Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin’ full o’ love that must not shine for me. Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be red wi’ burnin’ thirst, an’ he must never know. Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin’ in the night when I am sick wi’ fear; A-singin’ when the moonlight over a’ the land is white-- Aw God! I’ll up an’ go to him a-singin’ in the night, A-callin’ in the night. Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break. It beats an’ throbs forever for the things that must not be,-- An’ can ye not let me creep in an’ rest awhile by ye? A little lass afeard o’ dark slept by ye years agone-- Ah, she has found what night can hold ’twixt sunset an’ the dawn! So when I plant the rose an’ rue above your grave for ye, Ye’ll know it’s under rue an’ rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be. FIDES, SPES Joy is come to the little Everywhere; Pink to the peach and pink to the apple, White to the pear. Stars are come to the dogwood, Astral, pale; Mists are pink on the red-bud, Veil after veil. Flutes for the feathery locusts, Soft as spray; Tongues of lovers for chestnuts, poplars, Babbling May. Yellow plumes for the willows’ Wind-blown hair; Oak trees and sycamores only Comfortless, bare. Sore from steel and the watching, Somber and old, (Wooing robes for the beeches, larches, Splashed with gold, Breath of love from the lilacs, Warm with noon,) Great hearts cold when the little Beat mad so soon. What is their faith to bear it Till it come, Waiting with rain-cloud and swallow, Frozen, dumb? THE TAVERN In the tavern of my heart Many a one has sat before, Drunk red wine and sung a stave, And, departing, come no more. When the night was cold without, And the ravens croaked of storm, They have sat them at my hearth, Telling me my house was warm. As the lute and cup went round, They have rhymed me well in lay;-- When the hunt was on at morn, Each, departing, went his way. On the walls, in compliment, Some would scrawl a verse or two, Some have hung a willow branch, Or a wreath of corn-flowers blue. Ah! my friend, when thou dost go, Leave no wreath of flowers for me; Not pale daffodils nor rue, Violets nor rosemary. Spill the wine upon the lamps, Tread the fire, and bar the door; So despoil the wretched place, None will come forevermore. THE HAWTHORN TREE