Across the shimmering meadows-- Ah, when he came to me! In the spring-time, In the night-time, In the starlight, Beneath the hawthorn tree. Up from the misty marsh-land-- Ah, when he climbed to me! To my white bower, To my sweet rest, To my warm breast, Beneath the hawthorn tree. Ask of me what the birds sang, High in the hawthorn tree; What the breeze tells, What the rose smells, What the stars shine-- Not what he said to me! THE POOR MINSTREL _Does the darkness cradle thee Than mine arms more tenderly?_ Do the angels God hath put There to guard thy lonely sleep-- One at head and one at foot-- Watch more fond and constant keep? When the black-bird sings in May, And the spring is in the wood, Would you never trudge the way Over hill-tops, if you could? Was my harp so hard a load Even on the sunny morns When the plumèd huntsmen rode To the music of their horns? Hath the love that lit the stars, Fills the sea and moulds the flowers, Whose completeness nothing mars, Made forgot what once was ours? Christ hath perfect rest to give-- Stillness and perpetual peace; You, who found it hard to live, Sleep and sleep, without surcease. Christ hath stars to light thy porch, Silence after fevered song;-- I had but a minstrel’s torch And the way was wet and long. Sleep. No more on winter nights, Harping at some castle gate, Thou must see the revel lights Stream upon our cold estate. Bitter was the bread of song While you tarried in my tent, And the jeering of the throng Hurt you, as it came and went. When you slept upon my breast Grief had wed me long ago: Christ hath his perpetual rest For thy weariness. But oh! When I sleep beside the road, Thanking God thou liest not so, Brother to the owl and toad, Could’st thou, Dear, but let me know, _Does the darkness cradle thee Than mine arms more tenderly?_ ANTINOUS