| |
| AH, to be by Mooni now! | |
| Where the great dark hills of wonder, | |
| Scarred with storm and cleft asunder | |
| By the strong sword of the thunder, | |
| Make a night on morning’s brow! | 5 |
| Just to stand where Nature’s face is | |
| Flushed with power in forest places— | |
| Where of God authentic trace is— | |
| Ah, to be by Mooni now! | |
| |
| Just to be by Mooni’s springs! | 10 |
| There to stand, the shining sharer | |
| Of that larger life, and rarer | |
| Beauty caught from beauty fairer | |
| Than the human face of things! | |
| Soul of mine from sin abhorrent | 15 |
| Fain would hide by flashing current | |
| Like a sister of the torrent, | |
| Far away by Mooni’s springs. | |
| |
| He that is by Mooni now, | |
| Sees the water-sapphires gleaming | 20 |
| Where the River Spirit, dreaming | |
| Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming | |
| Under lute of leaf and bough! | |
| Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is, | |
| Psalms from unseen wildernesses | 25 |
| Deep amongst far hill-recesses— | |
| He that is by Mooni now. | |
| |
| Yea, for him by Mooni’s marge | |
| Sings the yellow-haired September | |
| With the face the gods remember | 30 |
| When the ridge is burnt to ember, | |
| And the dumb sea chains the barge! | |
| Where the mount like molten brass is, | |
| Down beneath fern-feathered passes, | |
| Noonday dew in cool green grasses | 35 |
| Gleams on him by Mooni’s marge. | |
| |
| Who that dwells by Mooni yet, | |
| Feels, in flowerful forest arches, | |
| Smiting wings and breath that parches | |
| Where strong Summer’s path of march is | 40 |
| And the suns in thunder set? | |
| Housed beneath the gracious kirtle | |
| Of the shadowy water myrtle, | |
| Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle— | |
| He is safe by Mooni yet! | 45 |
| |
| Days there were when he who sings | |
| (Dumb so long through passion’s losses) | |
| Stood where Mooni’s water crosses | |
| Shining tracts of green-haired mosses, | |
| Like a soul with radiant wings; | 50 |
| Then the psalm the wind rehearses— | |
| Then the song the stream disperses | |
| Lent a beauty to his verses— | |
| Who to-night of Mooni sings. | |
| |
| Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme! | 55 |
| Certain days are not above me, | |
| Certain hearts have ceased to love me, | |
| Certain fancies fail to move me | |
| Like the affluent morning dream. | |
| Head whereon the white is stealing, | 60 |
| Heart whose hurts are past all healing, | |
| Where is now the first pure feeling? | |
| Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme! | |
| |
| Sin and shame have left their trace! | |
| He who mocks the mighty, gracious | 65 |
| Love of Christ, with eyes audacious, | |
| Hunting after fires fallacious, | |
| Wears the issue in his face. | |
| Soul that flouted gift and Giver, | |
| Like the broken Persian river, | 70 |
| Thou hast lost thy strength for ever! | |
| Sin and shame have left their trace. | |
| |
| In the years that used to be, | |
| When the large, supreme occasion | |
| Brought the life of inspiration, | 75 |
| Like a god’s transfiguration | |
| Was the shining change in me. | |
| Then, where Mooni’s glory glances, | |
| Clear diviner countenances | |
| Beamed on me like blessed chances, | 80 |
| In the years that used to be. | |
| |
| Ah, the beauty of old ways! | |
| Then the man who so resembled | |
| Lords of light unstained, unhumbled, | |
| Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled | 85 |
| At the grand benignant gaze! | |
| Now he shrinks before the splendid | |
| Face of Deity offended, | |
| All the loveliness is ended! | |
| All the beauty of old ways! | 90 |
| |
| Still to be by Mooni cool— | |
| Where the water-blossoms glister, | |
| And, by gleaming vale and vista, | |
| Sits the English April’s sister | |
| Soft, and sweet, and wonderful. | 95 |
| Just to rest beyond the burning | |
| Outer world—its sneers and spurning— | |
| Ah! my heart—my heart is yearning | |
| Still to be by Mooni cool: | |
| |
| Now, by Mooni’s fair hill heads, | 100 |
| Lo, the gold green lights are glowing, | |
| Where, because no wind is blowing, | |
| Fancy hears the flowers growing | |
| In the herby watersheds! | |
| Faint it is—the sound of thunder | 105 |
| From the torrents far thereunder, | |
| Where the meeting mountains ponder— | |
| Now, by Mooni’s fair hill heads: | |
| |
| Just to be where Mooni is, | |
| Even where the fierce fall races | 110 |
| Down august unfathomed places, | |
| Where of sun or moon no trace is, | |
| And the streams of shadow hiss! | |
| Have I not an ample reason | |
| So to long for—sick of treason— | 115 |
| Something of the grand old season, | |
| Just to be where Mooni is? | |
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