Now by the stile ablaze she stops, And his demurer eyes he drops; Now they exchange averted sighs Or stand and marry silent eyes. And he to her a hero is And sweeter she than primroses; Their common silence dearer far Than nightingale and mavis are. Now when they sever wedded hands, Joy trembles in their bosom-strands And lovely laughter leaps and falls Upon their lips in madrigals. V THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL _A naked house, a naked moor, A shivering pool before the door, A garden bare of flowers and fruit And poplars at the garden foot: Such is the place that I live in, Bleak without and bare within._ Yet shall your ragged moor receive The incomparable pomp of eve, And the cold glories of the dawn Behind your shivering trees be drawn; And when the wind from place to place Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, Your garden gloom and gleam again, With leaping sun, with glancing rain. Here shall the wizard moon ascend The heavens, in the crimson end Of day's declining splendour; here The army of the stars appear. The neighbour hollows, dry or wet, Spring shall with tender flowers beset; And oft the morning muser see Larks rising from the broomy lea, And every fairy wheel and thread Of cobweb, dew-bediamonded. When daisies go, shall winter-time Silver the simple grass with rime; Autumnal frosts enchant the pool And make the cart-ruts beautiful; And when snow-bright the moor expands, How shall your children clap their hands! To make this earth, our hermitage, A cheerful and a changeful page, God's bright and intricate device Of days and seasons doth suffice. VI A VISIT FROM THE SEA Far from the loud sea beaches Where he goes fishing and crying, Here in the inland garden Why is the sea-gull flying? Here are no fish to dive for; Here is the corn and lea; Here are the green trees rustling. Hie away home to sea! Fresh is the river water And quiet among the rushes; This is no home for the sea-gull, But for the rooks and thrushes. Pity the bird that has wandered! Pity the sailor ashore! Hurry him home to the ocean, Let him come here no more! High on the sea-cliff ledges The white gulls are trooping and crying, Here among rooks and roses, Why is the sea-gull flying? VII TO A GARDENER