I halted in the path
The better to drink in
Each blessed sight and sound
Above, below, around.
The golden sun of June
In the high hour of noon
Filled like a cup the little strath
With golden wine.
I heard the murmur of a distant linn;
Somewhere beyond my utmost gaze
I heard a lark upraise
Its throbbing song of love and praise;
Far-off I saw the sea-waves shine.
Full of the joy I turned,
And saw him standing there,
And on a sudden burned
A flame of shame that I had found
The world so glad and fair.
He turned his eyes around,
Poor sightless eyes, as if still unaware
They could not see,
Then raised them to the sunlit air,
And gazed in silence long
There where the lark poured forth his song.
Then the head drooped upon his breast;
He reached a groping helpless hand
In silent quest
Of her who led him thro' the land—
Sister or more, I cannot say. . . .
They passed—and as they went I heard
The unseen bird: its gladness smote
My heart. I turned my eyes away:
The grief climbed in my throat:
I let them go, and could not speak a word!
It vexes me to think I could not speak—
The poor face looked so sad and meek,
Like a child chid he knows not why.
Oft yet I see it in the sunlit air,
And wonder why he stood so rooted there,
With face uplifted to the sky.
Just so, perhaps.—for who can tell?—
Into some sudden lull of fight
Upon the banks of Marne or Aisne,
A lark's song fell,
And as he raised his eyes, the shell
Burst, and never again,
O nevermore,
Will he hear the soaring lark
Sing in that strange new inner dark,
But that last look upon the skies
Will lighten the poor darkened eyes,
Until even that light dies. . . .
And yet I could not stir or speak,
The young face looked so sad and meek!
Or was this, perchance, his native strath,
And when he stood there on the path,
Did the song fling on memory's wall
Behind the darkened eyes,
With poignant bitter joy,
The dear familiar hills and sea and skies,
Moors where the curlew cries,
The leap of the brown white waterfall,
And all the world he roamed in when a boy?—
And now, … 'twas gone, 'twas gone!
And he—ah, he might wander on and on
For fifty darkened years
Thro' other hopes and other fears,
And never see the morning rise,
Or the sun sink into the western skies,
Or any glance of sweet beloved eyes!
And I—ah me—forgetful of the cost
At which to him the world was lost,
And saved to me,
Was glad it was so fair to see!
No marvel if my conscience smote
My heart, and smites it still,
For those blind eyes 'twixt hill and hill.
Even yet the grief climbs in my throat
To think I could not speak,
The poor face was so sad and meek!
The better to drink in
Each blessed sight and sound
Above, below, around.
The golden sun of June
In the high hour of noon
Filled like a cup the little strath
With golden wine.
I heard the murmur of a distant linn;
Somewhere beyond my utmost gaze
I heard a lark upraise
Its throbbing song of love and praise;
Far-off I saw the sea-waves shine.
Full of the joy I turned,
And saw him standing there,
And on a sudden burned
A flame of shame that I had found
The world so glad and fair.
He turned his eyes around,
Poor sightless eyes, as if still unaware
They could not see,
Then raised them to the sunlit air,
And gazed in silence long
There where the lark poured forth his song.
Then the head drooped upon his breast;
He reached a groping helpless hand
In silent quest
Of her who led him thro' the land—
Sister or more, I cannot say. . . .
They passed—and as they went I heard
The unseen bird: its gladness smote
My heart. I turned my eyes away:
The grief climbed in my throat:
I let them go, and could not speak a word!
It vexes me to think I could not speak—
The poor face looked so sad and meek,
Like a child chid he knows not why.
Oft yet I see it in the sunlit air,
And wonder why he stood so rooted there,
With face uplifted to the sky.
Just so, perhaps.—for who can tell?—
Into some sudden lull of fight
Upon the banks of Marne or Aisne,
A lark's song fell,
And as he raised his eyes, the shell
Burst, and never again,
O nevermore,
Will he hear the soaring lark
Sing in that strange new inner dark,
But that last look upon the skies
Will lighten the poor darkened eyes,
Until even that light dies. . . .
And yet I could not stir or speak,
The young face looked so sad and meek!
Or was this, perchance, his native strath,
And when he stood there on the path,
Did the song fling on memory's wall
Behind the darkened eyes,
With poignant bitter joy,
The dear familiar hills and sea and skies,
Moors where the curlew cries,
The leap of the brown white waterfall,
And all the world he roamed in when a boy?—
And now, … 'twas gone, 'twas gone!
And he—ah, he might wander on and on
For fifty darkened years
Thro' other hopes and other fears,
And never see the morning rise,
Or the sun sink into the western skies,
Or any glance of sweet beloved eyes!
And I—ah me—forgetful of the cost
At which to him the world was lost,
And saved to me,
Was glad it was so fair to see!
No marvel if my conscience smote
My heart, and smites it still,
For those blind eyes 'twixt hill and hill.
Even yet the grief climbs in my throat
To think I could not speak,
The poor face was so sad and meek!