The Concise Verse

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Love on his errand bound to go Can swim the flood and wade through snow, Where way is none, 't will creep and wind And eat through Alps its home to find.

The Scorpion is as black as soot, He dearly loves to bite; He is a most unpleasant brute To find in bed, at night.

Love built a stately house, where Fortune came, And spinning fancies, she was heard to say That her fine cobwebs did support the frame, Whereas they were supported by the same; But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.

The half-moon westers low, my love, And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain.

I know not if it rains, my love, In the land where you do lie; And oh, so sound you sleep, my love, You know no more than I.

The dawn was apple-green, The sky was green wine held up in the sun, The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green They shone, clear like flowers undone, For the first time, now for the first time seen.

Twin stars through my purpling pane, The shriveling husk Of a yellowing moon on the wane - And the dusk.

I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

See, yonder, the belfry tower That gleams in the moon's pale light; Or is it a ghostly flower That dreams in the silent night?

I listen and hear the chime Go quavering o'er the town, And out of this flower of Time Twelve petals are wafted down.