The Change

OUT of the past there rises a week—Who shall read the years O!—Out of the past there rises a weekEnringed with a purple zone.Out of the past there rises a weekWhen thoughts were strung too thick to speak,And the magic of its lineaments remains with me alone.

In that week there was heard a singing—Who shall spell the years, the years!—In that week there was heard a singing,And the white owl wondered why.In that week, yea, a voice was ringing,And forth from the casement were candles flingingRadiance that fell on the deodar and lit up the path thereby.

Could that song have a mocking note?—Who shall unroll the years O!—Could that song have a mocking noteTo the white owl’s sense as it fell?Could that song have a mocking noteAs it trilled out warm from the singer’s throat,And who was the mocker and who the mocked when two felt all was well?

In a tedious trampling crowd yet later—Who shall bare the years, the years!—In a tedious trampling crowd yet later,When silvery singings were dumb;In a crowd uncaring what time might fate her,Mid murks of night I stood to await her,And the twanging of iron wheels gave out the signal that she was come.

She said with a travel-tired smile—Who shall lift the years O!—She said with a travel-tired smile,Half scared by scene so strange;She said, outworn by mile on mile,The blurred lamps wanning her face the while,“O Love, I am here; I am with you!” . . . Ah, that there should havecome a change!

O the doom by someone spoken—Who shall unseal the years, the years!—O the doom that gave no token,When nothing of bale saw we:O the doom by someone spoken,O the heart by someone broken,The heart whose sweet reverberances are all time leaves to me.

(Echo of an old song)

SITTING on the bridgePast the barracks, town and ridge,At once the spirit seized usTo sing a song that pleased us—As “The Fifth” were much in rumour;It was “Whilst I’m in the humour,Take me, Paddy, will you now?”And a lancer soon drew nigh,And his Royal Irish eyeSaid, “Willing, faith, am I,O, to take you anyhow, dears,To take you anyhow.”

But, lo!—dad walking by,Cried, “What, you lightheels! Fie!Is this the way you roamAnd mock the sunset gleam?”And he marched us straightway home,Though we said, “We are only, daddy,Singing, ‘Will you take me, Paddy?’”—Well, we never saw from thenIf we sang there anywhen,The soldier dear again,Except at night in dream-time,Except at night in dream.

Perhaps that soldier’s fightingIn a land that’s far away,Or he may be idly plightingSome foreign hussy gay;Or perhaps his bones are whitingIn the wind to their decay! . . .Ah!—does he mind him howThe girls he saw that dayOn the bridge, were sitting singingAt the time of curfew-ringing,“Take me, Paddy; will you now, dear?Paddy, will you now?”