Unknown Country

Here, in this other world, they come and go     With easy dream-like movements to and fro.     They stare through lovely eyes, yet do not seek     An answering gaze, or that a man should speak.     Had I a load of gold, and should I come     Bribing their friendship, and to buy a home,     They would stare harder and would slightly frown:     I am a stranger from the distant town.     Oh, with what patience I have tried to win     The favour of the hostess of the Inn!     Have I not offered toast on frothing toast     Looking toward the melancholy host;     Praised the old wall-eyed mare to please the groom;     Laughed to the laughing maid and fetched her broom;     Stood in the background not to interfere     When the cool ancients frolicked at their beer;     Talked only in my turn, and made no claim     For recognition or by voice or name,     Content to listen, and to watch the blue     Or grey of eyes, or what good hands can do?     Sun-freckled lads, who at the dusk of day     Stroll through the village with a scent of hay     Clinging about you from the windy hill,     Why do you keep your secret from me still?     You loiter at the corner of the street;     I in the distance silently entreat.     I know too well I'm city-soiled, but then     So are today ten million other men.     My heart is true: I've neither will nor charms     To lure away your maidens from your arms.     Trust me a little. Must I always stand     Lonely, a stranger from an unknown land?     There is a riddle here. Though I'm more wise     Than you, I cannot read your simple eyes.     I find the meaning of their gentle look     More difficult than any learned book.     I pass: perhaps a moment you may chaff     My walk, and so dismiss me with a laugh.     I come: you all, most grave and most polite,     Stand silent first, then wish me calm Good-Night.     When I go back to town some one will say:     'I think that stranger must have gone away.'     And 'Surely!' some one else will then reply.     Meanwhile, within the dark of London, I     Shall, with my forehead resting on my hand,     Not cease remembering your distant land;     Endeavouring to reconstruct aright     How some treed hill has looked in evening light;     Or be imagining the blue of skies     Now as in heaven, now as in your eyes;     Or in my mind confusing looks or words     Of yours with dawnlight, or the song of birds:     Not able to resist, not even keep     Myself from hovering near you in my sleep:     You still as callous to my thought and me     As flowers to the purpose of the bee.