Love's Mourner

'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold,
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold
For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.
So in a thousand voices has the strain
Of this dear patient madness been retold,
That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold,
Naming for love that grief which does remain.

Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:
Love pardons all; but by the pardonings dies,
With a fresh wound of each pierced through the breast.
And there stand pityingly in Love's void place
Kindness of household wont familiar-wise,
And faith to Love--faith to our dead at rest.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Birds Sing I Love You, Love

Birds sing "I love you, love" the whole day through,
And not another song can they sing right;
But, singing done with, loving's done with quite,
The autumn sunders every twittering two.
And I'd not have love make too much ado
With sweet parades of fondness and delight,
Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite,
Love-names mere cuckoo ousters of the true.

Oh heart can hear heart's sense in senseless nought,
And heart that's sure of heart has little speech.
What shall it tell? The other knows its thought.
What shall one doubt or question or beseech
Who is assured and knows and, unbesought,
Possesses the dear trust that each gives each.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Farewell

FAREWELL: we two shall still meet day by day,
Live side by side;
But never more shall heart respond to heart.
Two stranger boats can drift adown one tide,
Two branches on one stem grow green apart.
Farewell, I say.

Farewell: chance travellers, as the path they tread,
Change words and smile,
And share their travellers' fortunes, friend with friend,
And yet are foreign in their thoughts the while,
Several, alone, save that one way they wend.
Farewell; 'tis said.

Farewell: ever the bitter asphodel
Outlives love's rose;
The fruit and blossom of the dead for us.
Ah, answer me, should this have been the close,
To be together and be sundered thus?
But yet, farewell.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Brook Leaps Riotous

The brook leaps riotous with its life just found,
That freshets from the mountain rains have fed,
Beats at the boulders in its hindered bed,
And fills the valley with its triumphing sound.
The strong unthirsty tarn sunk in deep ground
Has never a sigh wherewith its wealth is said,
Has no more ripples than the May-flies tread:
Silence of waters is where they abound.

And love, whatever love, sure, makes small boast:
'Tis the new lovers tell, in wonder yet.
Oh happy need! Enriched stream's jubilant gush!
But who being spouses well have learned love's most,
Being child and mother learned not nor forget,
These in their joyfulness feel the tarn's strong hush.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Not To Be

THE rose said 'Let but this long rain be past,
And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun
And pour its fullness into life at last.'
But when the rain was done,
But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air,
She was not there.

The lark said 'Let but winter be away,
And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar,
And lose the earth, and be the voice of day.'
But when the snows were o'er,
But when spring broke in blueness overhead,
The lark was dead.

And myriad roses made the garden glow,
And skylarks carolled all the summer long—
What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow?
Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song!
Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled!
Dead unfulfilled!

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Butterfly

VIATOR loquitur

'Royal in purple and gold and red,
Free, and unknowing sorrow,
Blithely and lithely to and fro,
With flowers for thy choosing still a-blow,
Flaunt through the idle noon:
But the day is short and the summer sped,
And alas for the end of joy so soon;
The days are short and the rose is dead,
And thou wilt be dying to-morrow.'

BUTTERFLY loquitur

'Sunshine and blossoms are on my way;
What is thy talk of sorrow?
Blithe on the wing, with the flowers for rest,
Hither and thither as likes me best:
Oh! the joy of the while!
Minutes are many to bask and to play,

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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Missing Star

WHY did the star leave the sky,
The far, pure sky?
Shone she not high and hallowed and fair?
Could she not tarry her life-time there?
Why must she fall and fade?
She had heaven nigh.
I of the earth, I would she had stayed
In her lonely air.

Higher than love lived my star,
My clear, cold star.
Why must she droop to our mists below?
Ah, for the glory of long ago!
Ah, for the pride no more!
When she stood so far.
Would she were lost in the days before,
In the perished glow.

Star wandered out of my light,
Once all my light,

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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Sea-Maid’s Song

'OH, love me! love me!'
The sea-maid sings ori the pebbly shore—
'Love me! oh, love me!'
The tears they gather, the tears run o'er;
She looks to the sea, she looks to the hill,
But no one comes, and the night is still—
'Oh, love me! love me!'

'Oh, love me I love me!'
Singing so sadly, singing so long—
'Love me! oh, love me!
I would give true love, so deep, so strong,
To him who would give true love to me.'
Nought on the hill, and nought on the sea—
'Oh, love me! love me!'

'Love me! oh, love me!'
Singing so long, and singing so late—
'Love me! oh, love me!
My heart is lone, I weep while I wait.'

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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Yu-Pe-Ya’s Dirge For Tse-Ky

DEAD, my beloved! This small purple weed
That grows upon thy grave shall have its time
To ripen and to wane, to bloom and seed;
But thou, strong doer, mightst not wait thy deed,
But thou, oh noblest, mightst not wait thy meed:
Dead in thy prime!

Gone, my beloved! I that held thine hand
Left sudden in a joyless waste alone!
I tossing on life's sea, and thou to stand
Hidden in the shadows of the silent strand.
Thou seeing me from where I may not land!
Gone from me, gone!

Sleep well: but what for me who still must wake?
Dream joys: but what for me who can but weep?
Oh darkened days where never dawn shall break!
Oh weary troth-plight I with sorrow make!
But thou, rest peaceful; care not for my sake.
Dear, sleep thy sleep.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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News to the king, good news for all

'NEWS to the king, good news for all,'
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'News of the battle,' the heralds call,
'We have won the field; we have taken the town;
We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

'Who was my bravest?' quoth the king,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Whom shall I honour for this great thing?'
'Threescore were best, where none were worst;
But Walter Wendulph was aye the first.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

'What of my husband?' quoth the bride,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Comes he to-morrow; how long will he bide?'
'Put off thy bridegear, busk thee in black;
Walter Wendulph will never come back.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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