Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Ballads of the North (1889). I. The First of JuneHarriet Eleanor Hamilton-King (18401920)
L
With sinking heart alone;
Long weeks, long months I so have lain,
Weeping and making moan.
If swift spring-rains have stirred,
There hath not broken through the dark
One flash of flower or bird.
Even on me at last;
Though drop by drop the minutes faint
Like hours at midnight passed.
The summer dawn is nigh;
But health and healing it has brought;
I wake—but is it I?
I draw no sobbing breath,
Life has come back to me at last,
And God remembereth.
A waking glad like this:
Nay, can I once recall an hour
So peaceful as it is?
That I such ease have known;
What hinders me from rising up
And going forth alone?
Through the sweet morning mist,
And see the sunrise out of doors,
That all my life I missed?
My footsteps noiseless fall,
From door to door, from stair to stair:
Peace rest within on all!
I stand beneath the sky;
The old watch-dog remembers me,
Nor stirs as I go by.
Across the stile I pass,
Out of the dewy garden
Into the meadow grass.
It rustles to my knees:
Year after year does morning bring
Airs upon earth like these?
The rising sun to meet,
The clover and the daisies dim
All close about my feet.
From hill to hill unseen,
From every side the hymn of birds
Fills all the fields between.
Where deep and high and dank
The orchis heads crowd through the grass,
And leaning from the bank
And golden flags are hung,
Out of whose midst the water-hen
Awakens with her young.
Was used to haunt this brook,
But seen no more of latter years:
He comes again, for—look!—
Almost against my face:
He is not shy to-day, within
This willow fringèd place.
All the still land lies fair;
As up the sloping leas I pass,
The sweetest grass grows there.
They do not run away;
The field-mice flit along the path,
Like little friends at play.
As if in heaven they were;
I too am free and full of glee
Out in the open air.
That bounds my window-view;
O house of love, O house of pain,
For how long time?—adieu.
Oh, I have wandered many a mile
Through a country wild and sweet;
I am not tired, I do not want
To stay, or sit, or eat.
And body were reconciled;
I think there once was such a day
When I was a little child.
And as I enter through,
The speedwell from the bank looks up
With eyes of heavenly blue.
Come in, they sing and say;
The wood is dark and fragrant-fresh
With June’s first hour and day.
Into the green wood’s heart;
I come unto an open space
Where the low branches part.
The forest oak-trees spread;
Under the stateliest of them all
The moss has made a bed.
With aching limbs across,
How often have I dreamed of this—
A bed of earth and moss!
Is rest and health at last;
How can such utter weariness
So suddenly be past?
Soon! soon! soon! for a sign:
But who is this beside me
Whose eyes look into mine?
And where is it I met with you?
Are not the waste wide waters
Of Death between us two?”
I have watched beside the gate;
I have looked down the road that you would come,
I have waited early and late;
I have been weary in Paradise,
Oh, it was long to wait!
Across the waves in sleep?
And this is your birthday morning
Together we will keep.”