Song In Three Parts.

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
    'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
    Four am I fair,'

    Quoth the brown bee
    'In thy white wear
    Four thou art fair.
    A mystery
    Of honeyed snow
    In scented air
    The bee lines flow
    Straight unto thee.
    Great boon and bliss
    All pure I wis,
    And sweet to grow
    Ay, so to give
    That many live.
    Now as for me,
    I,' quoth the bee,
    'Have not to give,
    Through long hours sunny
    Gathering I live:
    Aye debonair
    Sailing sweet air
    After my fare,
    Bee-bread and honey.
    In thy deep coombe,
    O thou white broom,
    Where no leaves shake,
    Brake,
    Bent nor clover,
    I a glad rover,
    Thy calms partake,
    While winds of might
    From height to height
    Go bodily over.
    Till slanteth light,
    And up the rise
    Thy shadow lies,
    A shadow of white,
    A beauty-lender
    Pathetic, tender.

    Short is thy day?
    Answer with 'Nay,'
    Longer the hours
    That wear thy flowers
    Than all dull, cold
    Years manifold
    That gift withhold.
    A long liver,
    O honey-giver,
    Thou by all showing
    Art made, bestowing,
    I envy not
    Thy greater lot,
    Nor thy white wear.
    But, as for me,
    I,' quoth the bee,
    'Never am fair.'

II.

The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding
    Deeply and long,
'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,
    O lost my song.'

    One in the tree,
    'Hush now! Let be:
    The song at ending
    Left my long tending
    Over alsò.
    Let be, let us go
    Across the wan sea.

    The little ones care not,
    And I fare not
    Amiss with thee.

    Thou hast sung all,
    This hast thou had.
    Love, be not sad;
    It shall befall
    Assuredly,
    When the bush buddeth
    And the bank studdeth -
    Where grass is sweet
    And damps do fleet,
    Her delicate beds
    With daisy heads
    That the Stars Seven
    Leaned down from heaven
    Shall sparkling mark
    In the warm dark
    Thy most dear strain
    Which ringeth aye true -
    Piercing vale, croft
    Lifted aloft
    Dropt even as dew
    With a sweet quest
    To her on the nest
    When damps we love
    Fall from above.

    "Art thou asleep?
    Answer me, answer me,
    Night is so deep
    Thy right fair form
    I cannot see;
    Answer me, answer me,
    Are the eggs warm?
    Is't well with thee?"

    Ay, this shall be
    Assuredly.
    Ay, thou full fain
    In the soft rain
    Shalt sing again.'


III.

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,
        Her good days o'er;
'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,
        Seven - no more.'

    Then Echo woke - and spoke
        'No more - no more,'
    And a wave broke
        On the sad shore
    When Echo said
        'No more,'

    Nought else made reply,
    Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
    Did any comfort try,
    But the wave spread
    Echo's faint tone
    Alone,
    All down the desolate shore,
    'No more - no more.'