DREAM LAND

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,

She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.

Led by a single star,

She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,

For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil,

She sees the sky look pale,

And hears the nightingale

That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain,
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest, rest, at the heart's core

Till time shall cease:

Sleep that no pain shall wake;

Night that no morn shall break,

Till joy shall overtake

Her perfect peace.

BRIDE-SONG

[From The Prince's Progress]

Day is over, the day that wore.

What is this that comes through the door, The face covered, the feet before?

This that coming takes his breath; This Bride not seen, to be seen no more Save of Bridegroom Death?

Veiled figures carrying her

Sweep by yet make no stir;

There is a smell of spice and myrrh,

A bride-chant burdened with one name;

The bride-song rises steadier

Than the torches' flame:

"Too late for love, too late for joy,

Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,

You trifled at the gate:

The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,

Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:

The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,

The warm south wind would have awaked

To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;

Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile

Or with a frown;

Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;

She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;

We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,

Till silvery hairs showed in her locks

That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste;

Her tones were sweet,

And modulated just so much

As it was meet:

Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street.

There was no hurry in her hands,

No hurry in her feet;

There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed:

But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead?

Lo we who love weep not to-day,

But crown her royal head.

Let be these poppies that we strew,

Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you

Cut down and spread."

SONG

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet:
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

A BIRTHDAY

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot:

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

AT HOME

When I was dead, my spirit turned
To seek the much-frequented house.
I passed the door, and saw my friends

Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat.

Said one: "To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
And coasting miles and miles of sea.
Said one: "Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one: "To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they one and all,

While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I, had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the tablecloth;

I all-forgotten shivered, sad

To stay and yet to part how loth: