The Spectrum
HOW many colors here do we see set,
Like rings upon God’s finger? Some say three,
Some four, some six, some seven. All agree
To left of red, to right of violet,
Waits darkness deep as night and black as jet.
And so we know what Noah saw we see,
Nor less nor more—of God’s emblazonry
A shred—a sign of glory known not yet.
If red can glide to yellow, green to blue,
What joys may yet await our wider eyes
When we rewake upon a wider shore!
What deep pulsations, exquisite and new!
What keener, swifter raptures may surprise
Men born to see the rainbow and no more!
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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We Are Children
CHILDREN indeed are we—children that wait
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless sky;
The house is fair, yet all is desolate
Because our Father comes not; clouds of fate
Sadden above us—shivering we espy
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,
And cry to one another, “He is nigh!”
At early morning, with a shining Face,
He left us innocent and lily-crown’d;
And now this late—night cometh on apace—
We hold each other’s hands and look around,
Frighted at our own shades! Heaven send us grace!
When He returns, all will be sleeping sound.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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When We Are All Asleep
WHEN He returns, and finds the world so drear,
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and fair,
Will he stoop down and whisper in each ear,
“Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,
Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, ‘Too late! let us sleep here’?”
Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!
Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.
Wherefore awake them into life again?
Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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On A Young Poetess’s Grave
UNDER her gentle seeing,
In her delicate little hand,
They placed the Book of Being,
To read and understand.
The Book was mighty and olden,
Yea, worn and eaten with age;
Though the letters look’d great and golden,
She could not read a page.
The letters flutter’d before her,
And all look’d sweetly wild:
Death saw her, and bent o’er her,
As she pouted her lips and smil’d.
And weary a little with tracing
The Book, she look’d aside,
And lightly smiling, and placing
A Flower in its leaves, she died.
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Song
WHO calls me bold because I won my love,
And did not pine,
And waste my life with secret pain, but strove
To make him mine?
I us’d no arts; ’t was Nature’s self that taught
My eye to speak,
And bid the burning blush to paint unsought
My flashing cheek;
That made my voice to tremble when I bid
My love “Goodby,”
So weak that every other sound was hid,
Except a sigh.
Oh, was it wrong to use the truth I knew,
That hearts are mov’d,
And spring warm-struck with life and love anew,
By being lov’d?
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Twin-Growth
I would not wish thee other than thou art;
I love thee, love, so well in every part,
That had I power to change thee
In form or face or mind,
I could not find
The heart to re-arrange thee.
For we were made to suit each other, sweet,
Apart, uneven, but when join'd, complete,
With powers and failings matching
In each as strictly well
As in some shell
The sharp teeth interlatching.
And so I would not have thee change, for fear
The valves might ope and gape a little, dear.
But we are like the weather
A-changing every day,
And so I pray
That we may change together --
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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A Song Of The Seasons
Sing a song of Spring-time,
The world is going round,
Blown by the south wind:
Listen to its sound.
'Gurgle' goes the mill-wheel,
'Cluck' clucks the hen;
And it's O for a pretty girl
To kiss in the glen.
Sing a song of Summer,
The world is nearly still,
The mill-pond has gone to sleep,
And so has the mill.
Shall we go a-sailing,
Or shall we take a ride,
Or dream the afternoon away
Here, side by side?
Sing a song of Autumn,
The world is going back;
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Two Sons
I HAVE two sons, wife—
Two, and yet the same;
One his wild way runs, wife,
Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and fights across the sea,
The other is a little child who sits upon your knee.
One is fierce and cold, wife,
As the wayward deep;
Him no arms could hold, wife,
Him no breast could keep.
He has tried our hearts for many a year, not broken them; for he
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon your knee.
One may fall in fight, wife—
Is he not our son?
Pray with all your might, wife,
For the wayward one;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights across the sea,
Because you love the little shade who smiles upon your knee.
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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The Secret
SHE passes in her beauty bright
Amongst the mean, amongst the gay,
And all are brighter for the sight,
And bless her as she goes her way.
And now a gleam of pity pours,
And now a spark of spirit flies,
Uncounted, from the unlock’d stores
Of her rich lips and precious eyes.
And all men look, and all men smile,
But no man looks on her as I:
They mark her for a little while,
But I will watch her till I die.
And if I wonder now and then
Why this so strange a thing should be—
That she be seen by wiser men
And only duly lov’d by me:
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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De Libris
True — there are books and books. There’s Gray,
For instance, and there’s Bacon;
There’s Longfellow, and Monstrelet,
And also Colton’s “ Lacon,”
With “Laws of Whist” and those • of Libel,
And Euclid, and the Mormon Bible.
And some are dear as friends, and some
We keep because we need’them;
And some we ward from worm and thumb,
And love too well to read them.
My own are poor, and mostly new,
But I’ve an Elzevir or two.
That as a gift is prized, the next
For trouble in the finding;
This Aldine for its early text,
That Plantin for the binding;
This sorry Herrick hides a flower,
The record of one perfect hour.
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poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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