The Minstrel

by Alice Cary

Beneath a silvery sycamore
His willow pipe I saw him playing.
The heifer down the hill was straying --
Her lengthening shadow went before, --
Toward the near stubble-land: the lowing
Of labored oxen, pasturing,
Called her that way. The wind was blowing,
And the tall reeds against a spring
Of unsunned waters, slantwise fell,
But you might hear his song right well --
I would that I were bird or bee,
Or anything that I am not --
Sweet lady-love, I care not what,
So I might live and die with thee.

The grass beneath its flowery cover
Was softly musical with bees;
But well-a-day! what sights may please
The eyes of an enchanted lover?
In dusty hollows, here and there,
Among gnarled roots the flocks were lying,
O'erclomb by lambs; and homeward flying,
The birds made dusky all the air;
The yellow light began to fade
From the low tarn -- the day was o'er;
And still his willow pipe he played,
Under the silvery sycamore:
I would that I were bird or bee,
Or anything that I am not --
Lost lady-love, I care not what,
So I might live and die with thee.

Down through the long blue silences
Came the owl's cry; fire-flies were trimming
Their torches for the night, and skimming
Athwart the glooms; between the trees,
Went the blind, wretched bat: Ah me,
The night and sorrow well agree!
The meadow king-cups and the furze
Were pretty with the harvest dew,
And in the brook the thistle threw
The shadows of its many burs.
I wis, he lovely was to see,
In the gray twilight's pallid shade,
As on his willow pipe he played,
Crowned with buds of poesy --
I would that I were bird or bee,
Or anything that I am not --
A sound, a breeze, I care not what,
So I might live and die with thee.

Faint gales of starlight from above
Blew softly from the casement light
Across the pillow, milky white,
Where slept the lady of his love,
The floating tresses, black as sloe,
Fell tangled round the dainty snow
Of cheek and bosom. Gentle seemed
The lady, smiling as she dreamed.
But not of him her visions are,
Who, for the sake of the sweet light
Within her casement, vexed the night --
Her thoughts are travellers otherwhere.

At midnight on a jutting cliff,
A raven flapped his wings and cried;
Faintly the willow pipe replied --
The hands upon its stops were stiff.
Under the silvery sycamore
The mournful playing was all done --
If there be angels, he was one,
For surely all his pain was o'er.

At morn a lady walked that way,
And when she saw his quiet sleeping,
Upon the flowers, she fell a-weeping,
And for her tears she could not pray.
I had been little used to speak
Of comfort, but was moved to see
Her piteous heart so near to break,
For the pale corse beneath the tree;
And so, to soothe her grief, I said
The way he died, and told his song;
Alas, he loved me well and long,
She sighed; I would that we were wed
As lovers use, or else that I
Were anything that I am not,
Or bird, or bee, I care not what,
Here in the pleasant flowers to die.

The mist, with many a soft fold, shrouds
The eastern hills, birds wake their hymns,
And through the sycamore's white limbs
Shines the red climbing of the clouds.
Making my rhymes, I heard her sigh,
Ah, well-a-day, that we were wed
As lovers use, or else that I
Here on the pleasant flowers were dead!