Full many I met that crowned with bay In triumph home returned, And many a master on the way Proud of the prize I scorned. I wished no garland on my head Nor treasure in my hand; My gift the longing that me led, My prayer thy high command, My love, my muse; and when I spake Thou mad’st me thine that day, And more than hundred hearts could take Gav’st me to bear away. 11 Love on my heart from heaven fell, Soft as the dew on flowers of spring, Sweet as the hidden drops that swell Their honey-throated chalicing. Now never from him do I part, Hosanna evermore I cry: I taste his savour in my heart, And bid all praise him as do I. Without him noughtsoever is, Nor was afore, nor e’er shall be: Nor any other joy than his Wish I for mine to comfort me. 12 The hill pines were sighing, O’ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May. But deep in the glen’s bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier. A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak. Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling: And the shadowy pine-trees sighed. 13 THE WINDMILL The green corn waving in the dale, The ripe grass waving on the hill: I lean across the paddock pale And gaze upon the giddy mill. Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep Cut thro’ the air: with rushing sound Each strikes in fury down the steep, Rattles, and whirls in chase around. Beside his sacks the miller stands On high within the open door: A book and pencil in his hands, His grist and meal he reckoneth o’er. His tireless merry slave the wind Is busy with his work to-day: From whencesoe’er, he comes to grind; He hath a will and knows the way. He gives the creaking sails a spin, The circling millstones faster flee, The shuddering timbers groan within, And down the shoot the meal runs free. The miller giveth him no thanks, And doth not much his work o’erlook: He stands beside the sacks, and ranks The figures in his dusty book. 14 When June is come, then all the day I’ll sit with my love in the scented hay: And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky. She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home. O life is delight when June is come. 15 The pinks along my garden walks Have all shot forth their summer stalks, Thronging their buds ’mong tulips hot, And blue forget-me-not.