Lean close and set thine ear against the bark;
Then tell me what faint, murmurous sounds are heard:
Hath not the oak stored up the song of bird,
Whisper of wind and rain-lisp? Ay, and hark!
The shadowy elves that fret the summer dark,
With clash of horny winglets swiftly whirred,
Hear'st thou not them, with myriad noises, blurred,
Yet well defined if one but shrewdly mark?
And thou,—when thy Familiar setteth ear
Unto thy bosom, doth he note the same
Sweet concord of harmonious soundswithin?
Or is all hushed in hollow silence drear?

A YOUTH , adorn'd with every art
To warm and win the coldest heart,
In secret mine possess'd:
The morning bud that fairest blows,
The vernal oak that straightest grows,
His face and shape express'd.

In moving sounds he told his tale,
Soft as the sighings of the gale
That wakes the flowery year.
What wonder he could charm with ease,
Whom happy Nature taught to please,
Whom Honour made sincere?

At morn he left me—fought—and fell!
The fatal evening heard his knell,
And saw the tears I shed;
Tears that must ever, ever fall,

Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
The hour is dark, the midnight beckons thee;
Through sighing olives, wringing their soft hands,
The message comes, my soul, to thee and me.

Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
The flesh is weary and the cheek is wet,—
Yea, come,—there shines the same star white and clear,
That rests, unsleeping, over Olivet.

What though the way is hard, and on thy woe
The storm and flash of human vengeance burst,—
Yea, come into the garden, Oh! my soul!
For thee, the gentle Jesus sought it first.

Just for an hour you crossed my life's dull track,
Put my ignobler dreams to sudden shame,
Went your bright way, and left me to fall back
On my own world of poorer deed and aim;

To fall back on my meaner world, and feel
Like one who, dwelling 'mid some smoke-dimmed town,—
In a brief pause of labour's sullen wheel—
'Scaped from the street's dead dust and factory's frown,

In stainless daylight saw the pure seas roll,
Saw mountains pillaring the perfect sky:
Then journeyed home, to carry in his soul
The torment of the difference till he die.

The Hours passed by, a fleet, confusèd crowd;
With wafture of blown garments bright as fire,
Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed,
And where they trod the jonquil and the briar
Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells
Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells;—
They danced! they danced! to piping such as flings
The garnered music of a million Springs
Into one single, keener ecstasy;—
One paused and shouted to my questionings:
“Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!”

The Hours passed by; they paced, great lords and proud,

The Flower-seller's fat, and she wears a big shawl!
She sits on the kerb with her basket and all;
The wares that she sells us are not very dear
And are always the loveliest things of the year.
Daffodils in April,
Purple flags in May,
Sweet peas like butterflies
Upon a summer day,
Brown leaves in autumn,
Green leaves in spring,
And berries in the winter
When the carol-singers sing.
The Flower-seller sits with her hands in her lap,
When she's not crying Roses, she's taking a nap;
Her bonnet is queer, and she calls you My dear,

Every comrade of mine, arm in arm with his fair,
Through the alley of limes is walking;
While I—God have mercy, and make me His care—
All alone through the street am stalking.

How my heart is opprest, and what tears dim my eye,
If his tale should another be telling
To his love! for also a love have I;
But away and far off is her dwelling.

For years now this trouble I've had to endure,
But I'll suffer no longer such sorrow:
With knapsack and staff, in the hope of a cure,
I'll go forth on the wide world to-morrow.

O Love, surge on! Borne on thy waves I ride,
No longer swimming near the fretful shore,
But where the green and glassy billows glide
And naught save thine own vastness lies before.

Too long in timid shallows did I wade,
Lightly caressed by softly lapping water,
Of thine unfathomed deeps so long afraid.
Neither of land nor sea a faithful daughter.

“How trust the fearful sea?” land-huggers cry,
“Whose depths are white with bones of lovers lost;
Safe is the land, where trouble comes not nigh,
Though on the waves of joy we be not tost.”

I know you. You will hail the huge release,
Saying the sheathing of a thousand swords,
In silence and injustice, well accords
With Christmas bells. And you will gild with grease
The papers, the employers, the police,
And vomit up the void your windy words
To your New Christ; who bears no whip of cords
For them that traffic in the doves of peace.

The feast of friends, the candle-fruited tree,
I have not failed to honour. And I say
It would be better for such men as we,
And we be nearer Bethlehem, if we lay
Shot dead on scarlet snows for liberty,

——Jonathan, Winesap,
Sheep-nose,
Pippin—
Tumbling from the branches,
Falling all around,
Hartford sweet,
Bellflower,
Baldwin,
Russet,
In an apple orgy
Rolling on the ground.

——Maiden-blush,
Rambo,
Red cheek to amber,
Drunk with the autumn rain,
Tipsy with the sun,
Northern spy,
Greening,
Riotous and merry
Hoarders-up of summer,
Vintners every one.

Wonderful
To know
At the end of the harvest,
Apples in the orchard
Will be mellow
in a jug.
Wonderful
To know
In the white clutch of winter,