Clouds spout upon her Their waters amain In ruthless disdain, -
Her who but lately Had shivered with pain As at touch of dishonour If there had lit on her So coldly, so straightly Such arrows of rain.
She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken Each tentative tread If drops chanced to pelt her That summertime spills In dust-paven rills When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills.
Would that I lay there And she were housed here!
Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both,--who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year.
Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daises be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them -
Ay--the sweet heart of them, Loved beyond measure With a child's pleasure All her life's round.
Jan. 31, 1913.
"I FOUND HER OUT THERE"
I found her out there On a slope few see, That falls westwardly To the salt-edged air, Where the ocean breaks On the purple strand, And the hurricane shakes The solid land.
I brought her here, And have laid her to rest In a noiseless nest No sea beats near.
She will never be stirred In her loamy cell By the waves long heard And loved so well.
So she does not sleep By those haunted heights The Atlantic smites And the blind gales sweep, Whence she often would gaze At Dundagel's far head, While the dipping blaze Dyed her face fire-red;
And would sigh at the tale Of sunk Lyonnesse, As a wind-tugged tress Flapped her cheek like a flail;
Or listen at whiles With a thought-bound brow To the murmuring miles She is far from now.
Yet her shade, maybe, Will creep underground Till it catch the sound Of that western sea As it swells and sobs Where she once domiciled, And joy in its throbs With the heart of a child.
