an anthology of australian verse-第7节
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Oh； season of changes of shadow and shine
September the splendid！
My song hath no music to mingle with thine；
And its burden is ended；
But thou； being born of the winds and the sun；
By mountain； by river；
Mayst lighten and listen； and loiter and run；
With thy voices for ever。
Rose Lorraine
Sweet water…moons； blown into lights
Of flying gold on pool and creek；
And many sounds and many sights
Of younger days are back this week。
I cannot say I sought to face
Or greatly cared to cross again
The subtle spirit of the place
Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine。
What though her voice rings clearly through
A nightly dream I gladly keep；
No wish have I to start anew
Heart fountains that have ceased to leap。
Here； face to face with different days；
And later things that plead for love；
It would be worse than wrong to raise
A phantom far too vain to move。
But； Rose Lorraine ah！ Rose Lorraine；
I'll whisper now； where no one hears
If you should chance to meet again
The man you kissed in soft； dead years；
Just say for once 〃He suffered much；〃
And add to this 〃His fate was worst
Because of me； my voice； my touch〃
There is no passion like the first！
If I that breathe your slow sweet name；
As one breathes low notes on a flute；
Have vext your peace with word of blame；
The phrase is dead the lips are mute。
Yet when I turn towards the wall；
In stormy nights； in times of rain；
I often wish you could recall
Your tender speeches； Rose Lorraine。
Because； you see； I thought them true；
And did not count you self…deceived；
And gave myself in all to you；
And looked on Love as Life achieved。
Then came the bitter； sudden change；
The fastened lips； the dumb despair：
The first few weeks were very strange；
And long； and sad； and hard to bear。
No woman lives with power to burst
My passion's bonds； and set me free；
For Rose is last where Rose was first；
And only Rose is fair to me。
The faintest memory of her face；
The wilful face that hurt me so；
Is followed by a fiery trace
That Rose Lorraine must never know。
I keep a faded ribbon string
You used to wear about your throat；
And of this pale； this perished thing；
I think I know the threads by rote。
God help such love！ To touch your hand；
To loiter where your feet might fall；
You marvellous girl； my soul would stand
The worst of hell its fires and all！
To a Mountain
To thee； O father of the stately peaks；
Above me in the loftier light to thee；
Imperial brother of those awful hills
Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame；
Whose heads are where the gods are； and whose sides
Of strength are belted round with all the zones
Of all the world； I dedicate these songs。
And if； within the compass of this book；
There lives and glows ONE verse in which there beats
The pulse of wind and torrent if ONE line
Is here that like a running water sounds；
And seems an echo from the lands of leaf；
Be sure that line is thine。 Here； in this home；
Away from men and books and all the schools；
I take thee for my Teacher。 In thy voice
Of deathless majesty； I； kneeling； hear
God's grand authentic Gospel！ Year by year；
The great sublime cantata of thy storm
Strikes through my spirit fills it with a life
Of startling beauty！ Thou my Bible art
With holy leaves of rock； and flower； and tree；
And moss； and shining runnel。 From each page
That helps to make thy awful volume； I
Have learned a noble lesson。 In the psalm
Of thy grave winds； and in the liturgy
Of singing waters； lo！ my soul has heard
The higher worship； and from thee； indeed；
The broad foundations of a finer hope
Were gathered in； and thou hast lifted up
The blind horizon for a larger faith！
Moreover； walking in exalted woods
Of naked glory； in the green and gold
Of forest sunshine； I have paused like one
With all the life transfigured： and a flood
Of light ineffable has made me feel
As felt the grand old prophets caught away
By flames of inspiration； but the words
Sufficient for the story of my Dream
Are far too splendid for poor human lips！
But thou； to whom I turn with reverent eyes
O stately Father； whose majestic face
Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud；
Where high dominion of the morning is
Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs
Are pallid adumbrations！ Certain sounds
Of strong authentic sorrow in this book
May have the sob of upland torrents these；
And only these； may touch the great World's heart；
For； lo！ they are the issues of that grief
Which makes a man more human； and his life
More like that frank exalted life of thine。
But in these pages there are other tones
In which thy large； superior voice is not
Through which no beauty that resembles thine
Has ever shone。 THESE are the broken words
Of blind occasions； when the World has come
Between me and my Dream。 No song is here
Of mighty compass； for my singing robes
I've worn in stolen moments。 All my days
Have been the days of a laborious life；
And ever on my struggling soul has burned
The fierce heat of this hurried sphere。 But thou；
To whose fair majesty I dedicate
My book of rhymes thou hast the perfect rest
Which makes the heaven of the highest gods！
To thee the noises of this violent time
Are far； faint whispers； and； from age to age；
Within the world and yet apart from it；
Thou standest！ Round thy lordly capes the sea
Rolls on with a superb indifference
For ever； in thy deep； green； gracious glens
The silver fountains sing for ever。 Far
Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves；
The royal robe of morning on thy head
Abides for ever！ Evermore the wind
Is thy august companion； and thy peers
Are cloud； and thunder； and the face sublime
Of blue mid…heaven！ On thy awful brow
Is Deity； and in that voice of thine
There is the great imperial utterance
Of God for ever； and thy feet are set
Where evermore； through all the days and years；
There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave。
Araluen
Take this rose； and very gently place it on the tender； deep
Mosses where our little darling； Araluen； lies asleep。
Put the blossom close to baby kneel with me； my love； and pray；
We must leave the bird we've buried say good…bye to her to…day；
In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands；
And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands。
Other eyes will watch them growing other feet will softly tread
Where two hearts are nearly breaking； where so many tears are shed。
Bitter is the world we live in： life and love are mixed with pain；
We will never see these daisies never water them again。
。 。 。 。 。
Here the blue…eyed Spring will linger； here the shining month will stay；
Like a friend； by Araluen； when we two are far away；
But； beyond the wild； wide waters； we will tread another shore
We will never watch this blossom； never see it any more。
Girl； whose hand at God's high altar in the dear； dead year I pressed；
Lean your stricken head upon me this is still your lover's breast！
She who sleeps was first and sweetest none we have to take her place！
Empty is the little cradle absent is the little face。
Other children may be given； but this rose beyond recall；
But this garland of your girlhood； will be dearest of them all。
None will ever； Araluen； nestle where you used to be；
In my heart of hearts； you darling； when the world was new to me；
We were young when you were with us； life and love were happy things
To your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings。
You that sit and sob beside me you； upon whose golden head
Many rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed；
Who； because your love was noble； faced with me the lot austere
Ever pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here
Let me feel that you are near me； lay your hand within mine own；
You are all I have to live for； now that we are left alone。
Three there were； but one has vanished。 Sins of mine have made you weep；
But forgive your baby's father now that baby is asleep。
Let us go； for night is falling； leave the darling with her flowers；
Other hands will come and tend them other friends in other hours。
After Many Years
The song that once I dreamed about；
The tender； touching thing；
As radiant as the rose without；
The love of wind and wing：
The perfect verses； to the tune
Of woodland music set；
As beautiful as afternoon；
Remain unwritten yet。
It is too late to write them now
The ancient fire is cold；
No ardent lights illume the brow；
As in the days of old。
I cannot dream the dream again；
But； when the happy birds
Are singing in the sunny rain；
I think I hear its words。
