Once
I SET a lily long ago;
I watched it whiten in the sun;
I loved it well, I had but one.
Then summer-time was done,
The wind came and the rain,
My lily bent, lay low.
Only the night-time sees my pain—
Alas, my lily long ago!
I had a rose-tree born in May;
I watched it burgeon and grow red,
I breathed the perfume that it shed.
Then summer-time had sped,
The frost came with its sleep
My rose-tree died away.
Only the silence hears me weep—
Alas, lost rose-tree! lost, lost May!
The garden's lily blows once more;
The buried rose will wake and climb;
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Once a sea-nymph loved a boy
ONCE a sea-nymph loved a boy:
He and she they loved so well.
'Oh the foamy billow's joy!
Oh the rippling in the sun!
Oh the round waves, one by one, Swaying, swaying, swaying, To and fro.
Oh my pearl and coral cell, And the long weeds playing,
While the surges come and go, Come and go!'
Boy and nymph were hand in hand:
He and she they had much love.
'Oh the green and ripening land!
Oh the lime-scent in the trees!
Oh the langour of the breeze,
Wooing, wooing, wooing, Light and low!
Oh the twilight in my grove, And the cushats cooing;
While the brook steals soft and slow, Soft and slow.'
Love, that heard them, laughed aloud, Took them to the side of him.
Was it land or leafy cloud?
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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My Loss
IN the world was one green nook I knew,
Full of roses, roses red and white,
Reddest roses summer ever grew,
Whitest roses ever pearled with dew;
And their sweetness was beyond delight,
Was all love's delight.
Wheresoever in the world I went,
Roses were; for in my heart I took
Blow and blossom and bewildering scent;
Roses never with the summer spent,
Roses always ripening in that nook,
Love's far summer nook.
In the world a soddened plot I know
Blackening in this chill and misty air,
Set with shivering bushes in a row,
One by one the last leaves letting go:
Wheresoe'er I turn I shall be there,
Always sighing there.
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Sky-Lark’s Song
WINGED voice to tell the skies of earth,
Dear earth-born lark, sing on, sing clear,
Sing into heaven that she may hear
;Sing what thou wilt, so she but know
Thine ecstasy of summer mirth
And think ''Tis from the world below!'
Instant, old wont returns fresh brought,
And her desire goes seeking me,
For whom her whole world used to be
And all my world for sake of her;
She cannot think an earthward thought
That shall not seem my messenger.
She will be glad for love, and smile,
Saying 'Thank God for joy like ours:
Saying 'There come the kind home hours:
His work-day will be sped ere long,
That keeps him hence this little while.
'Sing, lark, until she know thy song.
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Comrade
'I AM Joy,' she said; but her voice was low,
Too low for laughter;
'I am Love '; but her eyes lacked Love's quick glow,
And the tear that springs after;
'I am Life'; but she seemed too calm, too still,
Like one who waits, but forgets to-morrow;
Then she took my hand, and I did her will,
And knew she was Sorrow.
And she led me on through the world we see,
Where smiles are many;
Through the fever and stir of life's hot glee
That waits never for any;
Through the silence of rest when dreams are o'er
And stillness is sweeter than hope's best pleasure;
Through the peace when nought is to garner more
Of Love's plenished treasure.
So at length we twain were the truest pair,
More kind than lovers.
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Summer Mood
BUT wait. Let each by each the days pass by,
One faded and one blown like summer flowers;
What need of hope, with summer in the sky?
What of regret, with all fair morrows ours?
If yesterday be gone,No reck, 'twas not alone,
To-morrow will have just so sweet long hours.
But yet to-day is sweetest till 'tis flown.
But wait. Let summer day be changed from day,
Like following surges of the ebb and flow;
And flow brings breath of saltness and blithe spray,
And ebb long music of seas plashing low.
The waves, stolen out of reach
,Have no farewell for speech;
Next tide will roll as swift, as rippling go.
And yet 'tis now that's best along the beach.
Ah wait. The while we linger our lives live,
Our summer ripens purpose through our dreams;
Flower-petals fallen leave a seed to thrive,
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Old Dream
NAY, tell me not. I will not know.
Because of her my life is bare,
A waste where blow-seeds spring and grow
Then die because the soil is spent,
And leave no token they were there;
A soddened mere where marsh-lights gleam,
But no star sees the ray it lent
Because of her despoiled and bare.
What then? she did a wrong unmeant.
Leave me my dream.
Tell me no more. I will not know.
My life, if she had harsher eyes,
Did her sweet voice not deepen so,
Had maybe missed this bitterness;
Maybe I should have been more wise
If she were sterner, or could seem,
If she could have been pitiless.
Too sweet low voice! too trustful eyes!
What then? she could not judge their stress
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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In After Years
LOVE is dying. Why then, let it die.
Trample it down, that it die more fast.
What is a rose that has lost its bloom?
What is a fruit with its freshness past?
And where is the worth of the twilight gloom?
Let the night come when the day has gone by:
Let the dying die.
Leave your useless smiles and your tears,
Weepings and wooings are, oh, so vain!
Sunlights and rains bid the blossoms blow,
But waken no waning blossom again.
Nay, but say 'It was always so;
Love was not love in the other years,
There is nought for tears.'
Say 'We lose what was never ours,
Lo, we were fooled by a fond deceit;
Because we chanced to be side by side,
Because we were young and love is sweet,
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Waiting
A YOUNG fair girl among her flowers,
And, as to blossoms born in May,
Her morrows still brought sunnier hours
Than made up sunny yesterday.
She did but wait: 'Hope is so sweet;
We love so well, my love and I;
The hours that come, the hours that fleet,
End all in one glad by and by.'
A pale worn woman, scarcely sad,
But tired, like those who, too long pent,
Forget the joy they have not had
Of the free winds, and droop content.
She did but wait: 'Ah, no, to me
The silent hope is never dead;
What are the days that are to be
But part of the dear days long fled?'
He came: 'The wealth we need is mine;
And now?' 'Alas!' she said, 'in vain.
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Coarse Morning
OH the yellow boisterous sea,
The surging, chafing, murderous sea!
And the wind-gusts hurtle the torn clouds by,
On to the south through a shuddering sky,
And the bare black ships scud aloof from the land.
'Tis as like the day as can be,
When the ship came in sight that came never to strand,
The ship that was blown on the sunken sand—
And he coming back to me!
Oh the great white snake of foam,
The coiling, writhing, snake of white foam,
Hissing and huddering out in the bay,
Over the banks where the wrecked ship lay,
Over the sands where the dead may lie deep!
There are some in the churchyard loam,
Some two or three the sea flung to our keep:
Their mothers can sit by a grave to weep,
But my son never came home.
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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