Here in the valley at lambing-time
The shepherd folk of their watching tell
While the shadows up to the beacon climb,
And that is well.
Let be what may when we make an end
Of the laughter and labour of all our days
We’ve men to friend and women to friend,
For whom be praise.
IV. EVENSONG
(TO B. M.)
Come, let us tell it over,
Each to each by the fireside,
How that earth has been a swift adventure for us,
And the watches of the day as a gay song and a right song,
And now the traveller wind has found a bed,
And the sheep crowd under the thorn.
Good was the day and our travelling,
And now there is evensong to sing.
Night, and along the valleys
Watch the eyes of the homesteads.
The dark hills are very still and still are the stars.
Patiently under the ploughlands the wheat moves and the barley.
The secret hour of love is upon the sky,
And our thought in praise is aflame.
Sing evensong as well we may
For our travel upon this Sabbath day.
Earth, we have known you truly,
Heard your mutable music,
Have been your lovers and felt the savour of you,
And you have quickened in us the blood’s fire and the heart’s fire.
We have wooed and striven with you and made you ours
By the strength sprung out of your loins.
Lift the latch on its twisted thong,
And an end be made of our evensong.
V. NIGHT
(TO H. S. S.)
The barriers of sleep are crossed
And I alone am yet awake,
Keeping another Pentecost
For that new visitation’s sake
Of life descending on the hills
In blackthorn bloom and daffodils.
At peace upon my pillow lain
I celebrate the spirit come
In spring’s immutable youth again
Across the lands of Christendom;
I hear in all the choral host
The coming of the Holy Ghost.
The sacrament of bough and blade,
Of populous folds and building birds
I take, till now an end is made
Of praise and ceremonial words,
And I too turn myself to keep
The quiet festival of sleep.
March 1913.
A DEDICATION (TO E. G.)
I
Sometimes youth comes to age and asks a blessing,
Or counsel, or a tale of old estate,
Yet youth will still be curiously guessing
The old man’s thought when death is at his gate;
For all their courteous words they are not one,
This youth and age, but civil strangers still,
Age with the best of all his seasons done,
Youth with his face towards the upland hill.
Age looks for rest while youth runs far and wide,
Age talks with death, which is youth’s very fear,
Age knows so many comrades who have died,
Youth burns that one companion is so dear.
So, with good will, and in one house, may dwell
These two, and talk, and all be yet to tell.
II
But there are men who, in the time of age,
Sometimes remember all that age forgets:
The early hope, the hardly compassed wage,
The change of corn, and snow, and violets;
They are glad of praise; they know this morning brings
As true a song as any yesterday;
Their labour still is set to many things,
They cry their questions out along the way.
They give as who may gladly take again