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Henry Kendall - Mooni
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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 morning’s brow!          
Just to stand where Nature’s face is  
Flushed with power in forest places—  
Where of God authentic trace is—  
  Ah, to be by Mooni now!  
  
  Just to be by Mooni’s 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 Mooni’s 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 Mooni’s 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 Mooni’s marge.  
  
  Who that dwells by Mooni yet,  
Feels, in flowerful forest arches,  
Smiting wings and breath that parches  
Where strong Summer’s 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 passion’s losses)  
Stood where Mooni’s 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 god’s transfiguration  
  Was the shining change in me.  
Then, where Mooni’s 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 April’s 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 Mooni’s 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 Mooni’s 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 shadow 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?
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