Augusta Davies Webster: Все стихи поэта

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Betrothed

I DID not think to love her. As we go

We pluck a hedge-rose blushing in its sheath,

Fresh, and at hand; and not the less we know

That where rich garden blossoms take the breath

With eddying sweets and wear a thousand hues

We shall be fain to linger and to choose.

And who indeed

Would pass the garden by to choose the weed,

by Augusta Davies Webster

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—

by Augusta Davies Webster

A Song Of A Spring-Time

TOO rash, sweet birds, spring is not spring;

Sharp winds are fell in east and north;

Late blossoms die for peeping forth; Rains numb, frost blights;

Days are unsunned, storms tear the nights;

The tree-buds wilt before they swell.

Frosts in the buds, and frost-winds fell: And you, you sing.

But let no song be sweet in spring;

Spring is but hope for after-time,

by Augusta Davies Webster

The Missing Star

WHY did the star leave the sky,

The far, pure sky?

Shone she not high and hallowed and fair?

Could she not tarry her life-time there?

Why must she fall and fade?

She had heaven nigh.

I of the earth, I would she had stayed

In her lonely air.

by Augusta Davies Webster

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,

by Augusta Davies Webster

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.

by Augusta Davies Webster

Disenchanted

Alas, I thought this forest must be true,

And would not change because of my changed eyes;

I thought the growing things were as I knew,

And not a mock; I thought at least the skies

Were honest and would keep that happy blue

They used to wear before I learned to see

.But woe the day!

Lo, I have wandered forth and thought to stay

by Augusta Davies Webster

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!

by Augusta Davies Webster

Love's Mourner

'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain

The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold,

And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold

For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.

So in a thousand voices has the strain

Of this dear patient madness been retold,

That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold,

Naming for love that grief which does remain.

by Augusta Davies Webster

The Manuscript of Saint Alexius

There came a child into the solemn hall

where great Pope Innocent sat throned and heard

angry disputings on Free-Will in man,

Grace, Purity, and the Pelagian creed—

an ignorantly bold poor child, who stood

shewing his rags before the Pope's own eyes,

and bade him come to shrive a beggar man

he found alone and dying in a shed,

by Augusta Davies Webster

The Brook Leaps Riotous

The brook leaps riotous with its life just found,

That freshets from the mountain rains have fed,

Beats at the boulders in its hindered bed,

And fills the valley with its triumphing sound.

The strong unthirsty tarn sunk in deep ground

Has never a sigh wherewith its wealth is said,

Has no more ripples than the May-flies tread:

Silence of waters is where they abound.

by Augusta Davies Webster

Tired

No not to-night, dear child; I cannot go;

I'm busy, tired; they knew I should not come;

you do not need me there. Dear, be content,

and take your pleasure; you shall tell me of it.

There, go to don your miracles of gauze,

and come and show yourself a great pink cloud.

So, she has gone with half a discontent;

but it will die before her curls are shaped,

by Augusta Davies Webster