CAMPBELL

WILFRED CAMPBELL (1858?-1918) 

AN OCTOBER EVENING 

1893 

The woods are haggard and lonely,
The skies are hooded for snow, 
The moon is cold in Heaven, 
And the grasses are sere below.

The bearded swamps are breathing
A mist from meres afar, 
And grimly the Great Bear circles
Under the pale Pole Star. 

There is never a voice in Heaven, 
Nor ever a sound on earth, 
Where the spectres of winter are rising
Over the night's wan girth. 

There is slumber and death in the silence, 
There is hate in the winds so keen; 
And the flash of the north's great sword-blade
Circles its cruel sheen. 

The world grows agèd and wintry, 
Love's face peakèd and white; 
And death is kind to the tired ones
Who sleep in the north to - night.

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SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,
That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of lover's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
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The End