Two Songs

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. 

My spirit kisseth thine, 
My spirit embraceth thee : 
I feel thy being twine 
Her graces over me, 

In the life-kindling fold 
Of God's breath ; where on high, 
In furthest space untold 
Like a lost world I lie : 

And o'er my dreaming plains 
Lightens, most pale and fair, 
A moon that never wanes ; 
Or more, if I compare, 

Like what the shepherd sees 
On late mid-winter dawns, 
When thro' the branched trees, 
O'er the white-frosted lawns, 

The huge unclouded sun, 
Surprising the world whist, 
Is all uprisen thereon, 
Golden with melting mist.