The Poems of Alice Meynell

								

Upwards from thee to the sky,

    With no more distrust
When they blossom from thy dust.


Silent labours of the rain
Shall be near thee, reconciled;
Little lives of leaves and grain,

    All things shy and wild,
Tell thee secrets, quiet child.


Earth, set free from thy fair fancies
And the art thou shalt resign,
Will bring forth her rue and pansies

    Unto more divine
Thoughts than any thoughts of thine.


Nought will fear thee, humbled creature.
There will lie thy mortal burden
Pressed unto the heart of Nature,

    Songless in a garden,
With a long embrace of pardon.


Then the truth all creatures tell,
And His will Whom thou entreatest,
Shall absorb thee; there shall dwell

    Silence, the completest
Of thy poems, last and sweetest.

  III


TO ONE POEM IN A SILENT TIME


Who looked for thee, thou little song of mine?

    This winter of a silent poet's heart

    Is suddenly sweet with thee.  But what thou art,
Mid-winter flower, I would I could divine.


Art thou a last one, orphan of thy line?

    Did the dead summer's last warmth foster thee?

    Or is Spring folded up unguessed in me,
And stirring out of sight,--and thou the sign?


Where shall I look--backwards or to the morrow

    For others of thy fragrance, secret child?

      Who knows if last things or if first things claim thee?


--Whether thou be the last smile of my sorrow,

    Or else a joy too sweet, a joy too wild.

      How, my December violet, shall I name thee?

  IV


THE MOON TO THE SUN


The Poet sings to her Poet


As the full moon shining there
To the sun that lighteth her
Am I unto thee for ever,
O my secret glory-giver!
O my light, I am dark but fair,

      Black but fair.


Shine, Earth loves thee!  And then shine
And be loved through thoughts of mine.
All thy secrets that I treasure
I translate them at my pleasure
I am crowned with glory of thine,

      Thine, not thine.


I make pensive thy delight,
And thy strong gold silver-white.
Though all beauty of mine thou makest,
Yet to earth which thou forsakest
I have made thee fair all night,

      Day all night.

  V


THE SPRING TO THE SUMMER


The Poet sings to her Poet


O poet of the time to be,
My conqueror, I began for thee.

    Enter into thy poet's pain,

    And take the riches of the rain,
And make the perfect year for me.


Thou unto whom my lyre shall fall,
Whene'er thou comest, hear my call.

    O keep the promise of my lays,

    Take thou the parable of my days;
I trust thee with the aim of all.


And if my thoughts unfold from me,
Know that I too have hints of thee,

    Dim hopes that come across my mind

    In the rare days of warmer wind,
And tones of summer in the sea.


And I have set thy paths, I guide
Thy blossoms on the wild hillside.

    And I, thy bygone poet, share

    The flowers that throng thy feet where'er