Twilight on Tweed

THREE crests against the saffron sky,

Beyond the purple plain,

The kind remembered melody

Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills,

Dear voice from the old years,

Thy distant music lulls and stills,

And moves to quiet tears.

Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood

Fleets through the dusky land;

Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,

My feet returning stand.

A mist of memory broods and floats,

The border waters flow;

The air is full of ballad notes,

Borne out of long ago.

Old songs that sung themselves to me,

Sweet through a boy's day-dream,

While trout below the blossomed tree

Plashed in the golden stream.

.            .            .            .          .

Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,

Fair and too fair you be;

You tell me that the voice is still

That should have welcomed me.

Andrew Lang

The Odyssey

AS one that for a weary space has lain

Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine

In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,

Where the Ægæan isle forgets the main,

And only the low lutes of love complain,

And only shadows of wan lovers pine;

As such an one were glad to know the brine

Salt on his lips, and the large air again--

So gladly, from the songs of modern speech

Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers;

And, through the music of the languid hours,

They hear like ocean on a western beach

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

Andrew Lang

Scythe Song

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,

What is the word methinks ye know --

Endless over-word that the scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?

Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,

Something, still, they say as they pass;

What is that word that, over and over,

Sings the scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the scythes are saying,

Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;

Hush, they say to the grasses swaying;

Hush, they sing to the clover deep!

Hush-- 'tis the lullaby Time is singing --

Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;

Hush, ah hush! and the scythes are swinging

Over the clover, over the grass!

Andrew Lang

On Calais Sands

ON Calais Sands the gray began,

Then rosy red above the gray;

The morn with many a scarlet van

Leaped, and the world was glad with May!

The little waves along the bay

Broke white upon the shelving strands;

The sea-mews flitted white as they

                 On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands must man with man

Wash honor clean in blood today;

On spaces wet from waters wan

How white the flashing rapiers play--

Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray

Shifts for a while, then mournful stands

The victor; life ebbs fast away

                 On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands a little space

Of silence; then the splash and spray,

The sound of eager waves that ran

To kiss the perfumed locks astray

To touch those lips that ne'er said "Nay,"

To dally with the helpless hands,

Till the deep sea in silence lay

                 On Calais Sands!

Between the lilac and the may

She waits her love from alien lands;

Her love is colder than the clay

                 On Calais Sands!

Andrew Lang

Brahma

IF the wild bowler thinks he bowls,

  Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,

They know not, poor misguided souls,

  They too shall perish unconsoled.

I am the batsman and the bat,

  I am the bowler and the ball,

The umpire, the pavilion cat,

  The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

Andrew Lang