English

Rushes that grow by the black water
When will I see you more?
When will the sorrowful heart forget you,
Land of the green, green shore?
When will the field and the small cabin
See us more
In the old country?

What is to me all the gold yonder?
She that bore me is gone.
Knees that dandled and hands that blessed me
Colder than any stone.
Stranger to me than the face of strangers
Are my own
In the old country!

Vein o' my heart, from the lone mountain
The smoke of the turf will die,

Also the darkness falling on thy face,
The shadows as they dance, and flit, and hover,
Display in every line a novel grace,
In every dimple deeper charms discover,
Showing in arc of lid, in curve of lip,
The twilight wonder of God's workmanship.

The twilight wonder of some gentle thought
Translated into beauty gently fair,
Some eyelid-languor by a vision wrought,
Some record of an often-whispered prayer,
Some hope, by daylight hidden for a while,
Blossoming in the shadow as a smile.

Far the grey loch runs
Up to Schiehallion.
Lap, lap the water flows
Where my wee boatie rows,
Greenly a star shows
Over Schiehallion.

She that I wander'd with
Over Schiehallion, —
How far beyond your ken,
Crags of the merry glen,
Stray'd she, that wander'd then
Down from Schiehallion!

Sail of the wild swan
Turn to Schiehallion!
Here where the rushes rise
Low the black hunter lies;
Beat thou the pure skies
Back to Schiehallion!

Wild roses hidden in the hedge
Surrender to the lips of June;
White lilies cloistered in the sedge
Permit the kisses of the moon.

And oh, my heart desires your love,
As never June desires a rose,
And never the pale moon above
Such longing for a lily knows.

And yet your love I vainly seek,
Unto my love no love replies,
No blush gives answer in your cheek,
No passion lightens in your eyes.

Ardent as June I watch and wait,
Pale as the moon I pace your sky;
O Lady, be compassionate,

Lady, thy face is a translucent flower;
The spirit by its garb is hardly hid.
Nay, burning thro', it threatens to devour
The petals luminous of lip and lid.

No Burning Bush of God did Moses meet
Brighter, diviner than thy glowing face;
Behold, we walk like him with shoeless feet,
Feeling a Holy Presence in the place.

Almond, wild almond,
Give counsel to me,
And hush thy fierce lover
The wind in the tree!

Along the night pasture
I've come through the dew
To tell thee, wild almond.
The old songs are true!

Like the flower on thy branches
The heart in me springs
With airs and upliftings
And hundreds of wings!

I, too, have a lover ...
Keep, keep it from them —
The wise ones that eye me —
Thou whispering stem!

I deal with him coldly —
I dash him with pride:

O birds of the air —
Wild birds, buoyant, vagabond, light —
Streams may have taught you a stave;
But how are ye born so sure of your flight
Hence over worlds of the wave?
Whose mind remembers in yours as it weaves
Subtlest of houses to sway with the leaves?
We have forgotten the land out of sight —
We build no house but the grave!

I

Sad soul by fickle Fortune spurned,
Sad soul that burned,
And flickered in the dark,
Like a wind-troubled spark,
Had God but given thee a little rest,
And sheltered thee a time to burn thy best,
We seeing thee afar
Had known thee as a star
Upon His Breast,
But Pain,
Like wintry rain,
Smothered thy fire with smoke;
Care
Drove thee to Despair,
Until thy proud heart broke, —
Not trodden in the winepress into wine
By the white feet of Sorrow and Desire,

Ah, hoop of gold that binds the maid
Within thy faery circuit strayed!
No gem of murdered blood divine,
No dragon green of jasper's thine,
No piping shepherd-boy and flock
Drowsed on the Ethiopian rock
And sovran 'gainst the Bacchic mist
Sleeps in thee, shut in amethyst;
Nor Isis in chalcedony
Protecteth, floating fadelessly.

Why hast no serpent-wreathen wand
Bescored on thee by diamond?
No Winged Foot, departure's mark,
Treading out Life in garnet dark,
Or signed in gloomy emerald

Here, e'en the sturdy democrat may find,
Nor scorn their rank, the nobles of the mind;
While kings may learn, nor blush at being shown,
How Learning's patents abrogate their own.
A goodly company and fair to see;
Royal plebeians; earls of low degree;
Beggars whose wealth enriches every clime;
Princes who scarce can boast a mental dime;
Crowd here together like the quaint array
Of jostling neighbours on a market day.
Homer and Milton, — can we call them blind? —
Of godlike sight, the vision of the mind;