love poem

Because you are dead, so many words they say,
If you could hear them, how they crowd, they crowd;
" Dying for England — but you must be proud " —
And " Greater love, honour, a debt to pay, "
And " Cry dear, " someone says; and someone " Pray! "
What do they mean, their words that throng so loud?

This, dearest; that for us there will not be
Laughter and joy of living dwindling cold,
Ashes of words that dropped in flame, first told;
Stale tenderness, made foolish suddenly.
This only, heart's desire, for you and me,

Where the purple heather blooms
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight,
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!

Where the lonely shepherd tends
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of a rock—
Where a guardian beacon-tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!

A white, high-battlemented castle,
Set in the heart and centre of a rainbow,
With rain-weighed trees nodding around it,
And a great sward flowing up and down;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

A summer pool by silence haunted,
Deep in the greenness lit by water-lilies,
Where there are kingfishers, and the unreaped grasses
Whisper soft secrets to the listless winds;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

And night, and the stars, and naught beside,

Rain is going through deep ground to-night,
Your body is in the ground;
The air booms with one shadowy sound to-night,
One sound.

O beautiful tired eyes, O tranquil hands,
My proud pale father, see
Between you and the downpour how Love stands

Three weeks since there was no such rose in being;
Now may eyes made dim with deep delight
See how fair it is, laugh with love, and seeing
Praise the chance that bids us bless the sight

Three weeks old, and a very rose of roses,
Bright and sweet as love is sweet and bright.
Heaven and earth, till a man's life wanes and closes,
Show not life or love a lovelier sight.

Three weeks past have renewed the rosebright creature
Day by day with life, and night by night.
Love, though fain of its every faultless feature,

Voltaire, our England's lover, man divine
Beyond all Gods that ever fear adored
By right and might, by sceptre and by sword,
By godlike love of sunlike truth, made thine
Through godlike hate of falsehood's marshlight shine
And all the fume of creeds and deeds abhorred
Whose light was darkness, till the dawn-star soared,
Truth, reason, mercy, justice, keep thy shrine
Sacred in memory's temple, seeing that none
Of all souls born to strive before the sun
Loved ever good or hated evil more.

I

Life, sublime and serene when time had power upon it and ruled its breath,
Changed it, bade it be glad or sad, and hear what change in the world's ear saith,
Shines more fair in the starrier air whose glory lightens the dusk of death.

Suns that sink on the wan sea's brink, and moons that kindle and flame and fade,
Leave more clear for the darkness here the stars that set not and see not shade
Rise and rise on the lowlier skies by rule of sunlight and moonlight swayed.

Nor for less love, all glorious France, to thee,
" Sweet enemy " called in days long since at end,
Now found and hailed of England sweeter friend,
Bright sister of our freedom now, being free;
Not for less love or faith in friendship we
Whose love burnt ever toward thee reprehend
The vile vain greed whose pursy dreams portend
Between our shores suppression of the sea.
Not by dull toil of blind mechanic art
Shall these be linked for no man's force to part
Nor length of years and changes to divide,

I

Gone, O gentle heart and true,
Friend of hopes foregone,
Hopes and hopeful days with you
Gone?

Days of old that shone
Saw what none shall see anew,
When we gazed thereon.

Soul as clear as sunlit dew,
Why so soon pass on,
Forth from all we loved and knew
Gone?

There is no woman living that draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.
There is not one upon life's weariest way
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower
All day with all his whole soul toward the sun;
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day,
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee,
That thou or he would take me to the dead,
And know not what thing evil I have done
That life should lay such heavy hand on me.