Spray of song that springs in April,
light
of love that laughs through May,
Live and die and live for ever:
nought
of all thing far less fair
Keeps a surer life than these
that
seem to pass like fire away.
In the souls they live which are
but
all the brighter that they were;
In the hearts that kindle, thinking
what
delight of old was there.
Wind that shapes and lifts and shifts them
bids
perpetual memory play
Over dreams and in and out
of
deeds and thoughts which seem to wear
Light that leaps and runs and revels
through
the springing flames of spray.
Dawn is wild upon the waters
where
we drink of dawn to-day:
Wide, from wave to wave rekindling
in
rebound through radiant air,
Flash the fires unwoven and woven
again
of wind that works in play,
Working wonders more than heart
may
note or sight may wellnigh dare,
Wefts of rarer light than colours
rain
from heaven, though this be rare.
Arch on arch unbuilt in building,
reared
and ruined ray by ray,
Breaks and brightens, laughs and lessens,
even
till eyes may hardly bear
Light that leaps and runs and revels
through
the springing flames of spray.
Year on year sheds light and music
rolled
and flashed from bay to bay
Round the summer capes of time
and
winter headlands keen and bare
Whence the soul keeps watch, and bids
her
vassal memory watch and pray,
If perchance the dawn may quicken,
or
perchance the midnight spare.
Silence quells not music, darkness
takes
not sunlight in her snare;
Shall not joys endure that perish?
Yea,
saith dawn, though night say nay:
Life on life goes out, but very
life
enkindles everywhere
Light that leaps and runs and revels
through
the springing flames of spray.
Friend, were life no more than this is,
well
would yet the living fare.
All aflower and all afire
and
all flung heavenward, who shall say
Such a flash of life were worthless?
This
is worth a world of care—
Light that leaps and runs and revels
through
the springing flames of spray.
ON THE VERGE.
Here begins the sea that ends not
till
the world’s end. Where we stand,
Could we know the next high sea-mark
set
beyond these waves that gleam,
We should know what never man hath
known,
nor eye of man hath scanned.
Nought beyond these coiling clouds
that
melt like fume of shrines that steam
Breaks or stays the strength of waters
till
they pass our bounds of dream.
Where the waste Land’s End leans westward,