The Master of the House
Last night the West wind bent the poplars' boughs
And like a whisper passed above the lawn:
" The well-beloved Master of the House
" Is gone, " it said; " is gone! "
White in the whiter moon the great house rose
And its unlighted windows blank and drear,
Murmured each one the while the wind drew close —
" He is not here! "
T HE T REES :
His was the first of human love we knew.
New strength he gave us — leaf and bough and limb.
Closer we held our little singing crew
Because of him.
Daily he walked among us; now there stirs
A grief like some great wind that bows us thus.
Oh, little birds that were his pensioners,
Mourn ye with us.
T HE B IRDS :
There were no crumbs this morning at the door.
No kindly voice to greet our downward flight.
Oh, Brothers, let us sing to him once more —
He still may heed tonight.
A R OSE IN THE G ARDEN :
Waken and heed, my sisters! He our lover
Will come no more to watch our blossoming,
And, smiling, bend to say our sweet names over.
A C OLUMBINE :
How may this be in Spring?
T HE H OUSE :
Many came through my door today — not he!
Many came out. He did not. Tell me, then,
Whence comes this loneliness — this want in me
Unknown of men?
Surely, the dawn must bring his voice once more.
He passed not through my door.
A D OG AT THE T HRESHOLD :
He has not called nor whistled; I have waited
So patiently — I have not moved at all.
My ears are bent to hear the step belated
When I will spring to meet him in the hall
And leap to touch his hand. I must not move
Lest I should miss him; must not take my sight
From that one door. Oh, Master of my love,
I have been very patient. Come tonight!
A V OICE IN THE G ARDEN :
Oh, Master of the House — the voices call
And will not cease.
Surely, this wistfulness is audible
Even in your far peace.
And so I may not doubt that once again
Your stricken garden shall rejoice, your trees
Toss their green boughs in rapture — nor in vain
One little, faithful friend shall watch by these.
We may not guess, we humans blind and dull,
That day your halls may sing — your trees carouse;
Yet these shall know that moment beautiful —
I may not doubt, oh, Master of the House!
And like a whisper passed above the lawn:
" The well-beloved Master of the House
" Is gone, " it said; " is gone! "
White in the whiter moon the great house rose
And its unlighted windows blank and drear,
Murmured each one the while the wind drew close —
" He is not here! "
T HE T REES :
His was the first of human love we knew.
New strength he gave us — leaf and bough and limb.
Closer we held our little singing crew
Because of him.
Daily he walked among us; now there stirs
A grief like some great wind that bows us thus.
Oh, little birds that were his pensioners,
Mourn ye with us.
T HE B IRDS :
There were no crumbs this morning at the door.
No kindly voice to greet our downward flight.
Oh, Brothers, let us sing to him once more —
He still may heed tonight.
A R OSE IN THE G ARDEN :
Waken and heed, my sisters! He our lover
Will come no more to watch our blossoming,
And, smiling, bend to say our sweet names over.
A C OLUMBINE :
How may this be in Spring?
T HE H OUSE :
Many came through my door today — not he!
Many came out. He did not. Tell me, then,
Whence comes this loneliness — this want in me
Unknown of men?
Surely, the dawn must bring his voice once more.
He passed not through my door.
A D OG AT THE T HRESHOLD :
He has not called nor whistled; I have waited
So patiently — I have not moved at all.
My ears are bent to hear the step belated
When I will spring to meet him in the hall
And leap to touch his hand. I must not move
Lest I should miss him; must not take my sight
From that one door. Oh, Master of my love,
I have been very patient. Come tonight!
A V OICE IN THE G ARDEN :
Oh, Master of the House — the voices call
And will not cease.
Surely, this wistfulness is audible
Even in your far peace.
And so I may not doubt that once again
Your stricken garden shall rejoice, your trees
Toss their green boughs in rapture — nor in vain
One little, faithful friend shall watch by these.
We may not guess, we humans blind and dull,
That day your halls may sing — your trees carouse;
Yet these shall know that moment beautiful —
I may not doubt, oh, Master of the House!
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