THE PAGANI
Oh the dream,
Warm, wild, beautiful,—born of midsummer.
No, it was April gave it; no, it was May!
It was the whole round year,
Days, months, filled with it,
Hours Eden inspired.
Moments astral born,
Life
Fused, swathed, held in its mystery,
Perfect content in the present,
Ecstasy at the thought of a future.
Oh the dream . . .
Hush, I will sing of it . . .
Warm, wild, beautiful,—born of midsummer.
No, it was April gave it; no, it was May!
It was the whole round year,
Days, months, filled with it,
Hours Eden inspired.
Moments astral born,
Life
Fused, swathed, held in its mystery,
Perfect content in the present,
Ecstasy at the thought of a future.
Oh the dream . . .
Hush, I will sing of it . . .
II
I was a child, knee-deep in the rugged daisies;
Small head level with bright bold heads tossed free.
Brown eyes following farm and meadow mazes:
Little heart one with nature, flower, and tree;
Friend with the birds . . . Then childhood passed, on a sudden as pure dawn's haze is
Kissed to glorious morning, and all eyes see,
Standing young as the June, little heart's pulse set free
Throbbed to the song that the soul of the whole world's lays is:—
A child in the home-land meadows,
Belovèd, I dreamed of thee.
Small head level with bright bold heads tossed free.
Brown eyes following farm and meadow mazes:
Little heart one with nature, flower, and tree;
Friend with the birds . . . Then childhood passed, on a sudden as pure dawn's haze is
Kissed to glorious morning, and all eyes see,
Standing young as the June, little heart's pulse set free
Throbbed to the song that the soul of the whole world's lays is:—
A child in the home-land meadows,
Belovèd, I dreamed of thee.
III
Once I walked in the heather,
Cliffs sheer downward touched the breast of the sea.
Meadows 'round me stretched and kissed together,
Met in oceans of gold grain feather
Mad with poppies, red as blood may be.
Summer's glory to glory ran;—nor sense knew whether
It were godliest born, the blue of the sea
Or the whispering ocean of fields, as shoreless!
Then the tether
Of time slipped loose, and Future showed to me,
Cliff-high,—sea-girt,—there in the Norman weather
All of my youth Belovèd,
I dreamed of thee.
Cliffs sheer downward touched the breast of the sea.
Meadows 'round me stretched and kissed together,
Met in oceans of gold grain feather
Mad with poppies, red as blood may be.
Summer's glory to glory ran;—nor sense knew whether
It were godliest born, the blue of the sea
Or the whispering ocean of fields, as shoreless!
Then the tether
Of time slipped loose, and Future showed to me,
Cliff-high,—sea-girt,—there in the Norman weather
All of my youth Belovèd,
I dreamed of thee.
IV
It was in the heart of winter cold,
When the moon is old,
And snow on the lea.
I leaned from my window
And heard the sea
Ring like brass, when deep is tolled
The bourdon of Christ's nativity.
The Christmas world its page unrolled
For my pagan eyes to see.
Sheep held close in their sparkling fold,
And the ice-mailed tree
Glistened, . . . as tho' God leaned, and set
Crystal tapers, with diamond fret;
A holy festal tree made it,
Whose candles the moon lit!
I smelled frankincense, from censers gold
Shadow-swung to a litany
Glorious! . . .
Then wild, and bold,
A Christmas storm swept over me.
I leaned out from my parapet,
Cliff-high tower, that keeps the sea:—
Arms and breast on the sill icy,
Warm arms aching to clasp and fold
One who close on my breast should be!
When the moon is old,
And snow on the lea.
I leaned from my window
And heard the sea
Ring like brass, when deep is tolled
The bourdon of Christ's nativity.
The Christmas world its page unrolled
For my pagan eyes to see.
Sheep held close in their sparkling fold,
And the ice-mailed tree
Glistened, . . . as tho' God leaned, and set
Crystal tapers, with diamond fret;
A holy festal tree made it,
Whose candles the moon lit!
I smelled frankincense, from censers gold
Shadow-swung to a litany
Glorious! . . .
Then wild, and bold,
A Christmas storm swept over me.
I leaned out from my parapet,
Cliff-high tower, that keeps the sea:—
Arms and breast on the sill icy,
Warm arms aching to clasp and fold
One who close on my breast should be!
Pagan, thus in the Night Holy,
Breaking form of the ancient mould,
I saw God's one star poise, and swim
Over the birth of Love, in Him,
But Belovèd . . . I dreamed of thee.
Breaking form of the ancient mould,
I saw God's one star poise, and swim
Over the birth of Love, in Him,
But Belovèd . . . I dreamed of thee.