“ The mother thrilled with sense of beauty infinite:For here it was the lithe, strong arms had pressed her to his breast,And his proud mouth had sealed on hers the proudest rightThat lovely tenderness may plan in gardens of the West.And so the moon grew white to silver all the lawns,While the garden wicket grows more white because a shadow nearHas come to steal the wakened joy of any further dawns.The hand upon the wicket trembles, the vision is not clear Of the one woman in the garden who is so quiet and still. ”
Quotes from Oxford poetry, 1919 ()
“ Climbing aloft on the cedar branches. Day comes and night comes, summer and holiday,Swift, ah! the bright hours, merry adventurers!Tears now, a first shy kiss at parting,Tears—and a hand at the corner waving.... White through the dawn-mist, careless of yesterday,Life stretches onward, life the attainableWhite road along dim hills of dreamland;Childhood is dead, and the leaves drift over. Yet here in bleak house slumbers the memory,Here, here in green lawn, orchard and cedar-tree,Fair head and dark head, laughter, laughter,Evening, and voices across the starlight. ”
“ But only the priest in the fields of youth hears the requiem guns of strife.And he knows that strife goes on and on, for ever on and on,While the harps of the world shall play no more, nor any more shall bringThe maids and youths to laughter until that the end be won,And the eyes of men grow young again, and the heart of the world can sing. ”
