Maud
On the Firth of Forth in summer, with the weather warm and clear,
Strangers down at Portobello, strolling idly on the pier,
Should ignore each other totally in theory, but in fact
One's fancies grow to substance and subdue one like an act;
And though person, place, and period may be trivial, we confess
There are tragedies in trifles, and romance in even less.
Maud, I thought you very pretty as you watched a passing crew—
Sailor-costume, hat and jersey, and a frock of navy blue—
Far more fair than all the others, with a look that made you seem
Truer than their little world is; like a spirit in a dream.
When I read your name in silver on the trinket on your breast,
I resolved to do it honour—unknown honour in the West.
And though strangers, life-long strangers—better that than love's decay—
My vow will be unbroken as the silence of that day.
Yet I ponder and I wonder while my vow asserts its claim
How 'twere best to do you pleasure while I linked your name with fame,
Such slight fame as I could find you, though we may not chance to meet,
But a symbol of the homage I would pay you at your feet.
Would you care to be the model for a picture I might paint,
Of an aureoled and sombre-clad and grave-eyed maiden saint;
Or the beauty of a ball-room with the dignity and grace,
And the splendid stately manner shallow courtiers cannot face?
Or you might inspire the music of a melody as rare
As ever floated tunefully around a siren's lair;
Or would you be the subject of a lyric that would bring
Its maker greater monarchy than ever crowned a king?
Or will you be a memory that comprehends them all,
And lingers loved and lovely all the years that may befall;
The vision of a picture to be painted on the heart
And prized above the treasures of a garner-house of art;
A strain of softened harmony to tremble on the ear
When day is very distant, and the night is very near;
The echo of an anthem to be heard, but never sung;
The murmur of a poem never uttered by a tongue;
A thread of golden consciousness that once you were at hand,
Far gleaming with the hope that side by side again we'll stand;
An influence for better on the thoughts that come and go,
To raise the lofty higher and to elevate the low;
A watchword prompting nobly till the flag of life be furled;
An ever-present witness of the beauty of the world.
Strangers down at Portobello, strolling idly on the pier,
Should ignore each other totally in theory, but in fact
One's fancies grow to substance and subdue one like an act;
And though person, place, and period may be trivial, we confess
There are tragedies in trifles, and romance in even less.
Maud, I thought you very pretty as you watched a passing crew—
Sailor-costume, hat and jersey, and a frock of navy blue—
Far more fair than all the others, with a look that made you seem
Truer than their little world is; like a spirit in a dream.
When I read your name in silver on the trinket on your breast,
I resolved to do it honour—unknown honour in the West.
And though strangers, life-long strangers—better that than love's decay—
My vow will be unbroken as the silence of that day.
Yet I ponder and I wonder while my vow asserts its claim
How 'twere best to do you pleasure while I linked your name with fame,
Such slight fame as I could find you, though we may not chance to meet,
But a symbol of the homage I would pay you at your feet.
Would you care to be the model for a picture I might paint,
Of an aureoled and sombre-clad and grave-eyed maiden saint;
Or the beauty of a ball-room with the dignity and grace,
And the splendid stately manner shallow courtiers cannot face?
Or you might inspire the music of a melody as rare
As ever floated tunefully around a siren's lair;
Or would you be the subject of a lyric that would bring
Its maker greater monarchy than ever crowned a king?
Or will you be a memory that comprehends them all,
And lingers loved and lovely all the years that may befall;
The vision of a picture to be painted on the heart
And prized above the treasures of a garner-house of art;
A strain of softened harmony to tremble on the ear
When day is very distant, and the night is very near;
The echo of an anthem to be heard, but never sung;
The murmur of a poem never uttered by a tongue;
A thread of golden consciousness that once you were at hand,
Far gleaming with the hope that side by side again we'll stand;
An influence for better on the thoughts that come and go,
To raise the lofty higher and to elevate the low;
A watchword prompting nobly till the flag of life be furled;
An ever-present witness of the beauty of the world.
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