The Novice

I love one and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss.
Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in hell
More than repose in heaven.

Yea it is as a poison-cup
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
The slow death looketh up.

Then bring me to a solitude
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow.
And roots are found for food;

Where the wild honey-bee booms by,
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts: there I would live,
And there I fain would die.

There autumn leaves may make my grave.
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
And shadowy branches wave.

T GATHER thyme upon the sunny hills,
And its pure fragrance ever gladdens me,
And in my mind having tranquillity
I smile to see how my green basket fills.
And by clear streams I gather daffodils;

And in dim woods find out the cherry-tree,
And take its fruit and the wild strawberry,
And nuts and honey; and live free from ills.
I dwell on the green earth, 'neath the blue sky,
Birds are my friends, and leaves my rustling roof;
The deer are not afraid of me, and I

Hear the wild goat, and hail its hastening hoof;
The squirrels sit perked as I pass them by,
And even the watchful hare stands not aloof.