The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 93 : I pray you hear my song of a boat For it is but short:-- My boat you shall find none fa

I pray you hear my song of a boat For it is but short:-- My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, In river or port.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore, On the open desolate sea, And I think he sailed to the heavenly sh.o.r.e, For he came not back to me-- Ah me!

A song of a nest:-- There was once a nest in a hollow: Down in the mosses and knot-gra.s.s pressed, Soft and warm and full to the brim-- Vetches leaned over it purple, and dim, With b.u.t.tercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest, For it is not long:-- You shall never light in a summer quest The bushes among-- Shall never light on a prouder sitter, A fairer nestful, nor ever know A softer sound than their tender twitter, That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own, Ah, happy, happy I!

Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly-- Oh, one after one they flew away Far up to the heavenly blue, To the better country, the upper day, And--I wish I was going too.

I pray you what is the nest to me, My empty nest?

And what is the sh.o.r.e where I stood to see My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set, Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent The only home for me-- Ah me!

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

AUSPEX

My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.

Had they been swallows only, Without the pa.s.sion stronger That skyward longs and sings,-- Woe's me, I shall be lonely When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings!

A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LOOKING BACKWARD

THE RETREAT

Happy those early days, when I s.h.i.+ned in my Angel-infancy!

Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short s.p.a.ce, Could see a glimpse of His bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track!

That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees.

But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way!

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.

Henry Vaughan [1622-1695]

A SUPERSCRIPTION

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea sh.e.l.l Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the gla.s.s where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-- Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]

THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN

When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child,-- A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,-- Who held his hands to me and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear; "Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be."

Henry Van d.y.k.e [1852-1933]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

My thoughts by night are often filled With visions false as fair: For in the Past alone I build My castles in the air.

I dwell not now on what may be; Night shadows o'er the scene; But still my fancy wanders free Through that which might have been.

Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k [1785-1866]