The Nineteenth Century , No 182, Apr 1892 [‎108r] (220/244)

1892
NOTICEABLE
105
it is true, is limited: as though the solitary soul only looked out
wardly on certain phases of nature, inwardly on certain insoluble
problems of life. But in such exquisite poems as the following—
exquisite, in spite of its provoking imperfection—one sees how
Imagination with her could descend from its lofty pedestal and pipe
and frisk away among the meadows to a fanciful tune of its own.
T he G eass
The grass so little has to do—
A sphere of simple green,
With, only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain.
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And bold the sunshine in its lap,
And bow to everything;
And thread tbe dews all nigbt, like pearls.
And make itself so fine,—-
A ducbess were too common
For such a noticing.
And even wben it dies, to pass
In odours so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep.
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sov'reign barns.
And dream tbe days away,—
The grass so little bas to do,
I wish I were the hay!
The blemishes in these stanzas are obvious; and the third one
seems to me entirely bad; but one pardons a great deal for the sake
of the second (in spite of its careless neglect of rhyme), and the last,
which contains two exquisite lines. A common singer would have
seen no further than the cutting down of the grass, ' which to-day is
and to-morrow is cast into the oven.'
Akin to this, but deeper in feeling, is the nearly perfect little song
numbered ix. in the collection labelled ' Love.'
.. . ■y 1 ,, * i
Have you got a brook in your little heart.
Where bashful flowers blow.
And blusbing birds go down to drink.
And shadows tremble so ?
ii
And nobody knows, so still it flows.
That any brook is there;
And yet your little draught of life
" ' " Is daily drunken there.