Harold Monro
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- O gentle vision in the dawn:
- My spirit over faint cool water glides,
- Child of the day,
- To thee;
- And thou art drawn
- By kindred impulse over silver tides
- The dreamy way
- To me.
- I need thy hands, O gentle wonder-child,
- For they are moulded unto all repose;
- Thy lips are frail,
- And thou art cooler than an April rose;
- White are thy words and mild:
- Child of the morning, hail!
- Breathe thus upon mine eyelids -- that we twain
- May build the day together out of dreams.
- Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems
- Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain.
- I cannot live, except as I may be
- Compelled for love of thee.
- O let us drift,
- Frail as the floating silver of a star,
- Or like the summer humming of a bee,
- Or stream-relfected sunlight through a rift.
- I will not hope, because I know, alas,
- Morning will glide, and noon, and then the night
- Will take thee from me. Everything must pass
- Swiftly -- but nought so swift as dawn-delight.
- If I could hold thee till the day,
- Is broad on sea and hill,
- Child of repose,
- What god can say,
- What god or mortal knows,
- What dream thou mightest not in me fulfil?
- O gentle vision in the dawn:
- My spirit over faint cool water glides,
- Child of the day,
- To thee;
- And thou art drawn
- By kindred impulse over silver tides
- The dreamy way
- To me.
- It is the sacred hour: above the far
- Low emerald hills that northward fold,
- Calmly, upon the blue the evening star
- Floats, wreathed in dusky gold.
- The winds have sung all day; but now they lie
- Faint, sleeping; and the evening sounds awake.
- The slow bell tolls across the water: I
- Am haunted by the spirit of the lake.
- It seems as though the sounding of the bell
- Intoned the low song of the water-soul,
- And at some moments I can hardly tell
- The long-resounding echo from the toll.
- O thou mysterious lake, thy spell
- Holds all who round thy fruitful margin dwell.
- Oft have I seen home-going peasants' eyes
- Lit with the peace that emanates from thee.
- Those who among thy waters plunge, arise
- Filled with new wisdom and serenity.
- Thy veins are in the mountains. I have heard,
- Down-stretched beside thee at the silent noon,
- With leaning head attentive to thy word,
- A secret and delicious mountain-tune,
- Proceeding as from many shadowed hours
- In ancient forests carpeted with flowers,
- Or far, where hidden waters, wandering
- Through banks of snow, trickle, and meet, and sing.
- Ah, what repose at noon to go,
- Lean on thy bosom, hold thee with wide hands,
- And listen for the music of the snow!
- But most, as now,
- When harvest covers thy surrounding lands,
- I love thee, with a coronal of sheaves
- Crowned regent of the day;
- And on the air thy placid breathing leaves
- A scent of corn and hay.
- For thou hast gathered (as a mother will
- The sayings of her children in her heart)
- The harvest-thoughts of reapers on the hill,
- When the cool rose and honeysuckle fill
- The air, and fruit is laden on the cart.
- Thou breathest the delight
- Of summer evening at the deep-roofed farm
- And meditation of the summer night,
- When the enravished earth is lying warm
- From the recent kisses of the conquering sun.
- Dwell as a spirit in me, O thou one
- Sweet natural presence. In the years to be
- When all the mortal loves perchance are done,
- Them I will bid farewell, but, oh, not thee.
- I love thee. When the youthful visions fade,
- Fade thou not also in the hopeless past.
- Be constant and delightful, as a maid
- Sought over all the world, and found at last.
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