The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

Name: The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas
Author: Bridges, Robert

Bridges, Robert

English poetry

We watched the good grain rattle down,
      And the awns fly in the draught;
    To see us both so pensive grown
      The honest labourers laughed:

    Merry they were, because the wheat
      Was clean and plump and good,
    Pleasant to hand and eye, and meet
      For market and for food.

    It chanced we from the city were,
      And had not gat us free
    In spirit from the store and stir
      Of its immensity:

    But here we found ourselves again.
      Where humble harvests bring
    After much toil but little grain,
      'Tis merry winnowing.


    2

    THE AFFLICTION OF RICHARD

      Love not too much. But how,
    When thou hast made me such,
    And dost thy gifts bestow,
    How can I love too much?
      Though I must fear to lose,
    And drown my joy in care,
    With all its thorns I choose
    The path of love and prayer.

      Though thou, I know not why,
    Didst kill my childish trust,
    That breach with toil did I
    Repair, because I must:
      And spite of frighting schemes,
    With which the fiends of Hell
    Blaspheme thee in my dreams,
    So far I have hoped well.

      But what the heavenly key,
    What marvel in me wrought
    Shall quite exculpate thee,
    I have no shadow of thought.
      What am I that complain?
    The love, from which began
    My question sad and vain,
    Justifies thee to man.


    3

    Since to be loved endures,
      To love is wise:
    Earth hath no good but yours,
      Brave, joyful eyes:

    Earth hath no sin but thine,
      Dull eye of scorn:
    O'er thee the sun doth pine
      And angels mourn.


    4

    THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER

      Now thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams
    Of the September sun: his golden gleams
    On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows
    Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows
    That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers;
    Where tomtits, hanging from the drooping heads
    Of giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds;
    And in the feathery aster bees on wing
    Seize and set free the honied flowers,
    Till thousand stars leap with their visiting:
    While ever across the path mazily flit,
    Unpiloted in the sun,
    The dreamy butterflies
    With dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms,
    White, black and crimson stripes, and peacock eyes,
    Or on chance flowers sit,
    With idle effort plundering one by one
    The nectaries of deepest-throated blooms.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight DramasBridges, Robert

General

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

Bridges, Robert

English poetry

We watched the good grain rattle down,
      And the awns fly in the draught;
    To see us both so pensive grown
      The honest labourers laughed:

    Merry they were, because the wheat
      Was clean and plump and good,
    Pleasant to hand and eye, and meet
      For market and for food.

    It chanced we from the city were,
      And had not gat us free
    In spirit from the store and stir
      Of its immensity:

    But here we found ourselves again.
      Where humble harvests bring
    After much toil but little grain,
      'Tis merry winnowing.


    2

    THE AFFLICTION OF RICHARD

      Love not too much. But how,
    When thou hast made me such,
    And dost thy gifts bestow,
    How can I love too much?
      Though I must fear to lose,
    And drown my joy in care,
    With all its thorns I choose
    The path of love and prayer.

      Though thou, I know not why,
    Didst kill my childish trust,
    That breach with toil did I
    Repair, because I must:
      And spite of frighting schemes,
    With which the fiends of Hell
    Blaspheme thee in my dreams,
    So far I have hoped well.

      But what the heavenly key,
    What marvel in me wrought
    Shall quite exculpate thee,
    I have no shadow of thought.
      What am I that complain?
    The love, from which began
    My question sad and vain,
    Justifies thee to man.


    3

    Since to be loved endures,
      To love is wise:
    Earth hath no good but yours,
      Brave, joyful eyes:

    Earth hath no sin but thine,
      Dull eye of scorn:
    O'er thee the sun doth pine
      And angels mourn.


    4

    THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER

      Now thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams
    Of the September sun: his golden gleams
    On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows
    Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows
    That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers;
    Where tomtits, hanging from the drooping heads
    Of giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds;
    And in the feathery aster bees on wing
    Seize and set free the honied flowers,
    Till thousand stars leap with their visiting:
    While ever across the path mazily flit,
    Unpiloted in the sun,
    The dreamy butterflies
    With dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms,
    White, black and crimson stripes, and peacock eyes,
    Or on chance flowers sit,
    With idle effort plundering one by one
    The nectaries of deepest-throated blooms.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

The Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Excluding the Eight Dramas

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