PRAYER
I ask good things that I detest,
With speeches fair;
Heed not, I pray Thee, Lord, my breast,
But hear my prayer.
I say ill things I would not say —
Things unaware:
Regard my breast, Lord, in Thy day,
And not my prayer.
My heart is evil in Thy sight:
My good thoughts flee:
O Lord, I cannot wish aright —
Wish Thou for me.
O bend my words and acts to Thee,
However ill,
That I, whate’er I say or be,
May serve Thee still.
O let my thoughts abide in Thee
Lest I should fall:
Show me Thyself in all I see,
Thou Lord of all.
LO! IN THINE HONEST EYES I READ
Lo! in thine honest eyes I read
The auspicious beacon that shall lead,
After long sailing in deep seas,
To quiet havens in June ease.
Thy voice sings like an inland bird
First by the seaworn sailor heard;
And like road sheltered from life’s sea
Thine honest heart is unto me.
THOUGH DEEP INDIFFERENCE SHOULD DROWSE
Though deep indifference should drowse
The sluggish life beneath my brows,
And all the external things I see
Grow snow-showers in the street to me,
Yet inmost in my stormy sense
Thy looks shall be an influence.
Though other loves may come and go
And long years sever us below,
Shall the thin ice that grows above
Freeze the deep centre-well of love?
No, still below light amours, thou
Shalt rule me as thou rul’st me now.
Year following year shall only set
Fresh gems upon thy coronet;
And Time, grown lover, shall delight
To beautify thee in my sight;
And thou shalt ever rule in me
Crowned with the light of memory.
MY HEART, WHEN FIRST THE BLACK-BIRD SINGS
My heart, when first the blackbird sings,
My heart drinks in the song:
Cool pleasure fills my bosom through
And spreads each nerve along.
My bosom eddies quietly,
My heart is stirred and cool
As when a wind-moved briar sweeps
A stone into a pool
But unto thee, when thee I meet,
My pulses thicken fast,
As when the maddened lake grows black
And ruffles in the blast.
I DREAMED OF FOREST ALLEYS FAIR
I.
I dreamed of forest alleys fair
And fields of gray-flowered grass,
Where by the yellow summer moon
My Jenny seemed to pass.
I dreamed the yellow summer moon,
Behind a cedar wood,
Lay white on fields of rippling grass
Where I and Jenny stood.
I dreamed — but fallen through my dream,
In a rainy land I lie
Where wan wet morning crowns the hills
Of grim reality.
II.
I am as one that keeps awake
All night in the month of June,
That lies awake in bed to watch
The trees and great white moon.
For memories of love are more
Than the white moon there above,
And dearer than quiet moonshine
Are the thoughts of her I love.
III.
Last night I lingered long without
My last of loves to see.
Alas! the moon-white window-panes
Stared blindly back on me.
To-day I hold her very hand,
Her very waist embrace —
Like clouds across a pool, I read
Her thoughts upon her face.
And yet, as now, through her clear eyes
I seek the inner shrine —
I stoop to read her virgin heart
In doubt if it be mine —
O looking long and fondly thus,
What vision should I see?
No vision, but my own white face
That grins and mimics me.
IV.
Once more upon the same old seat
In the same sunshiny weather,
The elm-trees’ shadows at their feet
And foliage move together.
The shadows shift upon the grass,
The dial point creeps on;
The clear sun shines, the loiterers pass,
As then they passed and shone.
But now deep sleep is on my heart,
Deep sleep and perfect rest.
Hope’s flutterings now disturb no more
The quiet of my breast.
ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER
As swallows turning backward
When half-way o’er the sea,
At one word’s trumpet summons
They came again to me —
The hopes I had forgotten
Came back again to me.
I know not which to credit,
O lady of my heart!
Your eyes that bade me linger,
Your words that bade us part —
I know not which to credit,
My reason or my heart.
But be my hopes rewarded,
Or be they but in vain,
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have gathered in the grain —
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have not lived in vain.
DEDICATION
My first gift and my last, to you
I dedicate this fascicle of songs —
The only wealth I have:
Just as they are, to you.
I speak the truth in soberness, and say
I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes,
Had rather hear you praise
This bosomful of songs
Than that the whole, hard world with one consent,
In one continuous chorus of applause
Poured forth for me and mine
The homage of ripe praise.
I write the finis here against my love,
This is my love’s last epitaph and tomb.
Here the road forks, and I
Go my way, far from yours.
THE OLD CHIMÆRAS, OLD RECEIPTS
The old Chimæras, old receipts
For making “happy land,”
The old political beliefs
Swam close before my hand.
The grand old communistic myths
In a middle state of grace,
Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell,
And walking for a space,
Quite dead, and looking it, and yet
All eagerness to show
The Social-Contract forgeries
By Chatterton — Rousseau —
A hundred such as these I tried,
And hundreds after that,
I fitted Social Theories
As one would fit a hat!
Full many a marsh-fire lured me on,
I reached at many a star,
I reached and grasped them and behold —
The stump of a cigar!
All through the sultry sweltering day
The sweat ran down my brow,
The still plains heard my distant strokes
That have been silenced now.
This way and that, now up, now down,
I hailed full many a blow.
Alas! beneath my weary arm
The thicket seemed to grow.
I take the lesson, wipe my brow
And throw my axe aside,
And, sorely wearied, I go home
In the tranquil
eventide.
And soon the rising moon, that lights
The eve of my defeat,
Shall see me sitting as of yore
By my old master’s feet.
PRELUDE
By sunny market-place and street
Wherever I go my drum I beat,
And wherever I go in my coat of red
The ribbons flutter about my head.
I seek recruits for wars to come —
For slaughterless wars I beat the drum,
And the shilling I give to each new ally
Is hope to live and courage to die.
I know that new recruits shall come
Wherever I beat the sounding drum,
Till the roar of the march by country and town
Shall shake the tottering Dagons down.
For I was objectless as they
And loitering idly day by day;
But whenever I heard the recruiters come,
I left my all to follow the drum.
THE VANQUISHED KNIGHT
I have left all upon the shameful field,
Honour and Hope, my God, and all but life;
Spurless, with sword reversed and dinted shield,
Degraded and disgraced, I leave the strife.
From him that hath not, shall there not be taken
E’en that he hath, when he deserts the strife?
Life left by all life’s benefits forsaken,
O keep the promise, Lord, and take the life.
TO THE COMMISSIONERS OF NORTHERN LIGHTS
I send to you, commissioners,
A paper that may please ye, sirs
(For troth they say it might be worse
An’ I believe’t)
And on your business lay my curse
Before I leav’t.
I thocht I’d serve wi’ you, sirs, yince,
But I’ve thocht better of it since;
The maitter I will nowise mince,
But tell ye true:
I’ll service wi’ some ither prince,
An’ no wi’ you.
I’ve no been very deep, ye’ll think,
Cam’ delicately to the brink
An’ when the water gart me shrink
Straucht took the rue,
An’ didna stoop my fill to drink —
I own it true.
I kent on cape and isle, a light
Burnt fair an’ clearly ilka night;
But at the service I took fright,
As sune’s I saw,
An’ being still a neophite
Gaed straucht awa’.
Anither course I now begin,
The weeg I’ll cairry for my sin,
The court my voice shall echo in,
An’ — wha can tell? —
Some ither day I may be yin
O’ you mysel’.
THE RELIC TAKEN, WHAT AVAILS THE SHRINE?
The relic taken, what avails the shrine?
The locket, pictureless? O heart of mine,
Art thou not worse than that,
Still warm, a vacant nest where love once sat?
Her image nestled closer at my heart
Than cherished memories, healed every smart
And warmed it more than wine
Or the full summer sun in noon-day shine.
This was the little weather gleam that lit
The cloudy promontories — the real charm was
That gilded hills and woods
And walked beside me thro’ the solitudes.
The sun is set. My heart is widowed now
Of that companion-thought. Alone I plough
The seas of life, and trace
A separate furrow far from her and grace.
ABOUT THE SHELTERED GARDEN GROUND
About the sheltered garden ground
The trees stand strangely still.
The vale ne’er seemed so deep before,
Nor yet so high the hill.
An awful sense of quietness,
A fulness of repose,
Breathes from the dewy garden-lawns,
The silent garden rows.
As the hoof-beats of a troop of horse
Heard far across a plain,
A nearer knowledge of great thoughts
Thrills vaguely through my brain.
I lean my head upon my arm,
My heart’s too full to think;
Like the roar of seas, upon my heart
Doth the morning stillness sink.
AFTER READING “ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA”
As when the hunt by holt and field
Drives on with horn and strife,
Hunger of hopeless things pursues
Our spirits throughout life.
The sea’s roar fills us aching full
Of objectless desire —
The sea’s roar, and the white moon-shine,
And the reddening of the fire.
Who talks to me of reason now?
It would be more delight
To have died in Cleopatra’s arms
Than be alive to-night.
I KNOW NOT HOW, BUT AS I COUNT
I know not how, but as I count
The beads of former years,
Old laughter catches in my throat
With the very feel of tears.
SPRING SONG
The air was full of sun and birds,
The fresh air sparkled clearly.
Remembrance wakened in my heart
And I knew I loved her dearly.
The fallows and the leafless trees
And all my spirit tingled.
My earliest thought of love, and Spring’s
First puff of perfume mingled.
In my still heart the thoughts awoke,
Came lone by lone together —
Say, birds and Sun and Spring, is Love
A mere affair of weather?
THE SUMMER SUN SHONE ROUND ME
The summer sun shone round me,
The folded valley lay
In a stream of sun and odour,
That sultry summer day.
The tall trees stood in the sunlight
As still as still could be,
But the deep grass sighed and rustled
And bowed and beckoned me.
The deep grass moved and whispered
And bowed and brushed my face.
It whispered in the sunshine:
“The winter comes apace.”
YOU LOOKED SO TEMPTING IN THE PEW
You looked so tempting in the pew,
You looked so sly and calm —
My trembling fingers played with yours
As both looked out the Psalm.
Your heart beat hard against my arm,
My foot to yours was set,
Your loosened ringlet burned my cheek
Whenever they two met.
O little, little we hearkened, dear,
And little, little cared,
Although the parson sermonised,
The congregation stared.
LOVE’S VICISSITUDES
As Love and Hope together
Walk by me for a while,
Link-armed the ways they travel
For many a pleasant mile —
Link-armed and dumb they travel,
They sing not, but they smile.
Hope leaving, Love commences
To practise on the lute;
And as he sings and travels
With lingering, laggard foot,
Despair plays obligato
The sentimental flute.
Until in singing garments
Comes royally, at call —
Comes limber-hipped Indiff’rence
Free stepping, straight and tall —
Comes singing and lamenting,
The sweetest pipe of all.
DUDDINGSTONE
With caws and chirrupings, the woods
In this thin sun rejoice.
The Psalm see
ms but the little kirk
That sings with its own voice.
The cloud-rifts share their amber light
With the surface of the mere —
I think the very stones are glad
To feel each other near.
Once more my whole heart leaps and swells
And gushes o’er with glee;
The fingers of the sun and shade
Touch music stops in me.
Now fancy paints that bygone day
When you were here, my fair —
The whole lake rang with rapid skates
In the windless winter air.
You leaned to me, I leaned to you,
Our course was smooth as flight —
We steered — a heel-touch to the left,
A heel-touch to the right.
We swung our way through flying men,
Your hand lay fast in mine:
We saw the shifting crowd dispart,
The level ice-reach shine.
I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,
By yon calm hill above,
I swear had we been drowned that day
We had been drowned in love.
STOUT MARCHES LEAD TO CERTAIN ENDS
Stout marches lead to certain ends,
We seek no Holy Grail, my friends —
That dawn should find us every day
Some fraction farther on our way.
The dumb lands sleep from east to west,
They stretch and turn and take their rest.
The cock has crown in the steading-yard,
But priest and people slumber hard.
We two are early forth, and hear
The nations snoring far and near.
So peacefully their rest they take,
It seems we are the first awake!
— Strong heart! this is no royal way,
A thousand cross-roads seek the day;
And, hid from us, to left and right,
A thousand seekers seek the light.
AWAY WITH FUNERAL MUSIC
Away with funeral music — set
The pipe to powerful lips —
The cup of life’s for him that drinks
And not for him that sips.
TO SYDNEY
Not thine where marble-still and white
Old statues share the tempered light
And mock the uneven modern flight,
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 434