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Robert Nichols - November
Work rating: Low

    As I walk the misty hill
    All is languid, fogged, and still;
    Not a note of any bird
    Nor any motion`s hint is heard,
    Save from soaking thickets round
    Trickle or water`s rushing sound,
    And from ghostly trees the drip
    Of runnel dews or whispering slip
    Of leaves, which in a body launch
    Listlessly from the stagnant branch
    To strew the marl, already strown,
    With litter sodden as its own,

    A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briars,
    And from the clammy ground suspires
    A sweet frail sick autumnal scent
    Of stale frost furring weeds long spent;
    And wafted on, like one who sleeps,
    A feeble vapour hangs or creeps,
    Exhaling on the fungus mould
    A breath of age, fatigue, and cold.

    Oozed from the bracken`s desolate track,
    By dark rains havocked and drenched black.
    A fog about the coppice drifts,
    Or slowly thickens up and lifts
    Into the moist, despondent air.

    Mist, grief, and stillness everywhere....

    And in me, too, there is no sound
    Save welling as of tears profound,
    Where in me cloud, grief, stillness reign,
    And an intolerable pain
    Begins.
             Rolled on as in a flood there come
    Memories of childhood, boyhood, home,
    And that which, sudden, pangs me most,
    Thought of the first-belov`d, long lost,
    Too easy lost! My cold lips frame
    Tremulously the familiar name,
    Unheard of her upon my breath:
    `Elizabeth. Elizabeth.`

    No voice answers on the hill,
    All is shrouded, sad, and still ...
    Stillness, fogged brakes, and fog on high.
    Only in me the waters cry
    Who mourn the hours now slipped for ever,
    Hours of boding, joy, and fever,
    When we loved, by chance beguiled,
    I a boy and you a child —
    Child! but with an angel`s air,
    Astonished, eager, unaware,
    Or elfin`s, wandering with a grace
    Foreign to any fireside race,
    And with a gaiety unknown
    In the light feet and hair backblown,
    And with a sadness yet more strange,
    In meagre cheeks which knew to change
    Or faint or fired more swift than sight,
    And forlorn hands and lips pressed white,
    And fragile voice, and head downcast,
    Hiding tears, lifted at the last
    To speed with one pale smile the wise
    Glance of the grey immortal eyes.

    How strange it was that we should dare
    Compound a miracle so rare
    As, `twixt this pace and Time`s next pace,
    Each to discern th` elected`s face!
    Yet stranger that the high sweet fire,
    In hearts nigh foreign to desire,
    Could burn, sigh, weep, and burn again
    As oh, it never has since then!
    Most strange of all that we so young
    Dared learn but would not speak love`s tongue,
    Love pledged but in the reveries
    Of our sad and dreaming eyes....

    Now upon such journey bound me,
    Grief, disquiet, and stillness round me,
    As bids me where I cannot tell,
    Turn I and sigh, unseen, farewell.
    Breathe the name as soft as mist,
    Lips, which nor kissed her nor were kissed!
    And again — a sigh, a death —
    `Elizabeth. Elizabeth.`

    No voice answers; but the mist
    Glows for a moment amethyst
    Ere the hid sun dissolves away,
    And dimness, growing dimmer grey,
    Hides all ... till nothing can I see
    But the blind walls enclosing me,
    And no sound and no motion hear
    But the vague water throbbing near,
    Sole voice upon the darkening hill
    Where all is blank and dead and still.
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