O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank
it, the dream light, apace
Not a leaf moved at all ’neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages
Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the
And the child’s dancing foot gave us part in
the ravishment almost a pain,
An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time,
Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain,
And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime?
‘We shall never be younger;’ nay, mock
me not, fancy, none call from yon
They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! For
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not
They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my
Mrs. J. I told you so!
Mrs. T. (aside). That did you, neighbour. Ay, Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song.
Mrs. G. Who be these coming to the front to sing?
Mrs. J. (aside). Why, neighbour, these be
sweethearts, so ’tis said,
And there was much ado to make her sing;
She would, and would not; and he wanted her,
And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her.
’Tis Tomlin’s pretty maid, his only one.
Mrs. G. (aside). I did not know the maid, so fair she looks.
Mrs. J. (aside). He’s a right proper man she has at last; Walks over many a mile (and counts them nought) To court her after work hours, that he doth, Not like her other—why, he’d let his work Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love, While he would sit and look, and look and sigh. Her father sent him to the right-about. ‘If love,’ said he, ’won’t make a man of you, Why, nothing will! ’Tis mainly that love’s for. The right sort makes,’ said he, ’a lad a man; The wrong sort makes,’ said he, ‘a man a fool.’
Vicar presents a young man and a girl.
She. While he
dreams, mine old grand sire,
And yon red logs glow,
Honey, whisper by the fire,
Whisper, honey low.
He. Honey, high’s
yon weary hill,
Stiff’s yon weary loam;
Lacks the work o’ my goodwill,
Fain I’d take thee home.
O how much longer, and longer, and longer,
An’ how much longer shall the waiting last?
Berries red are grown, April birds are flown,
Martinmas gone over, ay, and harvest past.
She. Honey, bide,
the time’s awry,
Bide awhile, let be.
He. Take my wage then, lay it by,
Till ’t come back with thee.
The red money, the white money,
Both to thee I bring—
She. Bring ye ought beside, honey?
He. Honey, ay, the ring.