Mooni

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)     Ah, to be by Mooni now,     Where the great dark hills of wonder,     Scarred with storm and cleft asunder     By the strong sword of the thunder,     Make a night on mornings brow!     Just to stand where Natures face is     Flushed with power in forest places     Where of God authentic trace is     Ah, to be by Mooni now!     Just to be by Moonis springs!     There to stand, the shining sharer     Of that larger life, and rarer     Beauty caught from beauty fairer     Than the human face of things!     Soul of mine from sin abhorrent     Fain would hide by flashing current,     Like a sister of the torrent,     Far away by Moonis springs.     He that is by Mooni now     Sees the water-sapphires gleaming     Where the River Spirit, dreaming,     Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming     Under lute of leaf and bough     Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is,     Psalms from unseen wildernesses     Deep amongst far hill-recesses     He that is by Mooni now.     Yea, for him by Moonis marge     Sings the yellow-haired September,     With the face the gods remember     When the ridge is burnt to ember,     And the dumb sea chains the barge!     Where the mount like molten brass is,     Down beneath fern-feathered passes,     Noonday dew in cool green grasses     Gleams on him by Moonis marge.     Who that dwells by Mooni yet,     Feels, in flowerful forest arches,     Smiting wings and breath that parches     Where strong Summers path of march is,     And the suns in thunder set?     Housed beneath the gracious kirtle     Of the shadowy water myrtle,     Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle     He is safe by Mooni yet!     Days there were when he who sings     (Dumb so long through passions losses)     Stood where Moonis water crosses     Shining tracts of green-haired mosses,     Like a soul with radiant wings;     Then the psalm the wind rehearses     Then the song the stream disperses     Lent a beauty to his verses,     Who to-night of Mooni sings.     Ah, the theme the sad, grey theme!     Certain days are not above me,     Certain hearts have ceased to love me,     Certain fancies fail to move me     Like the affluent morning dream.     Head whereon the white is stealing,     Heart whose hurts are past all healing,     Where is now the first pure feeling?     Ah, the theme the sad, grey theme!     Sin and shame have left their trace!     He who mocks the mighty, gracious     Love of Christ, with eyes audacious,     Hunting after fires fallacious,     Wears the issue in his face.     Soul that flouted gift and Giver,     Like the broken Persian river,     Thou hast lost thy strength for ever!     Sin and shame have left their trace.     In the years that used to be,     When the large, supreme occasion     Brought the life of inspiration,     Like a gods transfiguration     Was the shining change in me.     Then, where Moonis glory glances,     Clear, diviner countenances     Beamed on me like blessed chances,     In the years that used to be.     Ah, the beauty of old ways!     Then the man who so resembled     Lords of light unstained, unhumbled,     Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled     At the grand benignant gaze!     Now he shrinks before the splendid     Face of Deity offended,     All the loveliness is ended!     All the beauty of old ways!     Still to be by Mooni cool     Where the water-blossoms glister,     And, by gleaming vale and vista,     Sits the English Aprils sister     Soft and sweet and wonderful.     Just to rest beyond the burning     Outer world its sneers and spurning     Ah! my heart my heart is yearning     Still to be by Mooni cool!     Now, by Moonis fair hill heads,     Lo, the gold green lights are glowing,     Where, because no wind is blowing,     Fancy hears the flowers growing     In the herby watersheds!     Faint it is the sound of thunder     From the torrents far thereunder,     Where the meeting mountains ponder     Now, by Moonis fair hill heads.     Just to be where Mooni is,     Even where the fierce fall races     Down august, unfathomed places,     Where of sun or moon no trace is,     And the streams of shadows hiss!     Have I not an ample reason     So to long for sick of treason     Something of the grand old season,     Just to be where Mooni is?