man said,
'Twas told him by his grandsire dead:
‘One day two ancient sisters came:
None there could tell their race or name;

‘Their speech was not in Cornish phrase,

The royal MAB, dethroned, discrowned
By fairy rebels wild,
Has found a home on English ground,
And lives an English child.
I know it, Maiden, when I see
A fairy-tale upon your knee—
And note the page that idly lingers
Beneath those still and listless fingers—
And mark those dreamy looks that stray
To some bright vision far away,
Still seeking, in the pictured story,
The memory of a vanished glory.

False glozing pleasures, casks of happiness,
Foolish night-fires, women's and children's wishes,
Chases in arras, gilded emptiness,
Shadows well mounted, dreams in a career,
Embroidered lies, nothing between two dishes;
These are the pleasures here.

True earnest sorrows, rooted miseries,
Anguish in grain, vexations ripe and blown,
Sure-footed griefs, solid calamities,
Plain demonstrations, evident and clear,
Fetching their proofs ev'n from the very bone;
These are the sorrows here.

But O the folly of distracted men,

When the last, long shift will be laboured, and the lying time will be burst,
And we go as picks or shovels, navvies or nabobs, must,
When you go up on the scrap-heap and I go down to the dust,

Will ever a one remember the times our voices rung,
When you were limber and lissome, and I was lusty and young?
Remember the jobs we've laboured, the heartful songs we 've sung?

Perhaps some mortal in speaking will give us a kindly thought—
“There is a muck-pile they shifted, here is a place where they wrought.”