Poetry and Sleep

Poems from South Africa

Published in a South Africa in an anthology 1910

W.E. Hunter

Written on Recovery from Sickness

How dreamlike, strange, is this
Reprieve to happiness
And life!  to sit at ease
In comfort of green trees!
And marvelling hear
Thrush and blackbird piping near;
Whilst, thro’ every passive sense,
Creeps a healing influence,
That, baptizing heart and brain,
Renews and makes me whole again!

No more, like one for whom
There is nor light nor gloom,
Silence nor sound,
His sleep is so profound,
I lie, in seeming rest,
With hands prayer-folder on my breast,
Silent, as slow nights and days
Pass on undistinguished ways,
Silent, tho’ my heart made moan,
Sadly to herself alone,
Saying, “Now, dissolves the snow”;
Saying, “Now, the violets blow; —
Ah, when I am laid more low,
They will blow more close to me,
Closer still and I not see,
Not know.”—
But lo!
I while away

Once again a summer’s day,
In this pleasant sylvan place,
Where the alders interlace
Their boughs above me, and the blue
Bells and flowers of purple hue
Make beautiful the lone recess
With glamour of their loveliness.

—Nature for herself against
All the world this valley fenced.
For her own delight she wrought
In sculpture her poetic thought:
Then she breathed upon it, till
It breathed to her again, and rill
And herb and flower returned the smile
Of love, that lit her face the while.
How beautiful it is! How meet,
For the solace of retreat!
Guardian hills have charge to keep
Watch around it, steep on steep,
Save, to westward, where a space
Opens in their green embrace,
And, behind, the ocean paves
The chasm with protecting waves.

Thro’ the tranquil, sylvan valley
Toys a streamlet musically;
All too happy to hast on,
Such sweet themes it dwells upon,
With a low and inward voice
To itself it doth rejoice;
And the little sedge-birds sit
In the reeds and hark to it;
And from banks of mossy green,
Flowers that love it droop and lean,
As it lingers, winds, and wanders
Under willow trees and alders—
As it lingers, winds and flows
’Neath the lilies’ driven snows,
And a yellow dragon-fly
Crosses it incessantly.
—Ever may the streamlet be
Clear as now, untainted, free!
And the vale, —may no men win it
From the blackbird and the linnet,
And the thrush that harbour in it!

Now the song-birds throng the bushes,
And the water-birds the rushes;
And thro’ golden haze, the bee
Darting, seeks her treasury
With what nectar she could win
From the tired flowers folding in;
And the landscape all alight
With rose and amber, depth and height,
Burns beneath the fiery sky;
And the radiant waters vie
With heaven’s splendour, where the sun,
Now his western goal is won,
Stands upon the molten wave,
Magician-like, as if he gave
A farewell blessing to the earth,
And foretold to-morrow’s birth,
Ere lowlier, on the ocean’s breast,
He bows in worship, and to rest
Sinks beyond our vision’s quest.
—How calm it is!  Earth, sea, and air
Hush with him in silent prayer!
So awhile, —then clear and strong
A sweet gush of vesper song!
All the heart of music throbbing
In a bird’s ecstatic sobbing,
As the purple shadows close
Over amber, over rose,
And a chime from far away
Rings the passing of the day.

—As a lover, tired of roaming,
Who returneth in the gloaming;
Who returneth home at last
After months and perils past,
As with gentle hand he presses
Back the loved one’s silken tresses,
Gazes earnestly a space,
On her dear familiar face,
Reads it fondly o’er and o’er,
And finds it fairer than before.
Nature, thus I gaze on thee,
Gaze on earth and sky and sea,
Gaze and gaze, until my sight
Is tear-clouded by delight,
To pain united, in the stress

Margaret

MAIDENS, on this narrow bed,
Drop the flowers, but do no tread;
All that earth knew how to keep
Of Margaret is fast asleep.
Underneath the sod it lies,
With death’s darkness in those eyes
That were wont to show at dawn,
Blue depths where our light was born;
For the radiant spirit flown,
Still our hearts unceasing moan—
For the radiant inmate dear,
That for one elysian year
Tarried on the earth, to see
If it might fit dwelling be
For a guest as pure as she,—
Then affrighted (woe the day!)
On swift wings, she fled away
To that country lying far,
Where the other angels are—
Fled! and left us nothing, save
To protect this little grave,
Which we keep, for love of her,
Ever unprofaned and fair.
Softly on her sacred bed

Scatter flowers, but do not tread.

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