Lights Out

The new moon hangs like an ivory bugle
In the naked frosty blue;
And the leaves of the forest, already blackened
By Winter, are blackened anew.

The brooks that cut up and increase the forest,
As if they had never known
The sun, are roaring with black hollow voices
Betwixt rage and a moan.

But still the caravan-hut by the hollies
Like a kingfisher gleams between:
Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burners
First primroses ask to be seen.

The charcoal-burners are black, but their linen
Blows white on the line:
And white the letter the girl is reading
Under that crescent fine;

And her brother hidden apart in a thicket,
Slowly and surely playing
On a whistle an olden nursery melody,
Says far more than I am saying.

Today I think 
only of scents, -- scents dead leaves yield,
 ...  bracken,  ...  wild carrot seed, 
And the square mustard field;

Scents that arise 
When the spade wounds the roots of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry,  ...  goutweed,
Rhubarb  ...  celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Blowing from where the bonfire burns 
The waste, the dead, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough 
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the Robin sings over again
Sad songs of winter mirth.

Bright clouds of May
Shade half the pond.
Beyond,
All but one bay
Of emerald
Tall reeds
Like crisscross bayonets
Where a bird once called,
Lies bright as the sun.
No one heeds.
The light wind frets
And drifts the scum
Of may-blossom.
Till the moorhen calls
Again.
Naught's to be done
By birds or men.
Still the may falls.

I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight
Or winding, soon or late;
They can not choose.

 ... 

Here love ends ---
Despair, ambition ends;
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends, in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter, and leave, alone,
I know not how.

 ... 

Will you come?
Will you come?
Will you ride
So late
At my side?
O, will you come?

Will you come?
Will you come
If the night
Has a moon,
Full and bright?
O, will you come?

Would you come?
Would you come
If the noon
Gave light,
Not the moon?
Beautiful, would you come?

Would you have come?
Would you have come
Without scorning,
Had it been
Still morning?
Beloved, would you have come?

If you come
Haste and come,
Owls have cried;
It grows dark 
To ride.
Beloved, beautiful, come.

Rise up, rise up,
And, as the trumpet blowing
Scatters the dreams of men,
As the dawn glowing
The stars that left unlit
The land and water,
Rise up and scatter
The dew that covers
The print of last night's lovers ---
Scatter it, scatter it!
 
While you are listening
To that clear horn,
Forget, men, everything
On this earth newborn,
Save that it is lovelier
Than any mysteries.
Open your eyes to the air
That has washed the eyes of the stars
Through all the dewy night:
Up with the light,
To the old wars;
Arise, arise!