POEMS BY THE WAY

FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA

Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve? 
Then the white house shall we leave. 
Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
Through the garth, and go our ways,
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-god’s lonely home,
Lonely on the hillside grey,
Whence the sheep have gone away;
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side. 
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch: 
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine,
But not touching; and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow. 
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me. 
Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard,
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And the daffodils downcast,
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely Sun-Crowned one,
Then the meads fade at our back,
And the spring day ’gins to lack
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy slope and low
Dieth in the shingly sand: 
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
’Twixt thy lips and mine, O love! 
Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!

OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG

A story from the land-settling book of Iceland, chapter XXX.

At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide, So many times over comes summer again, Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside. What healing in summer if winter be vain? Dim and dusk the day was grown, As he heard his folded wethers moan.  Then through the garth a man drew near, With painted shield and gold-wrought spear.  Good was his horse and grand his gear, And his girths were wet with Whitewater.  “Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long!  How fare the folk at Deildar-Tongue?” “All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong!  How fare the folk by the Brothers’-Tongue?”
“Meat have we there, and drink and fire,
Nor lack all things that we desire. 
But by the other Whitewater
Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear.” 
“Tales enow may my daughter make
If too many words be said for her sake.”