A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems | Page 2

side,
All forces of light and of
life and the live world's pride. Sands hardly ruffled of ripples that
hardly roll
Seem ever to show as in reach of a swift brief stride
The
goal that is not, and ever again the goal.
The waves are a joy to the seamew, the meads to the herd,
And a joy
to the heart is a goal that it may not reach.
No sense that for ever the
limits of sense engird,
No hearing or sight that is vassal to form or
speech,
Learns ever the secret that shadow and silence teach,
Hears
ever the notes that or ever they swell subside,
Sees ever the light that
lights not the loud world's tide,
Clasps ever the cause of the lifelong
scheme's control
Wherethrough we pursue, till the waters of life be
dried,
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.
Friend, what have we sought or seek we, whate'er betide,
Though the
seaboard shift its mark from afar descried,
But aims whence ever
anew shall arise the soul?
Love, thought, song, life, but show for a
glimpse and hide
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.
A HAVEN.
East and north a waste of waters, south and west
Lonelier lands than
dreams in sleep would feign to be,
When the soul goes forth on travel,
and is prest
Round and compassed in with clouds that flash and flee

Dells without a streamlet, downs without a tree,
Cirques of hollow
cliff that crumble, give their guest
Little hope, till hard at hand he

pause, to see
Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.
Many a lone long mile, by many a headland's crest,
Down by many a
garden dear to bird and bee,
Up by many a sea-down's bare and
breezy breast,
Winds the sandy strait of road where flowers run free.

Here along the deep steep lanes by field and lea
Knights have
carolled, pilgrims chanted, on their quest,
Haply, ere a roof rose
toward the bleak strand's lee,
Where the small town smiles, a warm
still sea-side nest.
Are the wild lands cursed perchance of time, or blest,
Sad with fear or
glad with comfort of the sea?
Are the ruinous towers of churches
fallen on rest
Watched of wanderers woful now, glad once as we,

When the night has all men's eyes and hearts in fee,
When the soul
bows down dethroned and dispossest?
Yet must peace keep guard, by
day's and night's decree,
Where the small town smiles, a warm still
sea-side nest.
Friend, the lonely land is bright for you and me
All its wild ways
through: but this methinks is best,
Here to watch how kindly time and
change agree
Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.
ON A COUNTRY ROAD.
Along these low pleached lanes, on such a day,
So soft a day as this,
through shade and sun,
With glad grave eyes that scanned the glad
wild way,
And heart still hovering o'er a song begun,
And smile
that warmed the world with benison,
Our father, lord long since of
lordly rhyme,
Long since hath haply ridden, when the lime

Bloomed broad above him, flowering where he came.
Because thy
passage once made warm this clime,
Our father Chaucer, here we
praise thy name.
Each year that England clothes herself with May,
She takes thy
likeness on her. Time hath spun
Fresh raiment all in vain and strange

array
For earth and man's new spirit, fain to shun
Things past for
dreams of better to be won,
Through many a century since thy funeral
chime
Rang, and men deemed it death's most direful crime
To have
spared not thee for very love or shame;
And yet, while mists round
last year's memories climb,
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy
name.
Each turn of the old wild road whereon we stray,
Meseems, might
bring us face to face with one
Whom seeing we could not but give
thanks, and pray
For England's love our father and her son
To speak
with us as once in days long done
With all men, sage and churl and
monk and mime,
Who knew not as we know the soul sublime
That
sang for song's love more than lust of fame.
Yet, though this be not,
yet, in happy time,
Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
Friend, even as bees about the flowering thyme,
Years crowd on
years, till hoar decay begrime
Names once beloved; but, seeing the
sun the same,
As birds of autumn fain to praise the prime,
Our
father Chaucer, here we praise thy name.
THE MILL GARDEN.
Stately stand the sunflowers, glowing down the garden-side, Ranged in
royal rank arow along the warm grey wall,
Whence their deep disks
burn at rich midnoon afire with pride, Even as though their beams
indeed were sunbeams, and the tall Sceptral stems bore stars whose
reign endures, not flowers that fall. Lowlier laughs and basks the
kindlier flower of homelier fame, Held by love the sweeter that it
blooms in Shakespeare's name, Fragrant yet as though his hand had
touched and made it thrill, Like the whole world's heart,