Sexagenarius Loquitur · Night Voices · The Message

Sexagenarius Loquitur

From our youth to our age
We have passed each stage
     In old immemorial order,
From primitive days
Through flowery ways
     With love like a hedge as their border.
Ah, youth was a kingdom of joy,
     And we were the king and the queen,
        When I was a year
        Short of thirty, my dear,
     And you were just nearing nineteen.
But dark follows light
And day follows night
     As the old planet circles the sun;
And nature still traces
Her score on our faces
     And tallies the years as they run.
Have they chilled the old warmth in your
       heart?
     I swear that they have not in mine,
        Though I am a year
        Short of sixty, my dear,
     And you are — well, say thirty-nine.

Night Voices

Father, father, who is that a-whispering?
     Who is it who whispers in the wood?
          You say it is the breeze
          As it sighs among the trees,
But there's some one who whispers in the
     wood.

Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?
     Who is it who murmurs in the night?
          You say it is the roar
          Of the wave upon the shore,
But there's some one who murmurs in the
     night.

Father, father, who is that who laughs
       at us?
     Who is it who chuckles in the glen?
          Oh, father, let us go,
          For the light is burning low,
And there's somebody laughing in the
       glen.

Father, father, tell me what you're waiting
       for,
     Tell me why your eyes are on the
       door.
          It is dark and it is late,
          But you sit so still and straight,
Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.

The Message

    (From Heine)

Up, dear laddie, saddle quick,
     And spring upon the leather!
Away post haste o'er fell and waste
     With whip and spur together!

And when you win to Duncan's kin
     Draw one of them aside
And shortly say, "Which daughter may
     We welcome as the bride?"

And if he says, "It is the dark,"
     Then quickly bring the mare,
But if he says, "It is the blonde,"
     Then you have time to spare;

But buy from off the saddler man
     The stoutest cord you see,
Ride at your ease and say no word,
     But bring it back to me.