The Coming of the Princess and Other Poems by MacLean, Kate Seymour

THE PLOUGHBOY.

I wonder what he is thinking In the ploughing field all day. He watches the heads of his oxen, And never looks this way.

And the furrows grow longer and longer, Around the base of the hill, And the valley is bright with the sunset, Yet he ploughs and whistles still.

I am tired of counting the ridges, Where the oxen come and go, And of thinking of all the blossoms That are trampled down below.

I wonder if ever he guesses That under the ragged brim Of his torn straw hat I am peeping To steal a look at him.

The spire of the church and the windows Are all ablaze in the sun. He has left the plough in the furrow, His summer day's work is done.

And I hear him carolling softly A sweet and simple lay, That we often have sung together, While he turns the oxen away.

The buttercups in the pasture Twinkle and gleam like stars. He has gathered a golden handful, A leaning over the bars.

He has shaken the curls from his forehead, And is looking up this way,-- O where is my sun-bonnet, mother? He was thinking of me all day,--

And I'm going down to the meadow, For I know he is waiting there, To wreathe the sunshiny blossoms In the curls of my yellow hair.

THE VOICE OF MANY WATERS.

Oh Sea, that with infinite sadness, and infinite yearning Liftest thy crystal forehead toward the unpitying stars,-- Evermore ebbing and flowing, and evermore returning Over thy fathomless depths, and treacherous island bars:--

Oh thou complaining sea, that fillest the wide void spaces Of the blue nebulous air with thy perpetual moan, Day and night, day and night, out of thy desolate places-- Tell me thy terrible secret, oh Sea! what hast thou done.

Sometimes in the merry mornings, with the sunshine's golden wonder Glancing along thy cheek, unwrinkled of any wind, Thou seemest to be at peace, stifling thy great heart under A face of absolute calm,--with danger and death behind!

But I hear thy voice at midnight, smiting the awful silence With the long suspiration of thy pain suppressed; And all the blue lagoons, and all the listening islands Shuddering have heard, and locked thy secret in their breast!

Oh Sea! thou art like my heart, full of infinite sadness and pity,-- Of endless doubt and endeavour, of sorrowful question and strife, Like some unlighted fortress within a beleagured city, Holding within and hiding the mystery of life.

THE DEATH OF AUTUMN.

Discrowned and desolate, And wandering with dim eyes and faded hair, Singing sad songs to comfort her despair, Grey Autumn meets her fate.

Forsaken and alone She haunts the ruins of her queenly state, Like banished Eve at Eden's flaming gate, Making perpetual moan.

Crazed with her grief she moves Along the banks of the frost-charmed rills, And all the hollows of the wooded hills, Searching for her lost loves.

From verdurous base to cope, The sunny hill-sides, and sweet pasture lands, Where bubbling brooks reach ever-dimpled hands Along the amber slope,--

And valleys drowsed between, In the rich purple of the vintage time, When cups of gold that drop with fragrant wine, From orchard branches lean;--

And far beyond them, spread Broad fields thick set with sheaves of yellow wheat, Where scarlet poppies, slumberously sweet, Glow with a dusky red--