For me the skylark builds and sings, For me the vine her garland weaves; The swallow folds her glossy wings To build beneath my cottage eaves. But I can feel the giant near, Can hear his slaves by daylight weep, And, when at last the night is here, I hear him moaning in his sleep. Oh! for a little space of ground, Though not a flower should make it gay, Where miles of meadows wrapped me round, And leagues and leagues of silence lay. Oh! for a wind-lashed, treeless down, A black night and a rising sea, And never a thought of London town, To steal the world’s delight from me. AT EVENING TIME THERE SHALL BE LIGHT The day was wild with wind and rain, One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore, It seemed our marsh would never again Wear the rich robes that once it wore. The scattered farms looked sad and chill, Their sheltering trees writhed all awry, And waves of mist broke on the hill Where once the great sea thundered by. Then God remembered this His land, This little land that is our own, He caught the rain up in His hand, He hid the winds behind His throne, He soothed the fretful waves to rest, He called the clouds to come away, And, by blue pathways, to the west, They went, like children tired of play. And then God bade our marsh put on Its holy vestment of fine gold; From marge to marge the glory shone On lichened farm and fence and fold; In the gold sky that walled the west, In each transfigured stone and tree, The glory of God was manifest, Plain for a little child to see! MAIDENHOOD Through her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright, Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes; Not all the splendour of the waxing light She sees, nor all the colour of the rose; And yet who knows what finer hues she sees, Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes? Who knows what light she sees in skies and seas Which is withholden from our seas and skies? Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treads And feels not yet the treachery of the thorn, Her crown of lilies still its perfume sheds Where Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne. Yet in the mystery of her peaceful way Who knows what fears beset her innocence, Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day, And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence? V THE MONK When in my narrow cell I lie, The long day’s penance done at last, I see the ghosts of days gone by, And hear the voices of the past.