Should I Stay on My Way?
When sunless evening settles low
On darksome grass, and men have laid
Aside their daywork tools to go
On home along by grove and glade;
And all the rooks have floated by
O'er head, to seek their roosting trees,
While pale and paler shine the leaze
And mead, below the high-moon'd sky;
Then on my way, beside the screen
Of bank and bough, or where may blow
The wind, through gate or bar-way, keen
Or soft, along the way I go,
Should I stay still for anything,
Unless to see, below the oak,
A knot of little fairy folk,
All dancing in a whirling ring?
Yes! By the elm I fain would stay,
And gaze on that now lonely mound,
Where, on a long-gone summer day,
We sat, in mirth, upon the ground;
Or, by the orchard's ivied wall,
Up where we saw dear Mary stand,
While apples from her lifted hand
Flew out in many a blushing ball.
Or at the stile that some lost mate
Sprang sprily o'er in one high leap;
Or at the slowly-slamming gate
That fell from hands now still in sleep;
Or at the bridge that reaches pale
O'er water where, in summers past,
Our boat, before the upward blast,
Oft stemm'd the stream with bunted sail.
But even while I thus might stay,
The time would still be gliding on,
And wafting later things away,
Where those of olden time have gone;
O night! O night! how very clear
Thy light brings back an earlier sky;
O night! O night! how very nigh
Those sights brings back another year.
On darksome grass, and men have laid
Aside their daywork tools to go
On home along by grove and glade;
And all the rooks have floated by
O'er head, to seek their roosting trees,
While pale and paler shine the leaze
And mead, below the high-moon'd sky;
Then on my way, beside the screen
Of bank and bough, or where may blow
The wind, through gate or bar-way, keen
Or soft, along the way I go,
Should I stay still for anything,
Unless to see, below the oak,
A knot of little fairy folk,
All dancing in a whirling ring?
Yes! By the elm I fain would stay,
And gaze on that now lonely mound,
Where, on a long-gone summer day,
We sat, in mirth, upon the ground;
Or, by the orchard's ivied wall,
Up where we saw dear Mary stand,
While apples from her lifted hand
Flew out in many a blushing ball.
Or at the stile that some lost mate
Sprang sprily o'er in one high leap;
Or at the slowly-slamming gate
That fell from hands now still in sleep;
Or at the bridge that reaches pale
O'er water where, in summers past,
Our boat, before the upward blast,
Oft stemm'd the stream with bunted sail.
But even while I thus might stay,
The time would still be gliding on,
And wafting later things away,
Where those of olden time have gone;
O night! O night! how very clear
Thy light brings back an earlier sky;
O night! O night! how very nigh
Those sights brings back another year.
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