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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1568-0.txt b/1568-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e7f292a --- /dev/null +++ b/1568-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5649 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by William Ernest Henley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Poems + + +Author: William Ernest Henley + + + +Release Date: February 27, 2015 [eBook #1568] +[This file was first posted on August 23, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1907 David Nutt edition by Diarmuid Pigott with some +additional material and proofing by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Bust of William Ernest Henley] + + + + + + POEMS + + + _By_ + + WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY + + * * * * * + + _The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet_, + _Though to itself it only live and die_. + + SHAKESPEARE + + * * * * * + + _Tenth Impression_ + + * * * * * + + LONDON + _Published by DAVID NUTT_ + at the Sign of the Phœnix + IN LONG ACRE + 1907 + +_First Edition printed January_ 1898 +_Second Edition printed March_ 1898 +_Third Edition printed September_ 1898 +_Fourth Edition printed January_ 1900 +_Fifth Edition printed December_ 1901 +_Sixth Impression printed August_ 1903 +_Seventh Impression printed 1904 +February_ +_Eighth Impression printed May_ 1905 +_Ninth Impresion printed April_ 1906 +_Tenth Impression printed Nov._ 1907 + + * * * * * + + Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty + + + + +_TO MY WIFE_ + + + _Take_, _dear_, _my little sheaf of songs_, + _For_, _old or new_, + _All that is good in them belongs_ + _Only to you_; + + _And_, _singing as when all was young_, + _They will recall_ + _Those others_, _lived but left unsung_— + _The bent of all_. + + W. E. H + +APRIL 1888 + SEPTEMBER 1897. + + + + +_ADVERTISEMENT_ + + +_My friend and publisher_, _Mr. Alfred Nutt_, _asks me to introduce this +re-issue of old work in a new shape_. _At his request_, _then_, _I have +to say that nearly all the numbers contained in the present volume are +reprinted from_ ‘_A Book of Verses_’ (1888) _and_ ‘_London Voluntaries_’ +(1892–3). _From the first of these I have removed some copies of verse +which seemed to me scarce worth keeping_; _and I have recovered for it +certain others from those publications which had made room for them_. _I +have corrected where I could_, _added such dates as I might_, _and_, _by +re-arrangement and revision_, _done my best to give my book_, _such as it +is_, _its final form_. _If any be displeased by the result_, _I can but +submit that my verses are my own_, _and that this is how I would have +them read_. + +_The work of revision has reminded me that_, _small as is this book of +mine_, _it is all in the matter of verse that I have to show for the +years between_ 1872 _and_ 1897. _A principal reason is that_, _after +spending the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry_, _I found +myself_ (_about_ 1877) _so utterly unmarketable that I had to own myself +beaten in art_, _and to addict myself to journalism for the next ten +years_. _Came the production by my old friend_, _Mr. H. B. Donkin_, _in +his little collection of_ ‘_Voluntaries_’ (1888), _compiled for that +East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and energy and +skill_, _of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to +quintessentialize_, _as_ (_I believe_) _one scarce can do in rhyme_, _my +impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary_. _They had long __since been +rejected by every editor of standing in London—I had well-nigh said in +the world_; _but as soon as Mr. Nutt had read them_, _he entreated me to +look for more_. _I did as I was told_; _old dusty sheaves were dragged +to light_; _the work of selection and correction was begun_; _I burned +much_; _I found that_, _after all_, _the lyrical instinct had slept—not +died_; _I ventured_ (_in brief_) ‘_A Book of Verses_.’ _It was received +with so much interest that I took heart once more_, _and wrote the +numbers presently reprinted from_ ‘_The National Observer_’ _in the +collection first_ (1892) _called_ ‘_The Song of the Sword_’ _and +afterwards_ (1893), ‘_London voluntaries_.’ _If I have said nothing +since_, _it is that I have nothing to say which is not_, _as yet_, _too +personal—too personal and too a afflicting—for utterance_. + +_For the matter of my book_, _it is there to speak for itself_:— + + ‘_Here’s a sigh to those who love me_ + _And a smile to those who hate_.’ + +_I refer to it for the simple pleasure of reflecting that it has made me +many friends and some enemies_. + + _W. E. H._ + +_Muswell Hill_, 4_th_ _September_ 1897. + + + + +CONTENTS + + IN HOSPITAL + PAGE + I. Enter Patient 3 + II. Waiting 4 + III. Interior 5 + IV. Before 6 + V. Operation 7 + VI. After 9 + VII. Vigil 10 + VIII. Staff-Nurse: Old Style 13 + IX. Lady Probationer 14 + X. Staff-Nurse: New Style 15 + XI. Clinical 16 + XII. Etching 19 + XIII. Casualty 21 + XIV. Ave, Caeser! 23 + XV. ‘The Chief’ 24 + XVI. House-Surgeon 25 + XVII. Interlude 26 + XVIII. Children: Private Ward 28 + XIX. Srcubber 29 + XX. Visitor 30 + XXI. Romance 31 + XXII. Pastoral 33 + XXIII. Music 35 + XXIV. Suicide 37 + XXV. Apparition 39 + XXVI. Anterotics 40 + XXVII. Nocturn 41 + XXVIII. Discharged 42 +ENVOY 44 +THE SONG OF THE SWORD 47 +ARABIAN NIGHTS’ ENTERTAINMENTS 57 + BRIC-À-BRAC +Ballade of the Toyokuni Colour-Print 79 +Ballade of Youth and Age 81 +Ballade of Midsummer Days and Nights 83 +Ballade of Dead Actors 85 +Ballade Made in the Hot Weather 87 +Ballade of Truisms 89 +Double Ballade of Life and Death 91 +Double Ballade of the Nothingness of Things 94 +At Queensferry 98 +Orientale 99 +In Fisherrow 100 +Back-View 101 +_Croquis_ 102 +Attadale, West Highlands 103 +From a Window in Princes Street 104 +In the Dials 105 +The gods are dead 106 +Let us be drunk 107 +When you are old 108 +Beside the idle summer sea 109 +The ways of Death are soothing and serene 110 +We shall surely die 111 +What is to come 112 + ECHOES + I. To my mother 115 + II. Life is bitter 117 + III. O, gather me the rose 118 + IV. Out of the night that covers me 119 + V. I am the Reaper 120 + VI. Praise the generous gods 122 + VII. Fill a glass with golden wine 123 + VIII. We’ll go no more a-roving 124 + IX. Madam Life’s a piece in bloom 126 + X. The sea is full of wandering foam 127 + XI. Thick is the darkness 128 + XII. To me at my fifth-floor window 129 + XIII. Bring her again, O western wind 130 + XIV. The wan sun westers, faint and slow 131 + XV. There is a wheel inside my head 133 + XVI. While the west is paling 134 + XVII. The sands are alive with sunshine 135 + XVIII. The nightingale has a lyre of gold 136 + XIX. Your heart has trembled to my tongue 137 + XX. The surges gushed and sounded 138 + XXI. We flash across the level 139 + XXII. The West a glimmering lake of light 140 + XXIII. The skies are strown with stars 142 + XXIV. The full sea rolls and thunders 143 + XXV. In the year that’s come and gone 144 + XXVI. In the placid summer midnight 146 + XXVII. She sauntered by the swinging seas 148 + XXVIII. Blithe dreams arise to greet us 149 + XXIX. A child 152 + XXX. Kate-A-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams 154 + XXXI. O, have you blessed, behind the stars 155 + XXXII. O, Falmouth is a fine town 156 + XXXIII. The ways are green 158 + XXXIV. Life in her creaking shoes 169 + XXXV. A late lark twitters from the quiet skies 161 + XXXVI. I gave my heart to a woman 163 + XXXVII. Or ever the knightly years were gone 164 + XXXVIII. On the way to Kew 166 + XXXIX. The past was goodly once 168 + XL. The spring, my dear 169 + XLI. The Spirit of Wine 170 + XLII. A Wink from Hesper 172 + XLIII. Friends. . . old friends 173 + XLIV. If it should come to be 175 + XLV. From the brake the Nightingale 179 + XLVI. In the waste hour 178 + XLVII. Crosses and troubles 181 + LONDON VOLUNTARIES + I. _Grave_ 185 + II. _Andante con Moto_ 187 + III. _Scherzando_ 192 + IV. _Largo e Mesto_ 186 + V. _Allegro Maëstoso_ 200 + RHYMES AND RHYTHMS +PROLOGUE 207 + I. Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade 209 + II. We are the Choice of the Will 211 + III. A desolate shore 214 + IV. It came with the threat of a waning moon 216 + V. Why, my heart, do we love her so? 217 + VI. One with the ruined sunset 218 + VII. There’s a regret 219 + VIII. Time and the Earth 221 + IX. As like the Woman as you can 223 + X. Midsummer midnight skies 225 + XI. Gulls in an aery morrice 227 + XII. Some starlit garden grey with dew 228 + XIII. Under a stagnant sky 229 + XIV. Fresh from his fastnesses 231 + XV. You played and sang a snatch of song 233 + XVI. Space and dread and the dark 234 + XVII. Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook 236 + XVIII. When you wake in your crib 239 + XIX. O, Time and Change 242 + XX. The shadow of Dawn 243 + XXI. When the wind storms by with a shout 244 + XXII. Trees and the menace of night 245 + XXIII. Here they trysted, here they strayed 247 + XXIV. Not to the staring Day 249 + XXV. What have I done for you 251 +EPILOGUE 256 + + + + +IN HOSPITAL + + + _On ne saurait dire à quel point un homme_, _seul dans son_ + _lit et malade_, _devient personnel_.— + + BALZAC. + + + +I +ENTER PATIENT + + + THE morning mists still haunt the stony street; + The northern summer air is shrill and cold; + And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old, + Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet. + Thro’ the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom + A small, strange child—so agèd yet so young!— + Her little arm besplinted and beslung, + Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room. + I limp behind, my confidence all gone. + The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on, + And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail: + A tragic meanness seems so to environ + These corridors and stairs of stone and iron, + Cold, naked, clean—half-workhouse and half-jail. + + + +II +WAITING + + + A SQUARE, squat room (a cellar on promotion), + Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight; + Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware; + Scissors and lint and apothecary’s jars. + + Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from, + Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted: + Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach, + While at their ease two dressers do their chores. + + One has a probe—it feels to me a crowbar. + A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone. + A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers. + Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame. + + + +III +INTERIOR + + + THE gaunt brown walls + Look infinite in their decent meanness. + There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle, + The fulsome fire. + + The atmosphere + Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist. + Dressings and lint on the long, lean table— + Whom are they for? + + The patients yawn, + Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin. + A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles. + It’s grim and strange. + + Far footfalls clank. + The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged. + My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . . + O, a gruesome world! + + + +IV +BEFORE + + + BEHOLD me waiting—waiting for the knife. + A little while, and at a leap I storm + The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, + The drunken dark, the little death-in-life. + The gods are good to me: I have no wife, + No innocent child, to think of as I near + The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear + Unmans me for my bout of passive strife. + Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick, + And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: + My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. + Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready. + But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: + You carry Cæsar and his fortunes—steady! + + + +V +OPERATION + + + YOU are carried in a basket, + Like a carcase from the shambles, + To the theatre, a cockpit + Where they stretch you on a table. + + Then they bid you close your eyelids, + And they mask you with a napkin, + And the anæsthetic reaches + Hot and subtle through your being. + + And you gasp and reel and shudder + In a rushing, swaying rapture, + While the voices at your elbow + Fade—receding—fainter—farther. + + Lights about you shower and tumble, + And your blood seems crystallising— + Edged and vibrant, yet within you + Racked and hurried back and forward. + + Then the lights grow fast and furious, + And you hear a noise of waters, + And you wrestle, blind and dizzy, + In an agony of effort, + + Till a sudden lull accepts you, + And you sound an utter darkness . . . + And awaken . . . with a struggle . . . + On a hushed, attentive audience. + + + +VI +AFTER + + + LIKE as a flamelet blanketed in smoke, + So through the anæsthetic shows my life; + So flashes and so fades my thought, at strife + With the strong stupor that I heave and choke + And sicken at, it is so foully sweet. + Faces look strange from space—and disappear. + Far voices, sudden loud, offend my ear— + And hush as sudden. Then my senses fleet: + All were a blank, save for this dull, new pain + That grinds my leg and foot; and brokenly + Time and the place glimpse on to me again; + And, unsurprised, out of uncertainty, + I wake—relapsing—somewhat faint and fain, + To an immense, complacent dreamery. + + + +VII +VIGIL + + + LIVED on one’s back, + In the long hours of repose, + Life is a practical nightmare— + Hideous asleep or awake. + + Shoulders and loins + Ache - - - ! + Ache, and the mattress, + Run into boulders and hummocks, + Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes— + Tumbling, importunate, daft— + Ramble and roll, and the gas, + Screwed to its lowermost, + An inevitable atom of light, + Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper + Snores me to hate and despair. + + All the old time + Surges malignant before me; + Old voices, old kisses, old songs + Blossom derisive about me; + While the new days + Pass me in endless procession: + A pageant of shadows + Silently, leeringly wending + On . . . and still on . . . still on! + + Far in the stillness a cat + Languishes loudly. A cinder + Falls, and the shadows + Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me + Turns with a moan; and the snorer, + The drug like a rope at his throat, + Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse, + Noiseless and strange, + Her bull’s eye half-lanterned in apron, + (Whispering me, ‘Are ye no sleepin’ yet?’), + Passes, list-slippered and peering, + Round . . . and is gone. + + Sleep comes at last— + Sleep full of dreams and misgivings— + Broken with brutal and sordid + Voices and sounds that impose on me, + Ere I can wake to it, + The unnatural, intolerable day. + + + +VIII +STAFF-NURSE: OLD STYLE + + + THE greater masters of the commonplace, + REMBRANDT and good SIR WALTER—only these + Could paint her all to you: experienced ease + And antique liveliness and ponderous grace; + The sweet old roses of her sunken face; + The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes; + The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies; + The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace. + These thirty years has she been nursing here, + Some of them under SYME, her hero still. + Much is she worth, and even more is made of her. + Patients and students hold her very dear. + The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill. + They say ‘The Chief’ himself is half-afraid of her. + + + +IX +LADY-PROBATIONER + + + SOME three, or five, or seven, and thirty years; + A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin; + Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin, + Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears; + A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand, + Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring; + A bashful air, becoming everything; + A well-bred silence always at command. + Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain + Look out of place on her, and I remain + Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery. + Quick, skilful, quiet, soft in speech and touch . . . + ‘Do you like nursing?’ ‘Yes, Sir, very much.’ + Somehow, I rather think she has a history. + + + +X +STAFF-NURSE: NEW STYLE + + + BLUE-EYED and bright of face but waning fast + Into the sere of virginal decay, + I view her as she enters, day by day, + As a sweet sunset almost overpast. + Kindly and calm, patrician to the last, + Superbly falls her gown of sober gray, + And on her chignon’s elegant array + The plainest cap is somehow touched with caste. + She talks BEETHOVEN; frowns disapprobation + At BALZAC’S name, sighs it at ‘poor GEORGE SAND’S’; + Knows that she has exceeding pretty hands; + Speaks Latin with a right accentuation; + And gives at need (as one who understands) + Draught, counsel, diagnosis, exhortation. + + + +XI +CLINICAL + + + HIST? . . . + Through the corridor’s echoes, + Louder and nearer + Comes a great shuffling of feet. + Quick, every one of you, + Strighten your quilts, and be decent! + Here’s the Professor. + + In he comes first + With the bright look we know, + From the broad, white brows the kind eyes + Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow, + White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse, + Towel on arm and her inkstand + Fretful with quills. + Here in the ruck, anyhow, + Surging along, + Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs— + Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles— + Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves + Round the first bed, where the Chief + (His dressers and clerks at attention), + Bends in inspection already. + + So shows the ring + Seen from behind round a conjurer + Doing his pitch in the street. + High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones, + Round, square, and angular, serry and shove; + While from within a voice, + Gravely and weightily fluent, + Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly + (Look at the stress of the shoulders!) + Out of a quiver of silence, + Over the hiss of the spray, + Comes a low cry, and the sound + Of breath quick intaken through teeth + Clenched in resolve. And the Master + Breaks from the crowd, and goes, + Wiping his hands, + To the next bed, with his pupils + Flocking and whispering behind him. + + Now one can see. + Case Number One + Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes + Stripped up, and showing his foot + (Alas for God’s Image!) + Swaddled in wet, white lint + Brilliantly hideous with red. + + + +XII +ETCHING + + + TWO and thirty is the ploughman. + He’s a man of gallant inches, + And his hair is close and curly, + And his beard; + But his face is wan and sunken, + And his eyes are large and brilliant, + And his shoulder-blades are sharp, + And his knees. + + He is weak of wits, religious, + Full of sentiment and yearning, + Gentle, faded—with a cough + And a snore. + When his wife (who was a widow, + And is many years his elder) + Fails to write, and that is always, + He desponds. + + Let his melancholy wander, + And he’ll tell you pretty stories + Of the women that have wooed him + Long ago; + Or he’ll sing of bonnie lasses + Keeping sheep among the heather, + With a crackling, hackling click + In his voice. + + + +XIII +CASUALTY + + + AS with varnish red and glistening + Dripped his hair; his feet looked rigid; + Raised, he settled stiffly sideways: + You could see his hurts were spinal. + + He had fallen from an engine, + And been dragged along the metals. + It was hopeless, and they knew it; + So they covered him, and left him. + + As he lay, by fits half sentient, + Inarticulately moaning, + With his stockinged soles protruded + Stark and awkward from the blankets, + + To his bed there came a woman, + Stood and looked and sighed a little, + And departed without speaking, + As himself a few hours after. + + I was told it was his sweetheart. + They were on the eve of marriage. + She was quiet as a statue, + But her lip was grey and writhen. + + + +XIV +AVE CAESER! + + + FROM the winter’s grey despair, + From the summer’s golden languor, + Death, the lover of Life, + Frees us for ever. + + Inevitable, silent, unseen, + Everywhere always, + Shadow by night and as light in the day, + Signs she at last to her chosen; + And, as she waves them forth, + Sorrow and Joy + Lay by their looks and their voices, + Set down their hopes, and are made + One in the dim Forever. + + Into the winter’s grey delight, + Into the summer’s golden dream, + Holy and high and impartial, + Death, the mother of Life, + Mingles all men for ever. + + + +XV +‘THE CHIEF’ + + + HIS brow spreads large and placid, and his eye + Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still. + Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill— + His face at once benign and proud and shy. + If envy scout, if ignorance deny, + His faultless patience, his unyielding will, + Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill, + Innumerable gratitudes reply. + His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties, + And seems in all his patients to compel + Such love and faith as failure cannot quell. + We hold him for another Herakles, + Battling with custom, prejudice, disease, + As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell. + + + +XVI +HOUSE-SURGEON + + + EXCEEDING tall, but built so well his height + Half-disappears in flow of chest and limb; + Moustache and whisker trooper-like in trim; + Frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hearted; always bright + And always punctual—morning, noon, and night; + Bland as a Jesuit, sober as a hymn; + Humorous, and yet without a touch of whim; + Gentle and amiable, yet full of fight. + His piety, though fresh and true in strain, + Has not yet whitewashed up his common mood + To the dead blank of his particular Schism. + Sweet, unaggressive, tolerant, most humane, + Wild artists like his kindly elderhood, + And cultivate his mild Philistinism. + + + +XVII +INTERLUDE + + + O, THE fun, the fun and frolic + That _The Wind that Shakes the Barley_ + Scatters through a penny-whistle + Tickled with artistic fingers! + + Kate the scrubber (forty summers, + Stout but sportive) treads a measure, + Grinning, in herself a ballet, + Fixed as fate upon her audience. + + Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported; + Splinted fingers tap the rhythm; + And a head all helmed with plasters + Wags a measured approbation. + + Of their mattress-life oblivious, + All the patients, brisk and cheerful, + Are encouraging the dancer, + And applauding the musician. + + Dim the gas-lights in the output + Of so many ardent smokers, + Full of shadow lurch the corners, + And the doctor peeps and passes. + + There are, maybe, some suspicions + Of an alcoholic presence . . . + ‘Tak’ a sup of this, my wumman!’ . . . + New Year comes but once a twelvemonth. + + + +XVIII +CHILDREN: PRIVATE WARD + + + HERE in this dim, dull, double-bedded room, + I play the father to a brace of boys, + Ailing but apt for every sort of noise, + Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom. + Roden, the Irishman, is ‘sieven past,’ + Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face. + Willie’s but six, and seems to like the place, + A cheerful little collier to the last. + They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day; + All night they sleep like dormice. See them play + At Operations:—Roden, the Professor, + Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties; + Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes, + Holding the limb and moaning—Case and Dresser. + + + +XIX +SCRUBBER + + + SHE’S tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face + With flashes of the old fun’s animation + There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation + Bred of a past where troubles came apace. + She tells me that her husband, ere he died, + Saw seven of their children pass away, + And never knew the little lass at play + Out on the green, in whom he’s deified. + Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, + All simple faith her honest Irish mind, + Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: + Telling her dreams, taking her patients’ part, + Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find + No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart. + + + +XX +VISITOR + + + HER little face is like a walnut shell + With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns + Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; + And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. + Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. + Well might her bonnets have been born on her. + Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother + The subject of a strong religious call? + In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, + All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, + Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, + Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: + A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom’s way, + Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails. + + + +XXI +ROMANCE + + + ‘TALK of pluck!’ pursued the Sailor, + Set at euchre on his elbow, + ‘I was on the wharf at Charleston, + Just ashore from off the runner. + + ‘It was grey and dirty weather, + And I heard a drum go rolling, + Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, + Awful dour-like and defiant. + + ‘In and out among the cotton, + Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, + Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows— + Poor old Dixie’s bottom dollar! + + ‘Some had shoes, but all had rifles, + Them that wasn’t bald was beardless, + And the drum was rolling _Dixie_, + And they stepped to it like men, sir! + + ‘Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, + On they swung, the drum a-rolling, + Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, + And they meant it too, by thunder!’ + + + +XXII +PASTORAL + + + IT’S the Spring. + Earth has conceived, and her bosom, + Teeming with summer, is glad. + + Vistas of change and adventure, + Thro’ the green land + The grey roads go beckoning and winding, + Peopled with wains, and melodious + With harness-bells jangling: + Jangling and twangling rough rhythms + To the slow march of the stately, great horses + Whistled and shouted along. + + White fleets of cloud, + Argosies heavy with fruitfulness, + Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows. + Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds + Sway the tall poplars. + Pageants of colour and fragrance, + Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless + Walks the mild spirit of May, + Visibly blessing the world. + + O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards! + O, the savour and thrill of the woods, + When their leafage is stirred + By the flight of the Angel of Rain! + Loud lows the steer; in the fallows + Rooks are alert; and the brooks + Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro’ the gloamings, + Under the rare, shy stars, + Boy and girl wander, + Dreaming in darkness and dew. + + It’s the Spring. + A sprightliness feeble and squalid + Wakes in the ward, and I sicken, + Impotent, winter at heart. + + + +XXIII +MUSIC + + + DOWN the quiet eve, + Thro’ my window with the sunset + Pipes to me a distant organ + Foolish ditties; + + And, as when you change + Pictures in a magic lantern, + Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling + Fade and vanish, + + And I’m well once more . . . + August flares adust and torrid, + But my heart is full of April + Sap and sweetness. + + In the quiet eve + I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . . + Dreaming, and a distant organ + Pipes me ditties. + + I can see the shop, + I can smell the sprinkled pavement, + Where she serves—her chestnut chignon + Thrills my senses! + + O, the sight and scent, + Wistful eve and perfumed pavement! + In the distance pipes an organ . . . + The sensation + + Comes to me anew, + And my spirit for a moment + Thro’ the music breathes the blessèd + Airs of London. + + + +XXIV +SUICIDE + + + STARING corpselike at the ceiling, + See his harsh, unrazored features, + Ghastly brown against the pillow, + And his throat—so strangely bandaged! + + Lack of work and lack of victuals, + A debauch of smuggled whisky, + And his children in the workhouse + Made the world so black a riddle + + That he plunged for a solution; + And, although his knife was edgeless, + He was sinking fast towards one, + When they came, and found, and saved him. + + Stupid now with shame and sorrow, + In the night I hear him sobbing. + But sometimes he talks a little. + He has told me all his troubles. + + In his broad face, tanned and bloodless, + White and wild his eyeballs glisten; + And his smile, occult and tragic, + Yet so slavish, makes you shudder! + + + +XXV +APPARITION + + + THIN-LEGGED, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, + Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face— + Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race, + Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea, + The brown eyes radiant with vivacity— + There shines a brilliant and romantic grace, + A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace + Of passion and impudence and energy. + Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, + Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, + Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist: + A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, + Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, + And something of the Shorter-Catechist. + + + +XXVI +ANTEROTICS + + + LAUGHS the happy April morn + Thro’ my grimy, little window, + And a shaft of sunshine pushes + Thro’ the shadows in the square. + + Dogs are tracing thro’ the grass, + Crows are cawing round the chimneys, + In and out among the washing + Goes the West at hide-and-seek. + + Loud and cheerful clangs the bell. + Here the nurses troop to breakfast. + Handsome, ugly, all are women . . . + O, the Spring—the Spring—the Spring! + + + +XXVII +NOCTURN + + + AT the barren heart of midnight, + When the shadow shuts and opens + As the loud flames pulse and flutter, + I can hear a cistern leaking. + + Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm, + Rough, unequal, half-melodious, + Like the measures aped from nature + In the infancy of music; + + Like the buzzing of an insect, + Still, irrational, persistent . . . + I must listen, listen, listen + In a passion of attention; + + Till it taps upon my heartstrings, + And my very life goes dripping, + Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping, + In the drip-drop of the cistern. + + + +XXVIII +DISCHARGED + + + CARRY me out + Into the wind and the sunshine, + Into the beautiful world. + + O, the wonder, the spell of the streets! + The stature and strength of the horses, + The rustle and echo of footfalls, + The flat roar and rattle of wheels! + A swift tram floats huge on us . . . + It’s a dream? + The smell of the mud in my nostrils + Blows brave—like a breath of the sea! + + As of old, + Ambulant, undulant drapery, + Vaguery and strangely provocative, + Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder— + Is it?—the gleam of a stocking! + Sudden, a spire + Wedged in the mist! O, the houses, + The long lines of lofty, grey houses, + Cross-hatched with shadow and light! + These are the streets . . . + Each is an avenue leading + Whither I will! + + Free . . . ! + Dizzy, hysterical, faint, + I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me + Into the wonderful world. + +THE OLD INFIRMARY, EDINBURGH, 1873–75 + + + + +ENVOY +_To_ CHARLES BAXTER + + + DO you remember + That afternoon—that Sunday afternoon!— + When, as the kirks were ringing in, + And the grey city teemed + With Sabbath feelings and aspects, + LEWIS—our LEWIS then, + Now the whole world’s—and you, + Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came, + Laden with BALZACS + (Big, yellow books, quite impudently French), + The first of many times + To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay + So long, so many centuries— + Or years is it!—ago? + + Dear CHARLES, since then + We have been friends, LEWIS and you and I, + (How good it sounds, ‘LEWIS and you and I!’): + Such friends, I like to think, + That in us three, LEWIS and me and you, + Is something of that gallant dream + Which old DUMAS—the generous, the humane, + The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven!— + Dreamed for a blessing to the race, + The immortal _Musketeers_. + + Our ATHOS rests—the wise, the kind, + The liberal and august, his fault atoned, + Rests in the crowded yard + There at the west of Princes Street. We three— + You, I, and LEWIS!—still afoot, + Are still together, and our lives, + In chime so long, may keep + (God bless the thought!) + Unjangled till the end. + + W. E. H. + +CHISWICK, _March_ 1888 + + + + +THE SONG +OF THE SWORD + + + (_To_ Rudyard Kipling) + + 1890 + + _The Sword_ + _Singing_— + _The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword_ + _Clanging imperious_ + _Forth from Time’s battlements_ + _His ancient and triumphing Song_. + + In the beginning, + Ere God inspired Himself + Into the clay thing + Thumbed to His image, + The vacant, the naked shell + Soon to be Man: + Thoughtful He pondered it, + Prone there and impotent, + Fragile, inviting + Attack and discomfiture; + Then, with a smile— + As He heard in the Thunder + That laughed over Eden + The voice of the Trumpet, + The iron Beneficence, + Calling his dooms + To the Winds of the world— + Stooping, He drew + On the sand with His finger + A shape for a sign + Of his way to the eyes + That in wonder should waken, + For a proof of His will + To the breaking intelligence. + That was the birth of me: + I am the Sword. + + Bleak and lean, grey and cruel, + Short-hilted, long shafted, + I froze into steel; + And the blood of my elder, + His hand on the hafts of me, + Sprang like a wave + In the wind, as the sense + Of his strength grew to ecstasy; + Glowed like a coal + In the throat of the furnace; + As he knew me and named me + The War-Thing, the Comrade, + Father of honour + And giver of kingship, + The fame-smith, the song-master, + Bringer of women + On fire at his hands + For the pride of fulfilment, + _Priest_ (saith the Lord) + _Of his marriage with victory_ + Ho! then, the Trumpet, + Handmaid of heroes, + Calling the peers + To the place of espousals! + Ho! then, the splendour + And glare of my ministry, + Clothing the earth + With a livery of lightnings! + Ho! then, the music + Of battles in onset, + And ruining armours, + And God’s gift returning + In fury to God! + Thrilling and keen + As the song of the winter stars, + Ho! then, the sound + Of my voice, the implacable + Angel of Destiny!— + I am the Sword. + + Heroes, my children, + Follow, O, follow me! + Follow, exulting + In the great light that breaks + From the sacred Companionship! + Thrust through the fatuous, + Thrust through the fungous brood, + Spawned in my shadow + And gross with my gift! + Thrust through, and hearken + O, hark, to the Trumpet, + The Virgin of Battles, + Calling, still calling you + Into the Presence, + Sons of the Judgment, + Pure wafts of the Will! + Edged to annihilate, + Hilted with government, + Follow, O, follow me, + Till the waste places + All the grey globe over + Ooze, as the honeycomb + Drips, with the sweetness + Distilled of my strength, + And, teeming in peace + Through the wrath of my coming, + They give back in beauty + The dread and the anguish + They had of me visitant! + Follow, O follow, then, + Heroes, my harvesters! + Where the tall grain is ripe + Thrust in your sickles! + Stripped and adust + In a stubble of empire, + Scything and binding + The full sheaves of sovranty: + Thus, O, thus gloriously, + Shall you fulfil yourselves! + Thus, O, thus mightily, + Show yourselves sons of mine— + Yea, and win grace of me: + I am the Sword! + + I am the feast-maker: + Hark, through a noise + Of the screaming of eagles, + Hark how the Trumpet, + The mistress of mistresses, + Calls, silver-throated + And stern, where the tables + Are spread, and the meal + Of the Lord is in hand! + Driving the darkness, + Even as the banners + And spears of the Morning; + Sifting the nations, + The slag from the metal, + The waste and the weak + From the fit and the strong; + Fighting the brute, + The abysmal Fecundity; + Checking the gross, + Multitudinous blunders, + The groping, the purblind + Excesses in service + Of the Womb universal, + The absolute drudge; + Firing the charactry + Carved on the World, + The miraculous gem + In the seal-ring that burns + On the hand of the Master— + Yea! and authority + Flames through the dim, + Unappeasable Grisliness + Prone down the nethermost + Chasms of the Void!— + Clear singing, clean slicing; + Sweet spoken, soft finishing; + Making death beautiful, + Life but a coin + To be staked in the pastime + Whose playing is more + Than the transfer of being; + Arch-anarch, chief builder, + Prince and evangelist, + I am the Will of God: + I am the Sword. + + _The Sword_ + _Singing_— + _The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword_ + _Clanging majestical_, + _As from the starry-staired_ + _Courts of the primal Supremacy_, + _His high_, _irresistible song_. + + + + +ARABIAN NIGHTS’ +ENTERTAINMENTS + + + (_To_ Elizabeth Robins Pennell) + + 1893 + + ‘O mes chères _Mille et Une Nuits_!’—_Fantasio_. + + ONCE on a time + There was a little boy: a master-mage + By virtue of a Book + Of magic—O, so magical it filled + His life with visionary pomps + Processional! And Powers + Passed with him where he passed. And Thrones + And Dominations, glaived and plumed and mailed, + Thronged in the criss-cross streets, + The palaces pell-mell with playing-fields, + Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades, + Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul + Pavilioned jealously, and hid + As in the dusk, profound, + Green stillnesses of some enchanted mere.— + + I shut mine eyes . . . And lo! + A flickering snatch of memory that floats + Upon the face of a pool of darkness five + And thirty dead years deep, + Antic in girlish broideries + And skirts and silly shoes with straps + And a broad-ribanded leghorn, he walks + Plain in the shadow of a church + (St. Michael’s: in whose brazen call + To curfew his first wails of wrath were whelmed), + Sedate for all his haste + To be at home; and, nestled in his arm, + Inciting still to quiet and solitude, + Boarded in sober drab, + With small, square, agitating cuts + Let in a-top of the double-columned, close, + Quakerlike print, a Book! . . . + What but that blessed brief + Of what is gallantest and best + In all the full-shelved Libraries of Romance? + The Book of rocs, + Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris, + Cream-tarts, and lettered apes, and calendars, + And ghouls, and genies—O, so huge + They might have overed the tall Minster Tower + Hands down, as schoolboys take a post! + In truth, the Book of Camaralzaman, + Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade + The peerless, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour, + Cairo and Serendib and Candahar, + And Caspian, and the dim, terrific bulk— + Ice-ribbed, fiend-visited, isled in spells and storms— + Of Kaf! . . . That centre of miracles, + The sole, unparalleled Arabian Nights! + + Old friends I had a-many—kindly and grim + Familiars, cronies quaint + And goblin! Never a Wood but housed + Some morrice of dainty dapperlings. No Brook + But had his nunnery + Of green-haired, silvry-curving sprites, + To cabin in his grots, and pace + His lilied margents. Every lone Hillside + Might open upon Elf-Land. Every Stalk + That curled about a Bean-stick was of the breed + Of that live ladder by whose delicate rungs + You climbed beyond the clouds, and found + The Farm-House where the Ogre, gorged + And drowsy, from his great oak chair, + Among the flitches and pewters at the fire, + Called for his Faëry Harp. And in it flew, + And, perching on the kitchen table, sang + Jocund and jubilant, with a sound + Of those gay, golden-vowered madrigals + The shy thrush at mid-May + Flutes from wet orchards flushed with the triumphing dawn; + Or blackbirds rioting as they listened still, + In old-world woodlands rapt with an old-world spring, + For Pan’s own whistle, savage and rich and lewd, + And mocked him call for call! + + I could not pass + The half-door where the cobbler sat in view + Nor figure me the wizen Leprechaun, + In square-cut, faded reds and buckle-shoes, + Bent at his work in the hedge-side, and know + Just how he tapped his brogue, and twitched + His wax-end this and that way, both with wrists + And elbows. In the rich June fields, + Where the ripe clover drew the bees, + And the tall quakers trembled, and the West Wind + Lolled his half-holiday away + Beside me lolling and lounging through my own, + ’Twas good to follow the Miller’s Youngest Son + On his white horse along the leafy lanes; + For at his stirrup linked and ran, + Not cynical and trapesing, as he loped + From wall to wall above the espaliers, + But in the bravest tops + That market-town, a town of tops, could show: + Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail + A banner flaunted in disdain + Of human stratagems and shifts: + King over All the Catlands, present and past + And future, that moustached + Artificer of fortunes, Puss-in-Boots! + Or Bluebeard’s Closet, with its plenishing + Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood, + And wives that hung like fresh-dressed carcases— + Odd-fangled, most a butcher’s, part + A faëry chamber hazily seen + And hazily figured—on dark afternoons + And windy nights was visiting of the best. + Then, too, the pelt of hoofs + Out in the roaring darkness told + Of Herne the Hunter in his antlered helm + Galloping, as with despatches from the Pit, + Between his hell-born Hounds. + And Rip Van Winkle . . . often I lurked to hear, + Outside the long, low timbered, tarry wall, + The mutter and rumble of the trolling bowls + Down the lean plank, before they fluttered the pins; + For, listening, I could help him play + His wonderful game, + In those blue, booming hills, with Mariners + Refreshed from kegs not coopered in this our world. + + But what were these so near, + So neighbourly fancies to the spell that brought + The run of Ali Baba’s Cave + Just for the saying ‘Open Sesame,’ + With gold to measure, peck by peck, + In round, brown wooden stoups + You borrowed at the chandler’s? . . . Or one time + Made you Aladdin’s friend at school, + Free of his Garden of Jewels, Ring and Lamp + In perfect trim? . . . Or Ladies, fair + For all the embrowning scars in their white breasts + Went labouring under some dread ordinance, + Which made them whip, and bitterly cry the while, + Strange Curs that cried as they, + Till there was never a Black Bitch of all + Your consorting but might have gone + Spell-driven miserably for crimes + Done in the pride of womanhood and desire . . . + Or at the ghostliest altitudes of night, + While you lay wondering and acold, + Your sense was fearfully purged; and soon + Queen Labé, abominable and dear, + Rose from your side, opened the Box of Doom, + Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw + Like sulphur at the Docks in bulk), + And muttered certain words you could not hear; + And there! a living stream, + The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags + And cresses, glittered and sang + Out of the hearthrug over the nakedness, + Fair-scrubbed and decent, of your bedroom floor! . . . + + I was—how many a time!— + That Second Calendar, Son of a King, + On whom ’twas vehemently enjoined, + Pausing at one mysterious door, + To pry no closer, but content his soul + With his kind Forty. Yet I could not rest + For idleness and ungovernable Fate. + And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame + (That wonder-working word!), + Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans, + And soaring, soaring on + From air to air, came charging to the ground + Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds, + And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled + Flicked at me with his tail, + And left me blinded, miserable, distraught + (Even as I was in deed, + When doctors came, and odious things were done + On my poor tortured eyes + With lancets; or some evil acid stung + And wrung them like hot sand, + And desperately from room to room + Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way), + To get to Bagdad how I might. But there + I met with Merry Ladies. O you three— + Safie, Amine, Zobëidé—when my heart + Forgets you all shall be forgot! + And so we supped, we and the rest, + On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates, + Almonds, pistachios, citrons. And Haroun + Laughed out of his lordly beard + On Giaffar and Mesrour (_I_ knew the Three + For all their Mossoul habits). And outside + The Tigris, flowing swift + Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed + With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars; + The vast, blue night + Was murmurous with peris’ plumes + And the leathern wings of genies; words of power + Were whispering; and old fishermen, + Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore + Dead loveliness: or a prodigy in scales + Worth in the Caliph’s Kitchen pieces of gold: + Or copper vessels, stopped with lead, + Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed, + In durance under potent charactry + Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . . + + Then, as the Book was glassed + In Life as in some olden mirror’s quaint, + Bewildering angles, so would Life + Flash light on light back on the Book; and both + Were changed. Once in a house decayed + From better days, harbouring an errant show + (For all its stories of dry-rot + Were filled with gruesome visitants in wax, + Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes), + I wandered; and no living soul + Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared + Upon them staring—staring. Till at last, + Three sets of rafters from the streets, + I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room, + With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene, + Guarding the door: and there, in a bedroom-set, + Behind a fence of faded crimson cords, + With an aspect of frills + And dimities and dishonoured privacy + That made you hanker and hesitate to look, + A Woman with her litter of Babes—all slain, + All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes + Staring—still staring; so that I turned and ran + As for my neck, but in the street + Took breath. The same, it seemed, + And yet not all the same, I was to find, + As I went up! For afterwards, + Whenas I went my round alone— + All day alone—in long, stern, silent streets, + Where I might stretch my hand and take + Whatever I would: still there were Shapes of Stone, + Motionless, lifelike, frightening—for the Wrath + Had smitten them; but they watched, + This by her melons and figs, that by his rings + And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze, + The Painted Eyes insufferable, + Now, of those grisly images; and I + Pursued my best-belovéd quest, + Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear. + So the night fell—with never a lamplighter; + And through the Palace of the King + I groped among the echoes, and I felt + That they were there, + Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes, + Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far + A Voice! And in a little while + Two tapers burning! And the Voice, + Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was—whose? + Whose but Zobëidé’s, + The lady of my heart, like me + A True Believer, and like me + An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . . + + Or, sailing to the Isles + Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall + A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew + Swiftly . . . and grew. Tearing their beards, + The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship, + Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad, + Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman’s hand, + And, turning broadside on, + As the most iron would, was haled and sucked + Nearer, and nearer yet; + And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps + Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now + That swallowed sea and sky; and then, + Anchors and nails and bolts + Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang, + A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides + Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay, + A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal + About the waters; and her crew + Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left + To drown. All the long night I swam; + But in the morning, O, the smiling coast + Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike, + Skirted with shelving sands! And a great wave + Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive. + So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes, + And, faring inland, in a desert place + I stumbled on an iron ring— + The fellow of fifty built into the Quays: + When, scenting a trap-door, + I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade + Stuck into wood. And then, + The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs, + Sunk in the naked rock! The cool, clean vault, + So neat with niche on niche it might have been + Our beer-cellar but for the rows + Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist’s jars) + Full to the wide, squat throats + With gold-dust, but a-top + A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things + I knew for olives! And far, O, far away, + The Princess of China languished! Far away + Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief + Of Eunuchs and the privilege + Of going out at night + To play—unkenned, majestical, secure— + Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped + Like Tigris shore for shore! Haply a Ghoul + Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon, + A thighbone in his fist, and glared + At supper with a Lady: she who took + Her rice with tweezers grain by grain. + Or you might stumble—there by the iron gates + Of the Pump Room—underneath the limes— + Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers, + Just as the civil Genie laid him down. + Or those red-curtained panes, + Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily + Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes, + Might turn a caravansery’s, wherein + You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk, + And that fair Persian, bathed in tears, + You’d not have given away + For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous + You had that dark and disleaved afternoon + Escaped on a roc’s claw, + Disguised like Sindbad—but in Christmas beef! + And all the blissful while + The schoolboy satchel at your hip + Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze + Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn + From over Caspian: yea, the Chief Jewellers + Of Tartary and the bazaars, + Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind.— + + Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart + The magian East: thus the child eyes + Spelled out the wizard message by the light + Of the sober, workaday hours + They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass + In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind + In ancient Severn’s arm, + Amongst her water-meadows and her docks, + Whose floating populace of ships— + Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines, + Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters—brought + To her very doorsteps and geraniums + The scents of the World’s End; the calls + That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride + Like fire on some high errand of the race; + The irresistible appeals + For comradeship that sound + Steadily from the irresistible sea. + Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale, + Telling itself anew + In terms of living, labouring life, + Took on the colours, busked it in the wear + Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance, + The Angel-Playmate, raining down + His golden influences + On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did, + Walked with me arm in arm, + Or left me, as one bediademed with straws + And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart + Who had the gift to seek and feel and find + His fiery-hearted presence everywhere. + Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things, + Sends the same silver dews + Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies + On some poor collier-hamlet—(mound on mound + Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk + Sullenly smoking over a row + Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air + A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings + Of hurtling, tipping trams)— + As on the amorous nightingales + And roses of Shíraz, or the walls and towers + Of Samarcand—the Ineffable—whence you espy + The splendour of Ginnistan’s embattled spears, + Like listed lightnings. + Samarcand! + That name of names! That star-vaned belvedere + Builded against the Chambers of the South! + That outpost on the Infinite! + And behold! + Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide + Might overtake you: for one fringe, + One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one + Floats founded vague + In lubberlands delectable—isles of palm + And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas, + The promise of wistful hills— + The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream. + + + + +BRIC-À-BRAC + + + 1877–1888 + + ‘_The tune of the time_.’—HAMLET, _concerning_ OSRIC + + + +BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT + + + _To_ W. A. + + WAS I a Samurai renowned, + Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow? + A histrion angular and profound? + A priest? a porter?—Child, although + I have forgotten clean, I know + That in the shade of Fujisan, + What time the cherry-orchards blow, + I loved you once in old Japan. + + As here you loiter, flowing-gowned + And hugely sashed, with pins a-row + Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned, + Demure, inviting—even so, + When merry maids in Miyako + To feel the sweet o’ the year began, + And green gardens to overflow, + I loved you once in old Japan. + + Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round + Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow, + A blue canal the lake’s blue bound + Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo! + Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow, + I see you turn, with flirted fan, + Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow . . . + I loved you once in old Japan! + + _Envoy_ + + Dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago; + But that I was a lucky man + The Toyokuni here will show: + I loved you—once—in old Japan. + + + +BALLADE +(DOUBLE REFRAIN) +OF YOUTH AND AGE + + + I. M. + Thomas Edward Brown + (1829–1896) + + SPRING at her height on a morn at prime, + Sails that laugh from a flying squall, + Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme— + Youth is the sign of them, one and all. + Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, + An empty flagon, a folded page, + A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball— + These are a type of the world of Age. + + Bells that clash in a gaudy chime, + Swords that clatter in onsets tall, + The words that ring and the fames that climb— + Youth is the sign of them, one and all. + Hymnals old in a dusty stall, + A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage, + The scene of a faded festival— + These are a type of the world of Age. + + Hours that strut as the heirs of time, + Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call, + Songs where the singers their souls sublime— + Youth is the sign of them, one and all. + A staff that rests in a nook of wall, + A reeling battle, a rusted gage, + The chant of a nearing funeral— + These are a type of the world of Age. + + _Envoy_ + + Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl— + Youth is the sign of them, one and all. + A smouldering hearth and a silent stage— + These are a type of the world of Age. + + + +BALLADE +(DOUBLE REFRAIN) +OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS + + + _To_ W. H. + + WITH a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams + The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, + And the winds are one with the clouds and beams— + Midsummer days! Midsummer days! + The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, + While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, + Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise— + Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + + The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams, + The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, + The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams— + Midsummer days! Midsummer days! + In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, + All secret shadows and mystic lights, + Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze— + Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + + There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams, + Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, + The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams— + Midsummer days! Midsummer days! + A soul from the honeysuckle strays, + And the nightingale as from prophet heights + Sings to the Earth of her million Mays— + Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + + _Envoy_ + + And it’s O, for my dear and the charm that stays— + Midsummer days! Midsummer days! + It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights— + Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + + + +BALLADE +OF DEAD ACTORS + + + I. M. + Edward John Henley + (1861–1898) + + WHERE are the passions they essayed, + And where the tears they made to flow? + Where the wild humours they portrayed + For laughing worlds to see and know? + Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe? + Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall? + And Millamant and Romeo? + Into the night go one and all. + + Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? + The plumes, the armours—friend and foe? + The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, + The mantles glittering to and fro? + The pomp, the pride, the royal show? + The cries of war and festival? + The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? + Into the night go one and all. + + The curtain falls, the play is played: + The Beggar packs beside the Beau; + The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; + The Thunder huddles with the Snow. + Where are the revellers high and low? + The clashing swords? The lover’s call? + The dancers gleaming row on row? + Into the night go one and all. + + _Envoy_ + + Prince, in one common overthrow + The Hero tumbles with the Thrall: + As dust that drives, as straws that blow, + Into the night go one and all. + + + +BALLADE +MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER + + + _To_ C. M. + + FOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle + The moss they overspill; + Pools that the breezes crinkle; + The wheel beside the mill, + With its wet, weedy frill; + Wind-shadows in the wheat; + A water-cart in the street; + The fringe of foam that girds + An islet’s ferneries; + A green sky’s minor thirds— + To live, I think of these! + + Of ice and glass the tinkle, + Pellucid, silver-shrill; + Peaches without a wrinkle; + Cherries and snow at will, + From china bowls that fill + The senses with a sweet + Incuriousness of heat; + A melon’s dripping sherds; + Cream-clotted strawberries; + Dusk dairies set with curds— + To live, I think of these! + + Vale-lily and periwinkle; + Wet stone-crop on the sill; + The look of leaves a-twinkle + With windlets clear and still; + The feel of a forest rill + That wimples fresh and fleet + About one’s naked feet; + The muzzles of drinking herds; + Lush flags and bulrushes; + The chirp of rain-bound birds— + To live, I think of these! + + _Envoy_ + + Dark aisles, new packs of cards, + Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, + Dawn dews and starlit seas, + White marbles, whiter words— + To live, I think of these! + + + +BALLADE OF TRUISMS + + + GOLD or silver, every day, + Dies to gray. + There are knots in every skein. + Hours of work and hours of play + Fade away + Into one immense Inane. + Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, + Are as vain + As the foam or as the spray. + Life goes crooning, faint and fain, + One refrain: + ‘If it could be always May!’ + + Though the earth be green and gay, + Though, they say, + Man the cup of heaven may drain; + Though, his little world to sway, + He display + Hoard on hoard of pith and brain: + Autumn brings a mist and rain + That constrain + Him and his to know decay, + Where undimmed the lights that wane + Would remain, + If it could be always May. + + _Yea_, alas, must turn to _Nay_, + Flesh to clay. + Chance and Time are ever twain. + Men may scoff, and men may pray, + But they pay + Every pleasure with a pain. + Life may soar, and Fortune deign + To explain + Where her prizes hide and stay; + But we lack the lusty train + We should gain, + If it could be always May. + + _Envoy_ + + Time, the pedagogue, his cane + Might retain, + But his charges all would stray + Truanting in every lane— + Jack with Jane— + If it could be always May. + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE +OF LIFE AND FATE + + + FOOLS may pine, and sots may swill, + Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, + Moralists may scourge and drill, + Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. + Let them whine, or threat, or wail! + Till the touch of Circumstance + Down to darkness sink the scale, + Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance. + + What if skies be wan and chill? + What if winds be harsh and stale? + Presently the east will thrill, + And the sad and shrunken sail, + Bellying with a kindly gale, + Bear you sunwards, while your chance + Sends you back the hopeful hail:— + ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’ + + Idle shot or coming bill, + Hapless love or broken bail, + Gulp it (never chew your pill!), + And, if Burgundy should fail, + Try the humbler pot of ale! + Over all is heaven’s expanse. + Gold’s to find among the shale. + Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance. + + Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, + Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, + Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, + Hard Sir Æger dints his mail; + And the while by hill and dale + Tristram’s braveries gleam and glance, + And his blithe horn tells its tale:— + ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’ + + Araminta’s grand and shrill, + Delia’s passionate and frail, + Doris drives an earnest quill, + Athanasia takes the veil: + Wiser Phyllis o’er her pail, + At the heart of all romance + Reading, sings to Strephon’s flail:— + ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’ + + Every Jack must have his Jill + (Even Johnson had his Thrale!): + Forward, couples—with a will! + This, the world, is not a jail. + Hear the music, sprat and whale! + Hands across, retire, advance! + Though the doomsman’s on your trail, + Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance. + + _Envoy_ + + Boys and girls, at slug and snail + And their kindred look askance. + Pay your footing on the nail: + Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance. + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE +OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS + + + THE big teetotum twirls, + And epochs wax and wane + As chance subsides or swirls; + But of the loss and gain + The sum is always plain. + Read on the mighty pall, + The weed of funeral + That covers praise and blame, + The —isms and the —anities, + Magnificence and shame:— + ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’ + + The Fates are subtile girls! + They give us chaff for grain. + And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, + Like bolted death, disdain + At all that heart and brain + Conceive, or great or small, + Upon this earthly ball. + Would you be knight and dame? + Or woo the sweet humanities? + Or illustrate a name? + O Vanity of Vanities! + + We sound the sea for pearls, + Or drown them in a drain; + We flute it with the merles, + Or tug and sweat and strain; + We grovel, or we reign; + We saunter, or we brawl; + We answer, or we call; + We search the stars for Fame, + Or sink her subterranities; + The legend’s still the same:— + ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’ + + Here at the wine one birls, + There some one clanks a chain. + The flag that this man furls + That man to float is fain. + Pleasure gives place to pain: + These in the kennel crawl, + While others take the wall. + _She_ has a glorious aim, + _He_ lives for the inanities. + What comes of every claim? + O Vanity of Vanities! + + Alike are clods and earls. + For sot, and seer, and swain, + For emperors and for churls, + For antidote and bane, + There is but one refrain: + But one for king and thrall, + For David and for Saul, + For fleet of foot and lame, + For pieties and profanities, + The picture and the frame:— + ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’ + + Life is a smoke that curls— + Curls in a flickering skein, + That winds and whisks and whirls + A figment thin and vain, + Into the vast Inane. + One end for hut and hall! + One end for cell and stall! + Burned in one common flame + Are wisdoms and insanities. + For this alone we came:— + ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’ + + _Envoy_ + + Prince, pride must have a fall. + What is the worth of all + Your state’s supreme urbanities? + Bad at the best’s the game. + Well might the Sage exclaim:— + ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’ + + + +AT QUEENSFERRY + + + _To_ W. G. S. + + THE blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean + We bowled along a road that curved a spine + Superbly sinuous and serpentine + Thro’ silent symphonies of summer green. + Sudden the Forth came on us—sad of mien, + No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line: + A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign + Of life or death, two spits of sand between. + Water and sky merged blank in mist together, + The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship’s spars + Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze: + We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather, + The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars, + Where Lancelot rides clanking thro’ the haze. + + + +ORIENTALE + + + SHE’S an enchanting little Israelite, + A world of hidden dimples!—Dusky-eyed, + A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, + With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, + Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, + Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside + The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride, + Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight. + And when she passes with the dreadful boys + And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, + My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range + The Land o’ the Sun, commingles with the noise + Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood + A touch Sidonian—modern—taking—strange! + + + +IN FISHERROW + + + A HARD north-easter fifty winters long + Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck; + Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck; + Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong. + A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng + Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck, + A white vest broidered black, her person deck, + Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong. + Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh, + Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers, + The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye, + Ever and anon imploring you to buy, + As looking down the street she onward lingers, + Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry. + + + +BACK-VIEW + + + _To_ D. F. + + I WATCHED you saunter down the sand: + Serene and large, the golden weather + Flowed radiant round your peacock feather, + And glistered from your jewelled hand. + Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand + And bound with blue ribands together, + Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather, + That round your lissome shoulder spanned. + Your grace was quick my sense to seize: + The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses, + The close-drawn scarf, and under these + The flowing, flapping draperies— + My thought an outline still caresses, + Enchanting, comic, Japanese! + + + +CROLUIS + + + _To_ G. W. + + THE beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, + He groped and fiddled doggedly along, + His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng + The stony peevishness of sightless men. + He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, + Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, + So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, + You hardly could distinguish one in ten. + He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, + And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, + Stared dim towards the blue immensity, + Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand. + He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir: + His gesture spoke a vast despondency. + + + +ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS + + + _To_ A. J. + + A BLACK and glassy float, opaque and still, + The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, + Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep + The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; + Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; + The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; + The braes beyond—and when the ripple awoke, + They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. + The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore + A noise of running water whispered near. + A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird + Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, + Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear, + Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard. + + + +FROM A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET + + + _To_ M. M. M‘B. + + ABOVE the Crags that fade and gloom + Starts the bare knee of Arthur’s Seat; + Ridged high against the evening bloom, + The Old Town rises, street on street; + With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, + Like rampired walls the houses lean, + All spired and domed and turreted, + Sheer to the valley’s darkling green; + Ranged in mysterious disarray, + The Castle, menacing and austere, + Looms through the lingering last of day; + And in the silver dusk you hear, + Reverberated from crag and scar, + Bold bugles blowing points of war. + + + +IN THE DIALS + + + TO _Garryowen_ upon an organ ground + Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip, + With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip, + As in the tumult of a witches’ round. + Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound. + Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip. + The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip. + High from the kennel howls a tortured hound. + The music reels and hurtles, and the night + Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light + Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused + With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags, + Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags + Look on dispassionate—critical—something ’mused. + + + +THE GODS ARE DEAD + + + THE gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? + Living at least in Lemprière undeleted, + The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose, + Are one and all, I like to think, retreated + In some still land of lilacs and the rose. + + Once higeh they sat, and high o’er earthly shows + With sacrificial dance and song were greeted. + Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes, + The gods are dead. + + It must be true. The world, a world of prose, + Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted, + Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze! + Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows + Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:— + ‘The Gods are Dead!’ + + + +_To_ F. W. + + + LET us be drunk, and for a while forget, + Forget, and, ceasing even from regret, + Live without reason and despite of rhyme, + As in a dream preposterous and sublime, + Where place and hour and means for once are met. + + Where is the use of effort? Love and debt + And disappointment have us in a net. + Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . . + Let us be drunk. + + In vain our little hour we strut and fret, + And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet: + We cannot please the tragicaster Time. + To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime, + Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet, + Let us be drunk! + + + +WHEN YOU ARE OLD + + + WHEN you are old, and I am passed away— + Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray— + I think, whate’er the end, this dream of mine, + Comforting you, a friendly star will shine + Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray. + + So may it be: that so dead Yesterday, + No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay, + May serve you memories like almighty wine, + When you are old! + + Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway + Of death the past’s enormous disarray + Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign, + Live on well pleased: immortal and divine + Love shall still tend you, as God’s angels may, + When you are old. + + + +BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA + + + BESIDE the idle summer sea + And in the vacant summer days, + Light Love came fluting down the ways, + Where you were loitering with me. + + Who has not welcomed, even as we, + That jocund minstrel and his lays + Beside the idle summer sea + And in the vacant summer days? + + We listened, we were fancy-free; + And lo! in terror and amaze + We stood alone—alone at gaze + With an implacable memory + Beside the idle summer sea. + + + +I. M. +R. G. C. B. +1878 + + + THE ways of Death are soothing and serene, + And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. + From camp and church, the fireside and the street, + She beckons forth—and strife and song have been. + + A summer night descending cool and green + And dark on daytime’s dust and stress and heat, + The ways of Death are soothing and serene, + And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. + + O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien + And radiant faces look upon, and greet + This last of all your lovers, and to meet + Her kiss, the Comforter’s, your spirit lean . . . + The ways of Death are soothing and serene. + + + +WE SHALL SURELY DIE + + + WE shall surely die: + Must we needs grow old? + Grow old and cold, + And we know not why? + + O, the By-and-By, + And the tale that’s told! + We shall surely die: + Must we needs grow old? + + Grow old and sigh, + Grudge and withhold, + Resent and scold? . . . + Not you and I? + We shall surely die! + + + +WHAT IS TO COME + + + WHAT is to come we know not. But we know + That what has been was good—was good to show, + Better to hide, and best of all to bear. + We are the masters of the days that were: + We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so. + + Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? + Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe— + Dear, though it spoil and break us!—need we care + What is to come? + + Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, + Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: + We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare + And we can conquer, though we may not share + In the rich quiet of the afterglow + What is to come. + + + + +ECHOES + + + 1872–1889 + + _Aquí está encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcías_. + + GIL BLAS _AU LECTEUR_. + + + +I +TO MY MOTHER + + + CHIMING a dream by the way + With ocean’s rapture and roar, + I met a maiden to-day + Walking alone on the shore: + Walking in maiden wise, + Modest and kind and fair, + The freshness of spring in her eyes + And the fulness of spring in her hair. + + Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst + Were swift on the floor of the sea, + And a mad wind was romping its worst, + But what was their magic to me? + Or the charm of the midsummer skies? + I only saw she was there, + A dream of the sea in her eyes + And the kiss of the sea in her hair. + + I watched her vanish in space; + She came where I walked no more; + But something had passed of her grace + To the spell of the wave and the shore; + And now, as the glad stars rise, + She comes to me, rosy and rare, + The delight of the wind in her eyes + And the hand of the wind in her hair. + + 1872 + + + +II + + + LIFE is bitter. All the faces of the years, + Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears. + Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? + In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, + Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . . + Let me sleep. + + Riches won but mock the old, unable years; + Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; + Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. + In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, + While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . . + Let me sleep. + + 1872 + + + +III + + + O, GATHER me the rose, the rose, + While yet in flower we find it, + For summer smiles, but summer goes, + And winter waits behind it! + + For with the dream foregone, foregone, + The deed forborne for ever, + The worm, regret, will canker on, + And Time will turn him never. + + So well it were to love, my love, + And cheat of any laughter + The fate beneath us and above, + The dark before and after. + + The myrtle and the rose, the rose, + The sunshine and the swallow, + The dream that comes, the wish that goes, + The memories that follow! + + 1874 + + + +IV +I. M. +R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE +(1846–1899) + + + OUT of the night that covers me, + Black as the Pit from pole to pole, + I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + + In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. + Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + + Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, + And yet the menace of the years + Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. + + It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, + I am the master of my fate: + I am the captain of my soul. + + 1875 + + + +V + + + I AM the Reaper. + All things with heedful hook + Silent I gather. + Pale roses touched with the spring, + Tall corn in summer, + Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms— + Reaping, still reaping— + All things with heedful hook + Timely I gather. + + I am the Sower. + All the unbodied life + Runs through my seed-sheet. + Atom with atom wed, + Each quickening the other, + Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless + Ceaselessly sowing, + Life, incorruptible life, + Flows from my seed-sheet. + + Maker and breaker, + I am the ebb and the flood, + Here and Hereafter. + Sped through the tangle and coil + Of infinite nature, + Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. + Taker and giver, + I am the womb and the grave, + The Now and the Ever. + + 1875 + + + +VI + + + PRAISE the generous gods for giving + In a world of wrath and strife + With a little time for living, + Unto all the joy of life. + + At whatever source we drink it, + Art or love or faith or wine, + In whatever terms we think it, + It is common and divine. + + Praise the high gods, for in giving + This to man, and this alone, + They have made his chance of living + Shine the equal of their own. + + 1875 + + + +VII + + + FILL a glass with golden wine, + And the while your lips are wet + Set their perfume unto mine, + And forget, + Every kiss we take and give + Leaves us less of life to live. + + Yet again! Your whim and mine + In a happy while have met. + All your sweets to me resign, + Nor regret + That we press with every breath, + Sighed or singing, nearer death. + + 1875 + + + +VIII + + + WE’LL go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. + November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. + The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. + We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. + + We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. + The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. + Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. + We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. + + We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. + If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon. + No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, + We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear. + + 1875 + + + +IX +_To_ W. R. + + + MADAM Life’s a piece in bloom + Death goes dogging everywhere: + She’s the tenant of the room, + He’s the ruffian on the stair. + + You shall see her as a friend, + You shall bilk him once and twice; + But he’ll trap you in the end, + And he’ll stick you for her price. + + With his kneebones at your chest, + And his knuckles in your throat, + You would reason—plead—protest! + Clutching at her petticoat; + + But she’s heard it all before, + Well she knows you’ve had your fun, + Gingerly she gains the door, + And your little job is done. + + 1877 + + + +X + + + THE sea is full of wandering foam, + The sky of driving cloud; + My restless thoughts among them roam . . . + The night is dark and loud. + + Where are the hours that came to me + So beautiful and bright? + A wild wind shakes the wilder sea . . . + O, dark and loud’s the night! + + 1876 + + + +XI +_To_ W. R. + + + THICK is the darkness— + Sunward, O, sunward! + Rough is the highway— + Onward, still onward! + + Dawn harbours surely + East of the shadows. + Facing us somewhere + Spread the sweet meadows. + + Upward and forward! + Time will restore us: + Light is above us, + Rest is before us. + + 1876 + + + +XII + + + TO me at my fifth-floor window + The chimney-pots in rows + Are sets of pipes pandean + For every wind that blows; + + And the smoke that whirls and eddies + In a thousand times and keys + Is really a visible music + Set to my reveries. + + O monstrous pipes, melodious + With fitful tune and dream, + The clouds are your only audience, + Her thought is your only theme! + + 1875 + + + +XIII + + + BRING her again, O western wind, + Over the western sea: + Gentle and good and fair and kind, + Bring her again to me! + + Not that her fancy holds me dear, + Not that a hope may be: + Only that I may know her near, + Wind of the western sea. + + 1875 + + + +XIV + + + THE wan sun westers, faint and slow; + The eastern distance glimmers gray; + An eerie haze comes creeping low + Across the little, lonely bay; + And from the sky-line far away + About the quiet heaven are spread + Mysterious hints of dying day, + Thin, delicate dreams of green and red. + + And weak, reluctant surges lap + And rustle round and down the strand. + No other sound . . . If it should hap, + The ship that sails from fairy-land! + The silken shrouds with spells are manned, + The hull is magically scrolled, + The squat mast lives, and in the sand + The gold prow-griffin claws a hold. + + It steals to seaward silently; + Strange fish-folk follow thro’ the gloom; + Great wings flap overhead; I see + The Castle of the Drowsy Doom + Vague thro’ the changeless twilight loom, + Enchanted, hushed. And ever there + She slumbers in eternal bloom, + Her cushions hid with golden hair. + + 1875 + + + +XV + + + THERE is a wheel inside my head + Of wantonness and wine, + An old, cracked fiddle is begging without, + But the wind with scents of the sea is fed, + And the sun seems glad to shine. + + The sun and the wind are akin to you, + As you are akin to June. + But the fiddle! . . . It giggles and twitters about, + And, love and laughter! who gave him the cue?— + He’s playing your favourite tune. + + 1875 + + + +XVI + + + WHILE the west is paling + Starshine is begun. + While the dusk is failing + Glimmers up the sun. + + So, till darkness cover + Life’s retreating gleam, + Lover follows lover, + Dream succeeds to dream. + + Stoop to my endeavour, + O my love, and be + Only and for ever + Sun and stars to me. + + 1876 + + + +XVII + + + THE sands are alive with sunshine, + The bathers lounge and throng, + And out in the bay a bugle + Is lilting a gallant song. + + The clouds go racing eastward, + The blithe wind cannot rest, + And a shard on the shingle flashes + Like the shining soul of a jest; + + While children romp in the surges, + And sweethearts wander free, + And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . . + I would it were deep over me! + + 1875 + + + +XVIII +_To_ A. D. + + + THE nightingale has a lyre of gold, + The lark’s is a clarion-call, + And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, + But I love him best of all. + + For his song is all of the joy of life, + And we in the mad, spring weather, + We two have listened till he sang + Our hearts and lips together. + + 1876 + + + +XIX + + + YOUR heart has trembled to my tongue, + Your hands in mine have lain, + Your thought to me has leaned and clung, + Again and yet again, + My dear, + Again and yet again. + + Now die the dream, or come the wife, + The past is not in vain, + For wholly as it was your life + Can never be again, + My dear, + Can never be again. + + 1876 + + + +XX + + + THE surges gushed and sounded, + The blue was the blue of June, + And low above the brightening east + Floated a shred of moon. + + The woods were black and solemn, + The night winds large and free, + And in your thought a blessing seemed + To fall on land and sea. + + 1877 + + + +XXI + + + WE flash across the level. + We thunder thro’ the bridges. + We bicker down the cuttings. + We sway along the ridges. + + A rush of streaming hedges, + Of jostling lights and shadows, + Of hurtling, hurrying stations, + Of racing woods and meadows. + + We charge the tunnels headlong— + The blackness roars and shatters. + We crash between embankments— + The open spins and scatters. + + We shake off the miles like water, + We might carry a royal ransom; + And I think of her waiting, waiting, + And long for a common hansom. + + 1876 + + + +XXII + + + THE West a glimmering lake of light, + A dream of pearly weather, + The first of stars is burning white— + The star we watch together. + Is April dead? The unresting year + Will shape us our September, + And April’s work is done, my dear— + Do you not remember? + + O gracious eve! O happy star, + Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!— + Who lives of lovers near or far + So glad as I in thinking? + The gallant world is warm and green, + For May fulfils November. + When lights and leaves and loves have been, + Sweet, will you remember? + + O star benignant and serene, + I take the good to-morrow, + That fills from verge to verge my dream, + With all its joy and sorrow! + The old, sweet spell is unforgot + That turns to June December; + And, tho’ the world remembered not, + Love, we would remember. + + 1876 + + + +XXIII + + + THE skies are strown with stars, + The streets are fresh with dew + A thin moon drifts to westward, + The night is hushed and cheerful. + My thought is quick with you. + + Near windows gleam and laugh, + And far away a train + Clanks glowing through the stillness: + A great content’s in all things, + And life is not in vain. + + 1877 + + + +XXIV + + + THE full sea rolls and thunders + In glory and in glee. + O, bury me not in the senseless earth + But in the living sea! + + Ay, bury me where it surges + A thousand miles from shore, + And in its brotherly unrest + I’ll range for evermore. + + 1876 + + + +XXV + + + IN the year that’s come and gone, love, his flying feather + Stooping slowly, gave us heart, and bade us walk together. + In the year that’s coming on, though many a troth be broken, + We at least will not forget aught that love hath spoken. + + In the year that’s come and gone, dear, we wove a tether + All of gracious words and thoughts, binding two together. + In the year that’s coming on with its wealth of roses + We shall weave it stronger, yet, ere the circle closes. + + In the year that’s come and gone, in the golden weather, + Sweet, my sweet, we swore to keep the watch of life together. + In the year that’s coming on, rich in joy and sorrow, + We shall light our lamp, and wait life’s mysterious morrow. + + 1877 + + + +XXVI + + + IN the placid summer midnight, + Under the drowsy sky, + I seem to hear in the stillness + The moths go glimmering by. + + One by one from the windows + The lights have all been sped. + Never a blind looks conscious— + The street is asleep in bed! + + But I come where a living casement + Laughs luminous and wide; + I hear the song of a piano + Break in a sparkling tide; + + And I feel, in the waltz that frolics + And warbles swift and clear, + A sudden sense of shelter + And friendliness and cheer . . . + + A sense of tinkling glasses, + Of love and laughter and light— + The piano stops, and the window + Stares blank out into the night. + + The blind goes out, and I wander + To the old, unfriendly sea, + The lonelier for the memory + That walks like a ghost with me. + + + +XXVII + + + SHE sauntered by the swinging seas, + A jewel glittered at her ear, + And, teasing her along, the breeze + Brought many a rounded grace more near. + + So passing, one with wave and beam, + She left for memory to caress + A laughing thought, a golden gleam, + A hint of hidden loveliness. + + 1876 + + + +XXVIII +_To_ S. C. + + + BLITHE dreams arise to greet us, + And life feels clean and new, + For the old love comes to meet us + In the dawning and the dew. + O’erblown with sunny shadows, + O’ersped with winds at play, + The woodlands and the meadows + Are keeping holiday. + Wild foals are scampering, neighing, + Brave merles their hautboys blow: + Come! let us go a-maying + As in the Long-Ago. + + Here we but peak and dwindle: + The clank of chain and crane, + The whir of crank and spindle + Bewilder heart and brain; + The ends of our endeavour + Are merely wealth and fame, + Yet in the still Forever + We’re one and all the same; + Delaying, still delaying, + We watch the fading west: + Come! let us go a-maying, + Nor fear to take the best. + + Yet beautiful and spacious + The wise, old world appears. + Yet frank and fair and gracious + Outlaugh the jocund years. + Our arguments disputing, + The universal Pan + Still wanders fluting—fluting— + Fluting to maid and man. + Our weary well-a-waying + His music cannot still: + Come! let us go a-maying, + And pipe with him our fill. + + When wanton winds are flowing + Among the gladdening glass; + Where hawthorn brakes are blowing, + And meadow perfumes pass; + Where morning’s grace is greenest, + And fullest noon’s of pride; + Where sunset spreads serenest, + And sacred night’s most wide; + Where nests are swaying, swaying, + And spring’s fresh voices call, + Come! let us go a-maying, + And bless the God of all! + + 1878 + + + +XXIX +_To_ R. L. S. + + + A CHILD, + Curious and innocent, + Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing + Loses himself in the Fair. + + Thro’ the jostle and din + Wandering, he revels, + Dreaming, desiring, possessing; + Till, of a sudden + Tired and afraid, he beholds + The sordid assemblage + Just as it is; and he runs + With a sob to his Nurse + (Lighting at last on him), + And in her motherly bosom + Cries him to sleep. + + Thus thro’ the World, + Seeing and feeling and knowing, + Goes Man: till at last, + Tired of experience, he turns + To the friendly and comforting breast + Of the old nurse, Death. + + 1876 + + + +XXX + + + KATE-A-WHIMSIES, John-a-Dreams, + Still debating, still delay, + And the world’s a ghost that gleams— + Wavers—vanishes away! + + We must live while live we can; + We should love while love we may. + Dread in women, doubt in man . . . + So the Infinite runs away. + + 1876 + + + +XXXI + + + O, HAVE you blessed, behind the stars, + The blue sheen in the skies, + When June the roses round her calls?— + Then do you know the light that falls + From her belovèd eyes. + + And have you felt the sense of peace + That morning meadows give?— + Then do you know the spirit of grace, + The angel abiding in her face, + Who makes it good to live. + + She shines before me, hope and dream, + So fair, so still, so wise, + That, winning her, I seem to win + Out of the dust and drive and din + A nook of Paradise. + + 1877 + + + +XXXII +_To_ D. H. + + + O, FALMOUTH is a fine town with ships in the bay, + And I wish from my heart it’s there I was to-day; + I wish from my heart I was far away from here, + Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear. + For it’s home, dearie, home—it’s home I want to be. + Our topsails are hoisted, and we’ll away to sea. + O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree + They’re all growing green in the old countrie. + + In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet + With her babe on her arm, as she came down the street; + And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready + For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie. + And it’s home, dearie, home . . . + + O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; + And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king: + With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue + He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. + And it’s home, dearie, home . . . + + O, there’s a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, + And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, + For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, + And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie. + For it’s home, dearie, home—it’s home I want to be. + Our topsails are hoisted, and we’ll away to sea. + O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree + They’re all growing green in the old countrie. + + 1878 + + NOTE.—The burthen and the third stanza are old. + + + +XXXIII + + + THE ways are green with the gladdening sheen + Of the young year’s fairest daughter. + O, the shadows that fleet o’er the springing wheat! + O, the magic of running water! + The spirit of spring is in every thing, + The banners of spring are streaming, + We march to a tune from the fifes of June, + And life’s a dream worth dreaming. + + It’s all very well to sit and spell + At the lesson there’s no gainsaying; + But what the deuce are wont and use + When the whole mad world’s a-maying? + When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows, + And the air’s with love-motes teeming, + When fancies break, and the senses wake, + O, life’s a dream worth dreaming! + + What Nature has writ with her lusty wit + Is worded so wisely and kindly + That whoever has dipped in her manuscript + Must up and follow her blindly. + Now the summer prime is her blithest rhyme + In the being and the seeming, + And they that have heard the overword + Know life’s a dream worth dreaming. + + 1878 + + + +XXXIV +_To_ K. de M. + + + _Love blows as the wind blows_, + _Love blows into the heart_.—NILE BOAT-SONG. + + LIFE in her creaking shoes + Goes, and more formal grows, + A round of calls and cues: + Love blows as the wind blows. + Blows! . . . in the quiet close + As in the roaring mart, + By ways no mortal knows + Love blows into the heart. + + The stars some cadence use, + Forthright the river flows, + In order fall the dews, + Love blows as the wind blows: + Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows + The courses of his chart? + A spirit that comes and goes, + Love blows into the heart. + + 1878 + + + +XXXV +I. M. +MARGARITÆ SORORI +(1886) + + + A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies; + And from the west, + Where the sun, his day’s work ended, + Lingers as in content, + There falls on the old, grey city + An influence luminous and serene, + A shining peace. + + The smoke ascends + In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires + Shine, and are changed. In the valley + Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, + Closing his benediction, + Sinks, and the darkening air + Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night— + Night with her train of stars + And her great gift of sleep. + + So be my passing! + My task accomplished and the long day done, + My wages taken, and in my heart + Some late lark singing, + Let me be gathered to the quiet west, + The sundown splendid and serene, + Death. + + 1876 + + + +XXXVI + + + I GAVE my heart to a woman— + I gave it her, branch and root. + She bruised, she wrung, she tortured, + She cast it under foot. + + Under her feet she cast it, + She trampled it where it fell, + She broke it all to pieces, + And each was a clot of hell. + + There in the rain and the sunshine + They lay and smouldered long; + And each, when again she viewed them, + Had turned to a living song. + + + +XXXVII +_To_ W. A. + + + OR ever the knightly years were gone + With the old world to the grave, + I was a King in Babylon + And you were a Christian Slave. + + I saw, I took, I cast you by, + I bent and broke your pride. + You loved me well, or I heard them lie, + But your longing was denied. + Surely I knew that by and by + You cursed your gods and died. + + And a myriad suns have set and shone + Since then upon the grave + Decreed by the King in Babylon + To her that had been his Slave. + + The pride I trampled is now my scathe, + For it tramples me again. + The old resentment lasts like death, + For you love, yet you refrain. + I break my heart on your hard unfaith, + And I break my heart in vain. + + Yet not for an hour do I wish undone + The deed beyond the grave, + When I was a King in Babylon + And you were a Virgin Slave. + + + +XXXVIII + + + ON the way to Kew, + By the river old and gray, + Where in the Long Ago + We laughed and loitered so, + I met a ghost to-day, + A ghost that told of you— + A ghost of low replies + And sweet, inscrutable eyes + Coming up from Richmond + As you used to do. + + By the river old and gray, + The enchanted Long Ago + Murmured and smiled anew. + On the way to Kew, + March had the laugh of May, + The bare boughs looked aglow, + And old, immortal words + Sang in my breast like birds, + Coming up from Richmond + As I used with you. + + With the life of Long Ago + Lived my thought of you. + By the river old and gray + Flowing his appointed way + As I watched I knew + What is so good to know— + Not in vain, not in vain, + Shall I look for you again + Coming up from Richmond + On the way to Kew. + + + +XXXIX + + + THE Past was goodly once, and yet, when all is said, + The best of it we know is that it’s done and dead. + + Dwindled and faded quite, perished beyond recall, + Nothing is left at last of what one time was all. + + Coming back like a ghost, staring and lingering on, + Never a word it speaks but proves it dead and gone. + + Duty and work and joy—these things it cannot give; + And the Present is life, and life is good to live. + + Let it lie where it fell, far from the living sun, + The Past that, goodly once, is gone and dead and done. + + + +XL + + + THE spring, my dear, + Is no longer spring. + Does the blackbird sing + What he sang last year? + Are the skies the old + Immemorial blue? + Or am I, or are you, + Grown cold? + + Though life be change, + It is hard to bear + When the old sweet air + Sounds forced and strange. + To be out of tune, + Plain You and I . . . + It were better to die, + And soon! + + + +XLVI +_To_ R. A. M. S. + + + _The Spirit of Wine_ + _Sang in my glass_, _and I listened_ + _With love to his odorous music_, + _His flushed and magnificent song_. + + —‘I am health, I am heart, I am life! + For I give for the asking + The fire of my father, the Sun, + And the strength of my mother, the Earth. + Inspiration in essence, + I am wisdom and wit to the wise, + His visible muse to the poet, + The soul of desire to the lover, + The genius of laughter to all. + + ‘Come, lean on me, ye that are weary! + Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting! + Haste, ye that lag by the way! + I am Pride, the consoler; + Valour and Hope are my henchmen; + I am the Angel of Rest. + + ‘I am life, I am wealth, I am fame: + For I captain an army + Of shining and generous dreams; + And mine, too, all mine, are the keys + Of that secret spiritual shrine, + Where, his work-a-day soul put by, + Shut in with his saint of saints— + With his radiant and conquering self— + Man worships, and talks, and is glad. + + ‘Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely, + Ye that are paid with disdain, + Ye that are chained and would soar! + I am beauty and love; + I am friendship, the comforter; + I am that which forgives and forgets.’— + + _The Spirit of Wine_ + _Sang in my heart_, _and I triumphed_ + _In the savour and scent of his music_, + _His magnetic and mastering song_. + + + +XLII + + + A WINK from Hesper, falling + Fast in the wintry sky, + Comes through the even blue, + Dear, like a word from you . . . + Is it good-bye? + + Across the miles between us + I send you sigh for sigh. + Good-night, sweet friend, good-night: + Till life and all take flight, + Never good-bye. + + + +XLII + + + FRIENDS . . . old friends . . . + One sees how it ends. + A woman looks + Or a man tells lies, + And the pleasant brooks + And the quiet skies, + Ruined with brawling + And caterwauling, + Enchant no more + As they did before. + And so it ends + With friends. + + Friends . . . old friends . . . + And what if it ends? + Shall we dare to shirk + What we live to learn? + It has done its work, + It has served its turn; + And, forgive and forget + Or hanker and fret, + We can be no more + As we were before. + When it ends, it ends + With friends. + + Friends . . . old friends . . . + So it breaks, so it ends. + There let it rest! + It has fought and won, + And is still the best + That either has done. + Each as he stands + The work of its hands, + Which shall be more + As he was before? . . . + What is it ends + With friends? + + + +XLIV + + + IF it should come to be, + This proof of you and me, + This type and sign + Of hours that smiled and shone, + And yet seemed dead and gone + As old-world wine: + + Of Them Within the Gate + Ask we no richer fate, + No boon above, + For girl child or for boy, + My gift of life and joy, + Your gift of love. + + + +XLV +_To_ W. B. + + + FROM the brake the Nightingale + Sings exulting to the Rose; + Though he sees her waxing pale + In her passionate repose, + While she triumphs waxing frail, + Fading even while she glows; + Though he knows + How it goes— + Knows of last year’s Nightingale + Dead with last year’s Rose. + + Wise the enamoured Nightingale, + Wise the well-belovèd Rose! + Love and life shall still prevail, + Nor the silence at the close + Break the magic of the tale + In the telling, though it shows— + Who but knows + How it goes!— + Life a last year’s Nightingale, + Love a last year’s Rose. + + + +XLVI +MATRI DILECTISSIMÆ +I. M. + + + IN the waste hour + Between to-day and yesterday + We watched, while on my arm— + Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone— + Dabbled in sweat the sacred head + Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: + Till the dear face turned dead, + And to a sound of lamentation + The good, heroic soul with all its wealth— + Its sixty years of love and sacrifice, + Suffering and passionate faith—was reabsorbed + In the inexorable Peace, + And life was changed to us for evermore. + + Was nothing left of her but tears + Like blood-drops from the heart? + Nought save remorse + For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, + And charity ignored? Nothing but love, + Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth, + But for this passing + Into the unimaginable abyss + These things had never been? + + Nay, there were we, + Her five strong sons! + To her Death came—the great Deliverer came!— + As equal comes to equal, throne to throne. + She was a mother of men. + + The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, + Bent on his errand of immortal law, + Works his appointed way + To the immemorial sea. + And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:— + That she in us yet works and shines, + Lives and fulfils herself, + Unending as the river and the stars. + + Dearest, live on + In such an immortality + As we thy sons, + Born of thy body and nursed + At those wild, faithful breasts, + Can give—of generous thoughts, + And honourable words, and deeds + That make men half in love with fate! + Live on, O brave and true, + In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine— + Our best and theirs! What is that best but thee— + Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass + Like light along the infinite of space + To the immitigable end? + + Between the river and the stars, + O royal and radiant soul, + Thou dost return, thine influences return + Upon thy children as in life, and death + Turns stingless! What is Death + But Life in act? How should the Unteeming Grave + Be victor over thee, + Mother, a mother of men? + + + +XLVII + + + CROSSES and troubles a-many have proved me. + One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me. + I have worked and dreamed, and I’ve talked at will. + Of art and drink I have had my fill. + I’ve comforted here, and I’ve succoured there. + I’ve faced my foes, and I’ve backed my friends. + I’ve blundered, and sometimes made amends. + I have prayed for light, and I’ve known despair. + Now I look before, as I look behind, + Come storm, come shine, whatever befall, + With a grateful heart and a constant mind, + For the end I know is the best of all. + + 1888–1889 + + + + +LONDON VOLUNTARIES + + + (_To_ Charles Whibley) + + 1890–1892 + + + +I +_Grave_ + + + ST. MARGARET’S bells, + Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles, + Sing in the storied air, + All rosy-and-golden, as with memories + Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas + Disconsolate for that the night is nigh. + O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam + (Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!) + Touching these solemn ancientries, and there, + The silent River ranging tide-mark high + And the callow, grey-faced Hospital, + With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream! + The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees, + And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky + (Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!) + Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall. + The sober Sabbath stir— + Leisurely voices, desultory feet!— + Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street, + Where in their summer frocks the girls go by, + And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer, + Just as they did an hundred years ago, + Just as an hundred years to come they will:— + When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low, + And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil, + Nor any sunset fade serene and slow; + But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die. + + + +II +_Andante con moto_ + + + FORTH from the dust and din, + The crush, the heat, the many-spotted glare, + The odour and sense of life and lust aflare, + The wrangle and jangle of unrests, + Let us take horse, Dear Heart, take horse and win— + As from swart August to the green lap of May— + To quietness and the fresh and fragrant breasts + Of the still, delicious night, not yet aware + In any of her innumerable nests + Of that first sudden plash of dawn, + Clear, sapphirine, luminous, large, + Which tells that soon the flowing springs of day + In deep and ever deeper eddies drawn + Forward and up, in wider and wider way, + Shall float the sands, and brim the shores, + On this our lith of the World, as round it roars + And spins into the outlook of the Sun + (The Lord’s first gift, the Lord’s especial charge), + With light, with living light, from marge to marge + Until the course He set and staked be run. + + Through street and square, through square and street, + Each with his home-grown quality of dark + And violated silence, loud and fleet, + Waylaid by a merry ghost at every lamp, + The hansom wheels and plunges. Hark, O, hark, + Sweet, how the old mare’s bit and chain + Ring back a rough refrain + Upon the marked and cheerful tramp + Of her four shoes! Here is the Park, + And O, the languid midsummer wafts adust, + The tired midsummer blooms! + O, the mysterious distances, the glooms + Romantic, the august + And solemn shapes! At night this City of Trees + Turns to a tryst of vague and strange + And monstrous Majesties, + Let loose from some dim underworld to range + These terrene vistas till their twilight sets: + When, dispossessed of wonderfulness, they stand + Beggared and common, plain to all the land + For stooks of leaves! And lo! the Wizard Hour, + His silent, shining sorcery winged with power! + Still, still the streets, between their carcanets + Of linking gold, are avenues of sleep. + But see how gable ends and parapets + In gradual beauty and significance + Emerge! And did you hear + That little twitter-and-cheep, + Breaking inordinately loud and clear + On this still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere? + ’Tis a first nest at matins! And behold + A rakehell cat—how furtive and acold! + A spent witch homing from some infamous dance— + Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade + Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade! + And now! a little wind and shy, + The smell of ships (that earnest of romance), + A sense of space and water, and thereby + A lamplit bridge ouching the troubled sky, + And look, O, look! a tangle of silver gleams + And dusky lights, our River and all his dreams, + His dreams that never save in our deaths can die. + + What miracle is happening in the air, + Charging the very texture of the gray + With something luminous and rare? + The night goes out like an ill-parcelled fire, + And, as one lights a candle, it is day. + The extinguisher, that perks it like a spire + On the little formal church, is not yet green + Across the water: but the house-tops nigher, + The corner-lines, the chimneys—look how clean, + How new, how naked! See the batch of boats, + Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam! + And those are barges that were goblin floats, + Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream! + And in the piles the water frolics clear, + The ripples into loose rings wander and flee, + And we—we can behold that could but hear + The ancient River singing as he goes, + New-mailed in morning, to the ancient Sea. + The gas burns lank and jaded in its glass: + The old Ruffian soon shall yawn himself awake, + And light his pipe, and shoulder his tools, and take + His hobnailed way to work! + + Let us too pass— + Pass ere the sun leaps and your shadow shows— + Through these long, blindfold rows + Of casements staring blind to right and left, + Each with his gaze turned inward on some piece + Of life in death’s own likeness—Life bereft + Of living looks as by the Great Release— + Pass to an exquisite night’s more exquisite close! + + Reach upon reach of burial—so they feel, + These colonies of dreams! And as we steal + Homeward together, but for the buxom breeze, + Fitfully frolicking to heel + With news of dawn-drenched woods and tumbling seas, + We might—thus awed, thus lonely that we are— + Be wandering some dispeopled star, + Some world of memories and unbroken graves, + So broods the abounding Silence near and far: + Till even your footfall craves + Forgiveness of the majesty it braves. + + + +III +_Scherzando_ + + + DOWN through the ancient Strand + The spirit of October, mild and boon + And sauntering, takes his way + This golden end of afternoon, + As though the corn stood yellow in all the land, + And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon. + + Lo! the round sun, half-down the western slope— + Seen as along an unglazed telescope— + Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day: + Gifting the long, lean, lanky street + And its abounding confluences of being + With aspects generous and bland; + Making a thousand harnesses to shine + As with new ore from some enchanted mine, + And every horse’s coat so full of sheen + He looks new-tailored, and every ’bus feels clean, + And never a hansom but is worth the feeing; + And every jeweller within the pale + Offers a real Arabian Night for sale; + And even the roar + Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour + Eastward and westward, sounds suffused— + Seems as it were bemused + And blurred, and like the speech + Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach— + With this enchanted lustrousness, + This mellow magic, that (as a man’s caress + Brings back to some faded face, beloved before, + A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore + Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech) + Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless + Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more: + Till Clement’s, angular and cold and staid, + Gleams forth in glamour’s very stuffs arrayed; + And Bride’s, her aëry, unsubstantial charm + Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone + Grown flushed and warm, + Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown; + And the high majesty of Paul’s + Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls— + Calls to his millions to behold and see + How goodly this his London Town can be! + + For earth and sky and air + Are golden everywhere, + And golden with a gold so suave and fine + The looking on it lifts the heart like wine. + Trafalgar Square + (The fountains volleying golden glaze) + Shines like an angel-market. High aloft + Over his couchant Lions, in a haze + Shimmering and bland and soft, + A dust of chrysoprase, + Our Sailor takes the golden gaze + Of the saluting sun, and flames superb, + As once he flamed it on his ocean round. + The dingy dreariness of the picture-place, + Turned very nearly bright, + Takes on a luminous transiency of grace, + And shows no more a scandal to the ground. + The very blind man pottering on the kerb, + Among the posies and the ostrich feathers + And the rude voices touched with all the weathers + Of the long, varying year, + Shares in the universal alms of light. + The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires, + The height and spread of frontage shining sheer, + The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires— + ’Tis El Dorado—El Dorado plain, + The Golden City! And when a girl goes by, + Look! as she turns her glancing head, + A call of gold is floated from her ear! + Golden, all golden! In a golden glory, + Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky, + The day, not dies but, seems + Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed + Upon a past of golden song and story + And memories of gold and golden dreams. + + + +IV +_Largo e mesto_ + + + OUT of the poisonous East, + Over a continent of blight, + Like a maleficent Influence released + From the most squalid cellarage of hell, + The Wind-Fiend, the abominable— + The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light— + Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, + Hard on the skirts of the embittered night; + And in a cloud unclean + Of excremental humours, roused to strife + By the operation of some ruinous change, + Wherever his evil mandate run and range, + Into a dire intensity of life, + A craftsman at his bench, he settles down + To the grim job of throttling London Town. + + So, by a jealous lightlessness beset + That might have oppressed the dragons of old time + Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime, + A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams, + Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet, + The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark + In shameful occultation, seems + A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting, + With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting, + Rent in the stuff of a material dark, + Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale, + Shows like the leper’s living blotch of bale: + Uncoiling monstrous into street on street + Paven with perils, teeming with mischance, + Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread, + Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet + Somewhither in the hideousness ahead; + Working through wicked airs and deadly dews + That make the laden robber grin askance + At the good places in his black romance, + And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose + Go pinched and pined to bed + Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way + From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey. + + Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows, + His green garlands and windy eyots forgot, + The old Father-River flows, + His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom, + As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore, + Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides, + Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot + In the squalor of the universal shore: + His voices sounding through the gruesome air + As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom + With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides: + The while his children, the brave ships, + No more adventurous and fair, + Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides, + But infamously enchanted, + Huddle together in the foul eclipse, + Or feel their course by inches desperately, + As through a tangle of alleys murder-haunted, + From sinister reach to reach out—out—to sea. + + And Death the while— + Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile, + Death in his threadbare working trim— + Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland, + And with expert, inevitable hand + Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung, + Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart: + Thus signifying unto old and young, + However hard of mouth or wild of whim, + ’Tis time—’tis time by his ancient watch—to part + From books and women and talk and drink and art. + And you go humbly after him + To a mean suburban lodging: on the way + To what or where + Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say: + And you—how should you care + So long as, unreclaimed of hell, + The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable, + Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down + To the black job of burking London Town? + + + +V +_Allegro maëstoso_ + + + SPRING winds that blow + As over leagues of myrtle-blooms and may; + Bevies of spring clouds trooping slow, + Like matrons heavy bosomed and aglow + With the mild and placid pride of increase! Nay, + What makes this insolent and comely stream + Of appetence, this freshet of desire + (Milk from the wild breasts of the wilful Day!), + Down Piccadilly dance and murmur and gleam + In genial wave on wave and gyre on gyre? + Why does that nymph unparalleled splash and churn + The wealth of her enchanted urn + Till, over-billowing all between + Her cheerful margents, grey and living green, + It floats and wanders, glittering and fleeing, + An estuary of the joy of being? + Why should the lovely leafage of the Park + Touch to an ecstasy the act of seeing? + —Sure, sure my paramour, my Bride of Brides, + Lingering and flushed, mysteriously abides + In some dim, eye-proof angle of odorous dark, + Some smiling nook of green-and-golden shade, + In the divine conviction robed and crowned + The globe fulfils his immemorial round + But as the marrying-place of all things made! + + There is no man, this deifying day, + But feels the primal blessing in his blood. + There is no woman but disdains— + The sacred impulse of the May + Brightening like sex made sunshine through her veins— + To vail the ensigns of her womanhood. + None but, rejoicing, flaunts them as she goes, + Bounteous in looks of her delicious best, + On her inviolable quest: + These with their hopes, with their sweet secrets those, + But all desirable and frankly fair, + As each were keeping some most prosperous tryst, + And in the knowledge went imparadised! + For look! a magical influence everywhere, + Look how the liberal and transfiguring air + Washes this inn of memorable meetings, + This centre of ravishments and gracious greetings, + Till, through its jocund loveliness of length + A tidal-race of lust from shore to shore, + A brimming reach of beauty met with strength, + It shines and sounds like some miraculous dream, + Some vision multitudinous and agleam, + Of happiness as it shall be evermore! + + Praise God for giving + Through this His messenger among the days + His word the life He gave is thrice-worth living! + For Pan, the bountiful, imperious Pan— + Not dead, not dead, as impotent dreamers feigned, + But the gay genius of a million Mays + Renewing his beneficent endeavour!— + Still reigns and triumphs, as he hath triumphed and reigned + Since in the dim blue dawn of time + The universal ebb-and-flow began, + To sound his ancient music, and prevails, + By the persuasion of his mighty rhyme, + Here in this radiant and immortal street + Lavishly and omnipotently as ever + In the open hills, the undissembling dales, + The laughing-places of the juvenile earth. + For lo! the wills of man and woman meet, + Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared, + As once in Eden’s prodigal bowers befell, + To share his shameless, elemental mirth + In one great act of faith: while deep and strong, + Incomparably nerved and cheered, + The enormous heart of London joys to beat + To the measures of his rough, majestic song; + The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell + That keeps the rolling universe ensphered, + And life, and all for which life lives to long, + Wanton and wondrous and for ever well. + + + + +RHYMES AND RHYTHMS + + + 1889–1892 + + + +_PROLOGUE_ + + + _Something is dead_ . . . + _The grace of sunset solitudes_, _the march_ + _Of the solitary moon_, _the pomp and power_ + _Of round on round of shining soldier-stars_ + _Patrolling space_, _the bounties of the sun_— + _Sovran_, _tremendous_, _unimaginable_— + _The multitudinous friendliness of the sea_, + _Possess no more—no more_. + + _Something is dead_ . . . + _The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks_ + _And spreads_, _the burden of Winter heavier weighs_, + _His melancholy close and closer yet_ + _Cleaves_, _and those incantations of the Spring_ + _That made the heart a centre of miracles_ + _Grow formal_, _and the wonder-working bours_ + _Arise no more—no more_. + + _Something is dead_ . . . + _’Tis time to creep in close about the fire_ + _And tell grey tales of what we were_, _and dream_ + _Old dreams and faded_, _and as we may rejoice_ + _In the young life that round us leaps and laughs_, + _A fountain in the sunshine_, _in the pride_ + _Of God’s best gift that to us twain returns_, + _Dear Heart_, _no more—no more_. + + + +I +_To_ H. B. M. W. + + + WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade + On desolate sea and lonely sand, + Out of the silence and the shade + What is the voice of strange command + Calling you still, as friend calls friend + With love that cannot brook delay, + To rise and follow the ways that wend + Over the hills and far away? + + Hark in the city, street on street + A roaring reach of death and life, + Of vortices that clash and fleet + And ruin in appointed strife, + Hark to it calling, calling clear, + Calling until you cannot stay + From dearer things than your own most dear + Over the hills and far away. + + Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow, + Out of the sight of lamp and star, + It calls you where the good winds blow, + And the unchanging meadows are: + From faded hopes and hopes agleam, + It calls you, calls you night and day + Beyond the dark into the dream + Over the hills and far away + + + +II +_To_ R. F. B. + + + WE are the Choice of the Will: God, when He gave the word + That called us into line, set in our hand a sword; + + Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw, + And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law. + + East and west and north, wherever the battle grew, + As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do. + + Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy cease— + (Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of peace!)— + + Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or fire, + Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire. + + Road was never so rough that we left its purpose dark; + Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark; + + We tracked the winds of the world to the steps of their very thrones; + The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones; + + Till now the name of names, England, the name of might, + Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal night; + + And the call of her morning drum goes in a girdle of sound, + Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and round; + + And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to the mother-breeze, + Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas; + + And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her flowers, + And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and + showers! + + Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us fade and die, + While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky? + + For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay their father’s debt, + And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set; + + And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that none shall brave, + Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming Grave. + + + +III + + + A DESOLATE shore, + The sinister seduction of the Moon, + The menace of the irreclaimable Sea. + + Flaunting, tawdry and grim, + From cloud to cloud along her beat, + Leering her battered and inveterate leer, + She signals where he prowls in the dark alone, + Her horrible old man, + Mumbling old oaths and warming + His villainous old bones with villainous talk— + The secrets of their grisly housekeeping + Since they went out upon the pad + In the first twilight of self-conscious Time: + Growling, hideous and hoarse, + Tales of unnumbered Ships, + Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance, + In some vile alley of the night + Waylaid and bludgeoned— + Dead. + + Deep cellared in primeval ooze, + Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled, + They lie where the lean water-worm + Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides + Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide, + Thus fouled and desecrate, + The summons of the Trumpet, and the while + These Twain, their murderers, + Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued, + Hang at the heels of their children—She aloft + As in the shining streets, + He as in ambush at some accomplice door. + + The stalwart Ships, + The beautiful and bold adventurers! + Stationed out yonder in the isle, + The tall Policeman, + Flashing his bull’s-eye, as he peers + About him in the ancient vacancy, + Tells them this way is safety—this way home. + + + +IV + + + IT came with the threat of a waning moon + And the wail of an ebbing tide, + But many a woman has lived for less, + And many a man has died; + For life upon life took hold and passed, + Strong in a fate set free, + Out of the deep into the dark + On for the years to be. + + Between the gloom of a waning moon + And the song of an ebbing tide, + Chance upon chance of love and death + Took wing for the world so wide. + O, leaf out of leaf is the way of the land, + Wave out of wave of the sea + And who shall reckon what lives may live + In the life that we bade to be? + + + +V + + + WHY, my heart, do we love her so? + (Geraldine, Geraldine!) + Why does the great sea ebb and flow?— + Why does the round world spin? + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Bid me my life renew: + What is it worth unless I win, + Love—love and you? + + Why, my heart, when we speak her name + (Geraldine, Geraldine!) + Throbs the word like a flinging flame?— + Why does the Spring begin? + Geraldine, Geraldine, + Bid me indeed to be: + Open your heart, and take us in, + Love—love and me. + + + +VI + + + ONE with the ruined sunset, + The strange forsaken sands, + What is it waits, and wanders, + And signs with desparate hands? + + What is it calls in the twilight— + Calls as its chance were vain? + The cry of a gull sent seaward + Or the voice of an ancient pain? + + The red ghost of the sunset, + It walks them as its own, + These dreary and desolate reaches . . . + But O, that it walked alone! + + + +VII + + + THERE’S a regret + So grinding, so immitigably sad, + Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . . + Do you not know it yet? + + For deeds undone + Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due, + Till there seems naught so despicable as you + In all the grin o’ the sun. + + Like an old shoe + The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie + About the beach of Time, till by and by + Death, that derides you too— + + Death, as he goes + His ragman’s round, espies you, where you stray, + With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way; + And then—and then, who knows + + But the kind Grave + Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, + In that black bridewell working out his term, + Hanker and grope and crave? + + ‘Poor fool that might— + That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, + Think of it, here and thus made over to me + In the implacable night!’ + + And writhing, fain + And like a triumphing lover, he shall take + His fill where no high memory lives to make + His obscene victory vain. + + + +VIII +_To_ A. J. H. + + + TIME and the Earth— + The old Father and Mother— + Their teeming accomplished, + Their purpose fulfilled, + Close with a smile + For a moment of kindness, + Ere for the winter + They settle to sleep. + + Failing yet gracious, + Slow pacing, soon homing, + A patriarch that strolls + Through the tents of his children, + The Sun, as he journeys + His round on the lower + Ascents of the blue, + Washes the roofs + And the hillsides with clarity; + Charms the dark pools + Till they break into pictures; + Scatters magnificent + Alms to the beggar trees; + Touches the mist-folk, + That crowd to his escort, + Into translucencies + Radiant and ravishing: + As with the visible + Spirit of Summer + Gloriously vaporised, + Visioned in gold! + + Love, though the fallen leaf + Mark, and the fleeting light + And the loud, loitering + Footfall of darkness + Sign to the heart + Of the passage of destiny, + Here is the ghost + Of a summer that lived for us, + Here is a promise + Of summers to be. + + + +IX + + + ‘AS like the Woman as you can’— + (_Thus the New Adam was beguiled_)— + ‘So shall you touch the Perfect Man’— + (_God in the Garden heard and smiled_). + ‘Your father perished with his day: + ‘A clot of passions fierce and blind, + ‘He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way: + ‘Your muscles, Child, must be of mind. + + ‘The Brute that lurks and irks within, + ‘How, till you have him gagged and bound, + ‘Escape the foullest form of Sin?’ + (_God in the Garden laughed and frowned_). + ‘So vile, so rank, the bestial mood + ‘In which the race is bid to be, + ‘It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood: + ‘Live, therefore, you, for Purity! + + ‘Take for your mate no gallant croup, + ‘No girl all grace and natural will: + ‘To work her mission were to stoop, + ‘Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill. + ‘Choose one of whom your grosser make’— + (_God in the Garden laughed outright_)— + ‘The true refining touch may take, + ‘Till both attain to Life’s last height. + + ‘There, equal, purged of soul and sense. + ‘Beneficent, high-thinking, just, + ‘Beyond the appeal of Violence, + ‘Incapable of common Lust, + ‘In mental Marriage still prevail’— + (_God in the Garden hid His face_)— + ‘Till you achieve that Female-Male + ‘In Which shall culminate the race.’ + + + +X + + + MIDSUMMER midnight skies, + Midsummer midnight influences and airs, + The shining, sensitive silver of the sea + Touched with the strange-hued blazonings of dawn; + And all so solemnly still I seem to hear + The breathing of Life and Death, + The secular Accomplices, + Renewing the visible miracle of the world. + + The wistful stars + Shine like good memories. The young morning wind + Blows full of unforgotten hours + As over a region of roses. Life and Death + Sound on—sound on . . . And the night magical, + Troubled yet comforting, thrills + As if the Enchanted Castle at the heart + Of the wood’s dark wonderment + Swung wide his valves, and filled the dim sea-banks + With exquisite visitants: + Words fiery-hearted yet, dreams and desires + With living looks intolerable, regrets + Whose voice comes as the voice of an only child + Heard from the grave: shapes of a Might-Have-Been— + Beautiful, miserable, distraught— + The Law no man may baffle denied and slew. + + The spell-bound ships stand as at gaze + To let the marvel by. The grey road glooms . . . + Glimmers . . . goes out . . . and there, O, there where it fades, + What grace, what glamour, what wild will, + Transfigure the shadows? Whose, + Heart of my heart, Soul of my soul, but yours? + + Ghosts—ghosts—the sapphirine air + Teems with them even to the gleaming ends + Of the wild day-spring! Ghosts, + Everywhere—everywhere—till I and you + At last—dear love, at last!— + Are in the dreaming, even as Life and Death, + Twin-ministers of the unoriginal Will. + + + +XI + + + GULLS in an aëry morrice + Gleam and vanish and gleam . . . + The full sea, sleepily basking, + Dreams under skies of dream. + + Gulls in an aëry morrice + Circle and swoop and close . . . + Fuller and ever fuller + The rose of the morning blows. + + Gulls, in an aëry morrice + Frolicking, float and fade . . . + O, the way of a bird in the sunshine, + The way of a man with a maid! + + + +XII + + + SOME starlit garden grey with dew, + Some chamber flushed with wine and fire, + What matters where, so I and you + Are worthy our desire? + + Behind, a past that scolds and jeers + For ungirt loins and lamps unlit; + In front, the unmanageable years, + The trap upon the Pit; + + Think on the shame of dreams for deeds, + The scandal of unnatural strife, + The slur upon immortal needs, + The treason done to life: + + Arise! no more a living lie, + And with me quicken and control + Some memory that shall magnify + The universal Soul. + + + +XIII +_To_ James McNeill Whistler + + + UNDER a stagnant sky, + Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom, + The River, jaded and forlorn, + Welters and wanders wearily—wretchedly—on; + Yet in and out among the ribs + Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles + Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls, + Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories, + Lingers to babble to a broken tune + (Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!) + So melancholy a soliloquy + It sounds as it might tell + The secret of the unending grief-in-grain, + The terror of Time and Change and Death, + That wastes this floating, transitory world. + + What of the incantation + That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore + To take and wear the night + Like a material majesty? + That touched the shafts of wavering fire + About this miserable welter and wash— + (River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)— + Into long, shining signals from the panes + Of an enchanted pleasure-house, + Where life and life might live life lost in life + For ever and evermore? + + O Death! O Change! O Time! + Without you, O, the insuperable eyes + Of these poor Might-Have-Beens, + These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays! + + + +XIV +_To_ J. A. C. + + + FRESH from his fastnesses + Wholesome and spacious, + The North Wind, the mad huntsman, + Halloas on his white hounds + Over the grey, roaring + Reaches and ridges, + The forest of ocean, + The chace of the world. + Hark to the peal + Of the pack in full cry, + As he thongs them before him, + Swarming voluminous, + Weltering, wide-wallowing, + Till in a ruining + Chaos of energy, + Hurled on their quarry, + They crash into foam! + + Old Indefatigable, + Time’s right-hand man, the sea + Laughs as in joy + From his millions of wrinkles: + Laughs that his destiny, + Great with the greatness + Of triumphing order, + Shows as a dwarf + By the strength of his heart + And the might of his hands. + + Master of masters, + O maker of heroes, + Thunder the brave, + Irresistible message:— + ‘Life is worth Living + Through every grain of it, + From the foundations + To the last edge + Of the cornerstone, death.’ + + + +XV + + + YOU played and sang a snatch of song, + A song that all-too well we knew; + But whither had flown the ancient wrong; + And was it really I and you? + O, since the end of life’s to live + And pay in pence the common debt, + What should it cost us to forgive + Whose daily task is to forget? + + You babbled in the well-known voice— + Not new, not new the words you said. + You touched me off that famous poise, + That old effect, of neck and head. + Dear, was it really you and I? + In truth the riddle’s ill to read, + So many are the deaths we die + Before we can be dead indeed. + + + +XVI + + + SPACE and dread and the dark— + Over a livid stretch of sky + Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train + Of huge, primeval presences + Stooping beneath the weight + Of some enormous, rudimentary grief; + While in the haunting loneliness + The far sea waits and wanders with a sound + As of the trailing skirts of Destiny, + Passing unseen + To some immitigable end + With her grey henchman, Death. + + What larve, what spectre is this + Thrilling the wilderness to life + As with the bodily shape of Fear? + What but a desperate sense, + A strong foreboding of those dim + Interminable continents, forlorn + And many-silenced, in a dusk + Inviolable utterly, and dead + As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes + In hugger-mugger through eternity? + + Life—life—let there be life! + Better a thousand times the roaring hours + When wave and wind, + Like the Arch-Murderer in flight + From the Avenger at his heel, + Storm through the desolate fastnesses + And wild waste places of the world! + + Life—give me life until the end, + That at the very top of being, + The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, + Out of the reddest hell of the fight + I may be snatched and flung + Into the everlasting lull, + The immortal, incommunicable dream. + + + +XVII +CARMEN PATIBULARE +_To_ H. S. + + + TREE, Old Tree of the Triple Crook + And the rope of the Black Election, + ’Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule + Can never achieve perfection: + So ‘It’s O, for the time of the new Sublime + And the better than human way, + When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own + And the Wolf shall have his day!’ + + For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam + And the power of provocation, + You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit + Till your fruit is mere stupration: + And ‘It’s how should we rise to be pure and wise, + And how can we choose but fall, + So long as the Hangman makes us dread, + And the Noose floats free for all?’ + + So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign + And the trick there’s no recalling, + They will haggle and hew till they hack you through + And at last they lay you sprawling: + When ‘Hey! for the hour of the race in flower + And the long good-bye to sin!’ + And for the lack the fires of Hell gone out + Of the fuel to keep them in!’ + + But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough + And the ghastly Dreams that tend you, + Your growth began with the life of Man, + And only his death can end you. + They may tug in line at your hempen twine, + They may flourish with axe and saw; + But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs + In the living rock of Law. + + And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork, + When the spent sun reels and blunders + Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit + As it seethes in spate and thunders, + Stern on the glare of the tortured air + Your lines august shall gloom, + And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed + In the ruining roar of Doom. + + + +XVIII +I. M. +MARGARET EMMA HENLEY +(1888–1894) + + + WHEN you wake in your crib, + You, an inch of experience— + Vaulted about + With the wonder of darkness; + Wailing and striving + To reach from your feebleness + Something you feel + Will be good to and cherish you, + Something you know + And can rest upon blindly: + O, then a hand + (Your mother’s, your mother’s!) + By the fall of its fingers + All knowledge, all power to you, + Out of the dreary, + Discouraging strangenesses + Comes to and masters you, + Takes you, and lovingly + Woos you and soothes you + Back, as you cling to it, + Back to some comforting + Corner of sleep. + + So you wake in your bed, + Having lived, having loved; + But the shadows are there, + And the world and its kingdoms + Incredibly faded; + And you group through the Terror + Above you and under + For the light, for the warmth, + The assurance of life; + But the blasts are ice-born, + And your heart is nigh burst + With the weight of the gloom + And the stress of your strangled + And desperate endeavour: + Sudden a hand— + Mother, O Mother!— + God at His best to you, + Out of the roaring, + Impossible silences, + Falls on and urges you, + Mightily, tenderly, + Forth, as you clutch at it, + Forth to the infinite + Peace of the Grave. + + _October_ 1891 + + + +XIX +I. M. +R. L. S. +(1850–1894) + + + O, TIME and Change, they range and range + From sunshine round to thunder!— + They glance and go as the great winds blow, + And the best of our dreams drive under: + For Time and Change estrange, estrange— + And, now they have looked and seen us, + O, we that were dear, we are all-too near + With the thick of the world between us. + + O, Death and Time, they chime and chime + Like bells at sunset falling!— + They end the song, they right the wrong, + They set the old echoes calling: + For Death and Time bring on the prime + Of God’s own chosen weather, + And we lie in the peace of the Great Release + As once in the grass together. + + _February_ 1891 + + + +XX + + + THE shadow of Dawn; + Stillness and stars and over-mastering dreams + Of Life and Death and Sleep; + Heard over gleaming flats, the old, unchanging sound + Of the old, unchanging Sea. + + My soul and yours— + O, hand in hand let us fare forth, two ghosts, + Into the ghostliness, + The infinite and abounding solitudes, + Beyond—O, beyond!—beyond . . . + + Here in the porch + Upon the multitudinous silences + Of the kingdoms of the grave, + We twain are you and I—two ghosts Omnipotence + Can touch no more . . . no more! + + + +XXI + + + WHEN the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves + Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves, + Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life + Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife— + Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves. + + But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before, + When the rain-rot spreads and a tame sea mumbles the shore, + Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong, + Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire’s old song— + O, you envy the blesséd death that can live no more! + + + +XXII + + + TREES and the menace of night; + Then a long, lonely, leaden mere + Backed by a desolate fell, + As by a spectral battlement; and then, + Low-brooding, interpenetrating all, + A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky, + So beggared, so incredibly bereft + Of starlight and the song of racing worlds, + It might have bellied down upon the Void + Where as in terror Light was beginning to be. + + Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night + (Night and the wretchedness of the sky) + Is it the hurry of the rain? + Or the noise of a drive of the Dead, + Streaming before the irresistible Will + Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land + Between their place and ours? + + Like the forgetfulness + Of the work-a-day world made visible, + A mist falls from the melancholy sky. + A messenger from some lost and loving soul, + Hopeless, far wandered, dazed + Here in the provinces of life, + A great white moth fades miserably past. + + Thro’ the trees in the strange dead night, + Under the vast dead sky, + Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead + Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell, + And the unimagined vastitudes beyond. + + + +XXIII +_To_ P. A. G. + + + HERE they trysted, here they strayed, + In the leafage dewy and boon, + Many a man and many a maid, + And the morn was merry June. + ‘Death is fleet, Life is sweet,’ + Sang the blackbird in the may; + And the hour with flying feet, + While they dreamed, was yesterday. + + Many a maid and many a man + Found the leafage close and boon; + Many a destiny began— + O, the morn was merry June! + Dead and gone, dead and gone, + (Hark the blackbird in the may!), + Life and Death went hurrying on, + Cheek on cheek—and where were they? + + Dust on dust engendering dust + In the leafage fresh and boon, + Man and maid fulfil their trust— + Still the morn turns merry June. + Mother Life, Father Death + (O, the blackbird in the may!), + Each the other’s breath for breath, + Fleet the times of the world away. + + + +XXIV +_To_ A. C. + + + NOT to the staring Day, + For all the importunate questionings he pursues + In his big, violent voice, + Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude, + The Trees—God’s sentinels + Over His gift of live, life-giving air, + Yield of their huge, unutterable selves. + Midsummer-manifold, each one + Voluminous, a labyrinth of life, + They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams + That haunt their leafier privacies, + Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still + With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile + Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade, + And disappearances of homing birds, + And frolicsome freaks + Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs. + + But at the word + Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night, + Night of the many secrets, whose effect— + Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread— + Themselves alone may fully apprehend, + They tremble and are changed. + In each, the uncouth individual soul + Looms forth and glooms + Essential, and, their bodily presences + Touched with inordinate significance, + Wearing the darkness like the livery + Of some mysterious and tremendous guild, + They brood—they menace—they appal; + Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring + Wild hands of warning in the face + Of some inevitable advance of the doom; + Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing + As in some monstrous market-place, + They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime, + In that old speech their forefathers + Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard + The troubled voice of Eve + Naming the wondering folk of Paradise. + + Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them tell + The tale of their dim life, with all + Its compost of experience: how the Sun + Spreads them their daily feast, + Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine; + Of the old Moon’s fitful solicitude + And those mild messages the Stars + Descend in silver silences and dews; + Or what the sweet-breathing West, + Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat, + Said, and their leafage laughed; + And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain + Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the Year— + The sting of the stirring sap + Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring, + Their summer amplitudes of pomp, + Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill, + Embittered housewifery + Of the lean Winter: all such things, + And with them all the goodness of the Master, + Whose right hand blesses with increase and life, + Whose left hand honours with decay and death. + + Thus under the constraint of Night + These gross and simple creatures, + Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years, + A servant of the Will! + And God, the Craftsman, as He walks + The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer + In thus accomplishing + The aims of His miraculous artistry. + + + +XXV + + + WHAT have I done for you, + England, my England? + What is there I would not do, + England, my own? + With your glorious eyes austere, + As the Lord were walking near, + Whispering terrible things and dear + As the Song on your bugles blown, + England— + Round the world on your bugles blown! + + Where shall the watchful Sun, + England, my England, + Match the master-work you’ve done, + England, my own? + When shall he rejoice agen + Such a breed of mighty men + As come forward, one to ten, + To the Song on your bugles blown, + England— + Down the years on your bugles blown? + + Ever the faith endures, + England, my England:— + ‘Take and break us: we are yours, + ‘England, my own! + ‘Life is good, and joy runs high + ‘Between English earth and sky: + ‘Death is death; but we shall die + ‘To the Song on your bugles blown, + ‘England— + ‘To the stars on your bugles blown! + + They call you proud and hard, + England, my England: + You with worlds to watch and ward, + England, my own! + You whose mailed hand keeps the keys + Of such teeming destinies + You could know nor dread nor ease + Were the Song on your bugles blown, + England, + Round the Pit on your bugles blown! + + Mother of Ships whose might, + England, my England, + Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, + England, my own, + Chosen daughter of the Lord, + Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, + There’s the menace of the Word + In the Song on your bugles blown, + England— + Out of heaven on your bugles blown! + + + +_EPILOGUE_ + + + _These_, _to you now_, _O_, _more than ever now_— + _Now that the Ancient Enemy_ + _Has passed_, _and we_, _we two that are one_, _have seen_ + _A piece of perfect Life_ + _Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death_ + _The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled_ + _In pity and pride_, + _Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil_ + _From those home-kingdoms he left desolate_! + + _Poor windlestraws_ + _On the great_, _sullen_, _roaring pool of Time_ + _And Chance and Change_, _I know_! + _But they are yours_, _as I am_, _till we attain_ + _That end for which me make_, _we two that are one_: + _A little_, _exquisite Ghost_ + _Between us_, _smiling with the serenest eyes_ + _Seen in this world_, _and calling_, _calling still_ + _In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties_ + _Of sweetness_, _thrilling back across the grave_, + _Break the poor heart to hear_:— + ‘Come, Dadsie, come! + Mama, how long—how long!’ + + _July_ 1897. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1568-0.txt or 1568-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/6/1568 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Poems + + +Author: William Ernest Henley + + + +Release Date: February 27, 2015 [eBook #1568] +[This file was first posted on August 23, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1907 David Nutt edition by Diarmuid +Pigott with some additional material and proofing by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Bust of William Ernest Henley" +title= +"Bust of William Ernest Henley" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>POEMS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>By</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center">WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<blockquote><p><i>The summer’s flower is to the summer +sweet</i>,<br /> +<i>Though to itself it only live and die</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">SHAKESPEARE</span></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Tenth Impression</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +<i>Published by DAVID NUTT</i><br /> +at the Sign of the Phœnix<br /> +<span class="smcap">in Long Acre</span><br /> +1907</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span><i>First Edition printed January</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1898</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second Edition printed March</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1898</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third Edition printed September</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1898</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth Edition printed January</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1900</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth Edition printed December</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1901</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Sixth Impression printed August</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1903</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Impression printed February</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1904</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Eighth Impression printed May</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1905</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Ninth Impresion printed April</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1906</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Tenth Impression printed Nov.</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">1907</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Edinburgh: T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. v</span><i>TO MY +WIFE</i></h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>Take</i>, <i>dear</i>, <i>my little sheaf of +songs</i>,<br /> + <i>For</i>, <i>old or new</i>,<br /> +<i>All that is good in them belongs</i><br /> + <i>Only to you</i>;</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>And</i>, <i>singing as when all was +young</i>,<br /> + <i>They will recall</i><br /> +<i>Those others</i>, <i>lived but left unsung</i>—<br /> + <i>The bent of all</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">W. E. H</p> +<p><span class="smcap">April</span> 1888<br /> + <span +class="smcap">September</span> 1897.</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span><i>ADVERTISEMENT</i></h2> +<p><i>My friend and publisher</i>, <i>Mr. Alfred Nutt</i>, +<i>asks me to introduce this re-issue of old work in a new +shape</i>. <i>At his request</i>, <i>then</i>, <i>I have to +say that nearly all the numbers contained in the present volume +are reprinted from</i> ‘<i>A Book of Verses</i>’ +(1888) <i>and</i> ‘<i>London Voluntaries</i>’ +(1892–3). <i>From the first of these I have removed +some copies of verse which seemed to me scarce worth keeping</i>; +<i>and I have recovered for it certain others from those +publications which had made room for them</i>. <i>I have +corrected where I could</i>, <i>added such dates as I might</i>, +<i>and</i>, <i>by re-arrangement and revision</i>, <i>done my +best to give my book</i>, <i>such as it is</i>, <i>its final +form</i>. <i>If any be displeased by the result</i>, <i>I +can but submit that my verses are my own</i>, <i>and that this is +how I would have them read</i>.</p> +<p><i>The work of revision has reminded me that</i>, <i>small as +is this book of mine</i>, <i>it is all in the matter of verse +that I have to show for the years between</i> 1872 <i>and</i> +1897. <i>A principal reason is that</i>, <i>after spending +the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry</i>, <i>I +found myself</i> (<i>about</i> 1877) <i>so utterly unmarketable +that I had to own myself beaten in art</i>, <i>and to addict +myself to journalism for the next ten years</i>. <i>Came +the production by my old friend</i>, <i>Mr. H. B. Donkin</i>, +<i>in his little collection of</i> +‘<i>Voluntaries</i>’ (1888), <i>compiled for that +East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and energy +and skill</i>, <i>of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried +to quintessentialize</i>, <i>as</i> (<i>I believe</i>) <i>one +scarce can do in rhyme</i>, <i>my impressions of the Old +Edinburgh Infirmary</i>. <i>They had long </i><a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span><i>since +been rejected by every editor of standing in London—I had +well-nigh said in the world</i>; <i>but as soon as Mr. Nutt had +read them</i>, <i>he entreated me to look for more</i>. +<i>I did as I was told</i>; <i>old dusty sheaves were dragged to +light</i>; <i>the work of selection and correction was begun</i>; +<i>I burned much</i>; <i>I found that</i>, <i>after all</i>, +<i>the lyrical instinct had slept—not died</i>; <i>I +ventured</i> (<i>in brief</i>) ‘<i>A Book of +Verses</i>.’ <i>It was received with so much interest +that I took heart once more</i>, <i>and wrote the numbers +presently reprinted from</i> ‘<i>The National +Observer</i>’ <i>in the collection first</i> (1892) +<i>called</i> ‘<i>The Song of the Sword</i>’ <i>and +afterwards</i> (1893), ‘<i>London +voluntaries</i>.’ <i>If I have said nothing +since</i>, <i>it is that I have nothing to say which is not</i>, +<i>as yet</i>, <i>too personal—too personal and too a +afflicting—for utterance</i>.</p> +<p><i>For the matter of my book</i>, <i>it is there to speak for +itself</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>Here’s a sigh to those who love +me</i><br /> +<i>And a smile to those who hate</i>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>I refer to it for the simple pleasure of reflecting that it +has made me many friends and some enemies</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>W. E. H.</i></p> +<p><i>Muswell Hill</i>, 4<i>th</i> <i>September</i> 1897.</p> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">IN HOSPITAL</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Enter Patient</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Waiting</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Interior</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page5">5</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Before</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Operation</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>After</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Vigil</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Staff-Nurse: Old Style</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Lady Probationer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Staff-Nurse: New Style</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Clinical</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Etching</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Casualty</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Ave, Caeser!</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>‘The Chief’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>House-Surgeon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Interlude</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Children: Private Ward</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Srcubber</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Visitor</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Pastoral</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Music</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagex"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. x</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Suicide</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Apparition</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Anterotics</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Nocturn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Discharged</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Envoy</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Song of the +Sword</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Arabian Nights’ +Entertainments</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: +center">BRIC-À-BRAC</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade of the Toyokuni Colour-Print</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade of Youth and Age</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade of Midsummer Days and Nights</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade of Dead Actors</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade Made in the Hot Weather</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Ballade of Truisms</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Double Ballade of Life and Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Double Ballade of the Nothingness of +Things</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>At Queensferry</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Orientale</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>In Fisherrow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Back-View</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><i>Croquis</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Attadale, West Highlands</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>From a Window in Princes Street</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>In the Dials</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>The gods are dead</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Let us be drunk</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>When you are old</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>Beside the idle summer sea</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>The ways of Death are soothing and serene</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>We shall surely die</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>What is to come</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">ECHOES</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>To my mother</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Life is bitter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>O, gather me the rose</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Out of the night that covers me</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>I am the Reaper</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Praise the generous gods</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Fill a glass with golden wine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>We’ll go no more a-roving</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Madam Life’s a piece in bloom</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The sea is full of wandering foam</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Thick is the darkness</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>To me at my fifth-floor window</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Bring her again, O western wind</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The wan sun westers, faint and slow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>There is a wheel inside my head</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>While the west is paling</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The sands are alive with sunshine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The nightingale has a lyre of gold</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page136">136</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Your heart has trembled to my tongue</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The surges gushed and sounded</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>We flash across the level</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The West a glimmering lake of light</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The skies are strown with stars</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page142">142</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The full sea rolls and thunders</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>In the year that’s come and gone</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>In the placid summer midnight</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>She sauntered by the swinging seas</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page148">148</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagexii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xii</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Blithe dreams arise to greet us</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>A child</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Kate-A-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>O, have you blessed, behind the stars</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page155">155</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>O, Falmouth is a fine town</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The ways are green</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Life in her creaking shoes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>A late lark twitters from the quiet skies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>I gave my heart to a woman</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Or ever the knightly years were gone</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>On the way to Kew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The past was goodly once</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XL.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The spring, my dear</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The Spirit of Wine</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page170">170</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>A Wink from Hesper</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Friends. . . old friends</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>If it should come to be</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>From the brake the Nightingale</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>In the waste hour</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page178">178</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XLVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Crosses and troubles</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">LONDON +VOLUNTARIES</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Grave</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Andante con Moto</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Scherzando</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Largo e Mesto</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Allegro Maëstoso</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page200">200</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">RHYMES AND +RHYTHMS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Prologue</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>We are the Choice of the Will</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page211">211</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagexiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiii</span><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>A desolate shore</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page214">214</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>It came with the threat of a waning moon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page216">216</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Why, my heart, do we love her so?</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>One with the ruined sunset</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>There’s a regret</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Time and the Earth</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>As like the Woman as you can</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Midsummer midnight skies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Gulls in an aery morrice</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Some starlit garden grey with dew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Under a stagnant sky</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Fresh from his fastnesses</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>You played and sang a snatch of song</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Space and dread and the dark</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>When you wake in your crib</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page239">239</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>O, Time and Change</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page242">242</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The shadow of Dawn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page243">243</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>When the wind storms by with a shout</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page244">244</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Trees and the menace of night</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Here they trysted, here they strayed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page247">247</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Not to the staring Day</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page249">249</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>What have I done for you</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Epilogue</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page256">256</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>IN +HOSPITAL</h2> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span><i>On ne +saurait dire à quel point un homme</i>, <i>seul dans +son</i><br /> +<i>lit et malade</i>, <i>devient personnel</i>.—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Balzac</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span><span +class="GutSmall">I</span><br /> +ENTER PATIENT</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> morning mists +still haunt the stony street;<br /> +The northern summer air is shrill and cold;<br /> +And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,<br /> +Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.<br /> +Thro’ the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom<br /> +A small, strange child—so agèd yet so +young!—<br /> +Her little arm besplinted and beslung,<br /> +Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.<br /> +I limp behind, my confidence all gone.<br /> +The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,<br /> +And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:<br /> +A tragic meanness seems so to environ<br /> +These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,<br /> +Cold, naked, clean—half-workhouse and half-jail.</p> +<h3><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span><span +class="GutSmall">II</span><br /> +WAITING</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">square</span>, squat room +(a cellar on promotion),<br /> + Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;<br /> + Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;<br /> + Scissors and lint and apothecary’s jars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe +from,<br /> + Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:<br /> + Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,<br /> + While at their ease two dressers do their +chores.</p> +<p class="poetry">One has a probe—it feels to me a +crowbar.<br /> + A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.<br +/> + A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers.<br /> + Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.</p> +<h3><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span><span +class="GutSmall">III</span><br /> +INTERIOR</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> gaunt brown walls<br /> +Look infinite in their decent meanness.<br /> +There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,<br /> + The fulsome fire.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The +atmosphere<br /> +Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.<br /> +Dressings and lint on the long, lean table—<br /> + Whom are they for?</p> +<p class="poetry"> The +patients yawn,<br /> +Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.<br /> +A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.<br /> + It’s grim and strange.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Far +footfalls clank.<br /> +The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.<br /> +My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .<br /> + O, a gruesome world!</p> +<h3><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span><span +class="GutSmall">IV</span><br /> +BEFORE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Behold</span> me +waiting—waiting for the knife.<br /> +A little while, and at a leap I storm<br /> +The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,<br /> +The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.<br /> +The gods are good to me: I have no wife,<br /> +No innocent child, to think of as I near<br /> +The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear<br /> +Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.<br /> +Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick,<br /> +And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:<br /> +My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.<br /> +Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready.<br /> +But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:<br /> +You carry Cæsar and his fortunes—steady!</p> +<h3><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span><span +class="GutSmall">V</span><br /> +OPERATION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> are carried in a +basket,<br /> + Like a carcase from the shambles,<br /> + To the theatre, a cockpit<br /> + Where they stretch you on a table.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then they bid you close your eyelids,<br /> + And they mask you with a napkin,<br /> + And the anæsthetic reaches<br /> + Hot and subtle through your being.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you gasp and reel and shudder<br /> + In a rushing, swaying rapture,<br /> + While the voices at your elbow<br /> + Fade—receding—fainter—farther.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lights about you shower and tumble,<br /> + And your blood seems crystallising—<br /> + Edged and vibrant, yet within you<br /> + Racked and hurried back and forward.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Then the lights grow fast and furious,<br /> + And you hear a noise of waters,<br /> + And you wrestle, blind and dizzy,<br /> + In an agony of effort,</p> +<p class="poetry">Till a sudden lull accepts you,<br /> + And you sound an utter darkness . . .<br /> + And awaken . . . with a struggle . . .<br /> + On a hushed, attentive audience.</p> +<h3><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span><span +class="GutSmall">VI</span><br /> +AFTER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Like</span> as a flamelet +blanketed in smoke,<br /> +So through the anæsthetic shows my life;<br /> +So flashes and so fades my thought, at strife<br /> +With the strong stupor that I heave and choke<br /> +And sicken at, it is so foully sweet.<br /> +Faces look strange from space—and disappear.<br /> +Far voices, sudden loud, offend my ear—<br /> +And hush as sudden. Then my senses fleet:<br /> +All were a blank, save for this dull, new pain<br /> +That grinds my leg and foot; and brokenly<br /> +Time and the place glimpse on to me again;<br /> +And, unsurprised, out of uncertainty,<br /> +I wake—relapsing—somewhat faint and fain,<br /> +To an immense, complacent dreamery.</p> +<h3><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span><span +class="GutSmall">VII</span><br /> +VIGIL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lived</span> on one’s +back, <br /> +In the long hours of repose,<br /> +Life is a practical nightmare—<br /> +Hideous asleep or awake.</p> +<p class="poetry">Shoulders and loins<br /> +Ache - - - !<br /> +Ache, and the mattress,<br /> +Run into boulders and hummocks,<br /> +Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes—<br /> +Tumbling, importunate, daft—<br /> +Ramble and roll, and the gas,<br /> +Screwed to its lowermost,<br /> +An inevitable atom of light,<br /> +Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper<br /> +Snores me to hate and despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">All the old time<br /> +Surges malignant before me;<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>Old +voices, old kisses, old songs<br /> +Blossom derisive about me;<br /> +While the new days<br /> +Pass me in endless procession:<br /> +A pageant of shadows<br /> +Silently, leeringly wending<br /> +On . . . and still on . . . still on!</p> +<p class="poetry">Far in the stillness a cat<br /> +Languishes loudly. A cinder<br /> +Falls, and the shadows<br /> +Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me<br /> +Turns with a moan; and the snorer,<br /> +The drug like a rope at his throat,<br /> +Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse,<br /> +Noiseless and strange,<br /> +Her bull’s eye half-lanterned in apron,<br /> +(Whispering me, ‘Are ye no sleepin’ yet?’),<br +/> +Passes, list-slippered and peering,<br /> +Round . . . and is gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleep comes at last—<br /> +Sleep full of dreams and misgivings—<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>Broken +with brutal and sordid<br /> +Voices and sounds that impose on me,<br /> +Ere I can wake to it,<br /> +The unnatural, intolerable day.</p> +<h3><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span><span +class="GutSmall">VIII</span><br /> +STAFF-NURSE: OLD STYLE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> greater masters +of the commonplace,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Rembrandt</span> and good <span +class="smcap">Sir Walter</span>—only these<br /> +Could paint her all to you: experienced ease<br /> +And antique liveliness and ponderous grace;<br /> +The sweet old roses of her sunken face;<br /> +The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes;<br /> +The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;<br /> +The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace.<br /> +These thirty years has she been nursing here,<br /> +Some of them under <span class="smcap">Syme</span>, her hero +still.<br /> +Much is she worth, and even more is made of her.<br /> +Patients and students hold her very dear.<br /> +The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill.<br /> +They say ‘The Chief’ himself is half-afraid of +her.</p> +<h3><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span><span +class="GutSmall">IX</span><br /> +LADY-PROBATIONER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> three, or five, +or seven, and thirty years;<br /> +A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin;<br /> +Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin,<br /> +Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears;<br /> +A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand,<br /> +Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring;<br /> +A bashful air, becoming everything;<br /> +A well-bred silence always at command.<br /> +Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain<br /> +Look out of place on her, and I remain<br /> +Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery.<br /> +Quick, skilful, quiet, soft in speech and touch . . .<br /> +‘Do you like nursing?’ ‘Yes, Sir, very +much.’<br /> +Somehow, I rather think she has a history.</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span><span +class="GutSmall">X</span><br /> +STAFF-NURSE: NEW STYLE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Blue-eyed</span> and bright +of face but waning fast<br /> +Into the sere of virginal decay,<br /> +I view her as she enters, day by day,<br /> +As a sweet sunset almost overpast.<br /> +Kindly and calm, patrician to the last,<br /> +Superbly falls her gown of sober gray,<br /> +And on her chignon’s elegant array<br /> +The plainest cap is somehow touched with caste.<br /> +She talks <span class="smcap">Beethoven</span>; frowns +disapprobation<br /> +At <span class="smcap">Balzac’s</span> name, sighs it at +‘poor <span class="smcap">George +Sand’s</span>’;<br /> +Knows that she has exceeding pretty hands;<br /> +Speaks Latin with a right accentuation;<br /> +And gives at need (as one who understands)<br /> +Draught, counsel, diagnosis, exhortation.</p> +<h3><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span><span +class="GutSmall">XI</span><br /> +CLINICAL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hist</span>? . . .<br /> +Through the corridor’s echoes,<br /> +Louder and nearer<br /> +Comes a great shuffling of feet.<br /> +Quick, every one of you,<br /> +Strighten your quilts, and be decent!<br /> +Here’s the Professor.</p> +<p class="poetry">In he comes first<br /> +With the bright look we know,<br /> +From the broad, white brows the kind eyes<br /> +Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow,<br /> +White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,<br /> +Towel on arm and her inkstand<br /> +Fretful with quills.<br /> +Here in the ruck, anyhow,<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>Surging +along,<br /> +Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs—<br /> +Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles—<br /> +Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves<br /> +Round the first bed, where the Chief<br /> +(His dressers and clerks at attention),<br /> +Bends in inspection already.</p> +<p class="poetry">So shows the ring<br /> +Seen from behind round a conjurer<br /> +Doing his pitch in the street.<br /> +High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,<br +/> +Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;<br /> +While from within a voice,<br /> +Gravely and weightily fluent,<br /> +Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly<br /> +(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)<br /> +Out of a quiver of silence,<br /> +Over the hiss of the spray,<br /> +Comes a low cry, and the sound<br /> +Of breath quick intaken through teeth<br /> +Clenched in resolve. And the Master<br /> +Breaks from the crowd, and goes,<br /> +Wiping his hands,<br /> +<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>To the +next bed, with his pupils<br /> +Flocking and whispering behind him.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now one can see.<br /> +Case Number One<br /> +Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes<br /> +Stripped up, and showing his foot<br /> +(Alas for God’s Image!)<br /> +Swaddled in wet, white lint<br /> +Brilliantly hideous with red.</p> +<h3><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span><span +class="GutSmall">XII</span><br /> +ETCHING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Two</span> and thirty is +the ploughman.<br /> +He’s a man of gallant inches,<br /> +And his hair is close and curly,<br /> + And his beard;<br /> +But his face is wan and sunken,<br /> +And his eyes are large and brilliant,<br /> +And his shoulder-blades are sharp,<br /> + And his knees.</p> +<p class="poetry">He is weak of wits, religious,<br /> +Full of sentiment and yearning,<br /> +Gentle, faded—with a cough<br /> + And a snore.<br /> +When his wife (who was a widow,<br /> +And is many years his elder)<br /> +Fails to write, and that is always,<br /> + He desponds.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>Let his melancholy wander,<br /> +And he’ll tell you pretty stories<br /> +Of the women that have wooed him<br /> + Long ago;<br /> +Or he’ll sing of bonnie lasses<br /> +Keeping sheep among the heather,<br /> +With a crackling, hackling click<br /> + In his voice.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIII</span><br /> +CASUALTY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> with varnish red +and glistening<br /> + Dripped his hair; his feet looked rigid;<br /> + Raised, he settled stiffly sideways:<br /> + You could see his hurts were spinal.</p> +<p class="poetry">He had fallen from an engine,<br /> + And been dragged along the metals.<br /> + It was hopeless, and they knew it;<br /> + So they covered him, and left him.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he lay, by fits half sentient,<br /> + Inarticulately moaning,<br /> + With his stockinged soles protruded<br /> + Stark and awkward from the blankets,</p> +<p class="poetry">To his bed there came a woman,<br /> + Stood and looked and sighed a little,<br /> + And departed without speaking,<br /> + As himself a few hours after.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>I was told it was his sweetheart.<br /> + They were on the eve of marriage.<br /> + She was quiet as a statue,<br /> + But her lip was grey and writhen.</p> +<h3><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIV</span><br /> +AVE CAESER!</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> the +winter’s grey despair,<br /> +From the summer’s golden languor,<br /> +Death, the lover of Life,<br /> +Frees us for ever.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inevitable, silent, unseen,<br /> +Everywhere always,<br /> +Shadow by night and as light in the day,<br /> +Signs she at last to her chosen;<br /> +And, as she waves them forth,<br /> +Sorrow and Joy<br /> +Lay by their looks and their voices,<br /> +Set down their hopes, and are made<br /> +One in the dim Forever.</p> +<p class="poetry">Into the winter’s grey delight,<br /> +Into the summer’s golden dream,<br /> +Holy and high and impartial,<br /> +Death, the mother of Life,<br /> +Mingles all men for ever.</p> +<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span><span +class="GutSmall">XV</span><br /> +‘THE CHIEF’</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">His</span> brow spreads +large and placid, and his eye<br /> +Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still.<br /> +Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill—<br /> +His face at once benign and proud and shy.<br /> +If envy scout, if ignorance deny,<br /> +His faultless patience, his unyielding will,<br /> +Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill,<br /> +Innumerable gratitudes reply.<br /> +His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties,<br /> +And seems in all his patients to compel<br /> +Such love and faith as failure cannot quell.<br /> +We hold him for another Herakles,<br /> +Battling with custom, prejudice, disease,<br /> +As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell.</p> +<h3><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVI</span><br /> +HOUSE-SURGEON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Exceeding</span> tall, but +built so well his height<br /> +Half-disappears in flow of chest and limb;<br /> +Moustache and whisker trooper-like in trim;<br /> +Frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hearted; always bright<br /> +And always punctual—morning, noon, and night;<br /> +Bland as a Jesuit, sober as a hymn;<br /> +Humorous, and yet without a touch of whim;<br /> +Gentle and amiable, yet full of fight.<br /> +His piety, though fresh and true in strain,<br /> +Has not yet whitewashed up his common mood<br /> +To the dead blank of his particular Schism.<br /> +Sweet, unaggressive, tolerant, most humane,<br /> +Wild artists like his kindly elderhood,<br /> +And cultivate his mild Philistinism.</p> +<h3><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVII</span><br /> +INTERLUDE</h3> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">the</span> fun, the fun +and frolic<br /> + That <i>The Wind that Shakes the Barley</i><br /> + Scatters through a penny-whistle<br /> + Tickled with artistic fingers!</p> +<p class="poetry">Kate the scrubber (forty summers,<br /> + Stout but sportive) treads a measure,<br /> + Grinning, in herself a ballet,<br /> + Fixed as fate upon her audience.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;<br /> + Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;<br /> + And a head all helmed with plasters<br /> + Wags a measured approbation.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of their mattress-life oblivious,<br /> + All the patients, brisk and cheerful,<br /> + Are encouraging the dancer,<br /> + And applauding the musician.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>Dim the gas-lights in the output<br /> + Of so many ardent smokers,<br /> + Full of shadow lurch the corners,<br /> + And the doctor peeps and passes.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are, maybe, some suspicions<br /> + Of an alcoholic presence . . .<br /> + ‘Tak’ a sup of this, my wumman!’ . +. .<br /> + New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.</p> +<h3><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII</span><br /> +CHILDREN: PRIVATE WARD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> in this dim, +dull, double-bedded room,<br /> +I play the father to a brace of boys,<br /> +Ailing but apt for every sort of noise,<br /> +Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom.<br /> +Roden, the Irishman, is ‘sieven past,’<br /> +Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face.<br /> +Willie’s but six, and seems to like the place,<br /> +A cheerful little collier to the last.<br /> +They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day;<br /> +All night they sleep like dormice. See them play<br /> +At Operations:—Roden, the Professor,<br /> +Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties;<br /> +Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes,<br /> +Holding the limb and moaning—Case and Dresser.</p> +<h3><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIX</span><br /> +SCRUBBER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She’s</span> tall and +gaunt, and in her hard, sad face<br /> +With flashes of the old fun’s animation<br /> +There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation<br /> +Bred of a past where troubles came apace.<br /> +She tells me that her husband, ere he died,<br /> +Saw seven of their children pass away,<br /> +And never knew the little lass at play<br /> +Out on the green, in whom he’s deified.<br /> +Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone,<br /> +All simple faith her honest Irish mind,<br /> +Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on:<br /> +Telling her dreams, taking her patients’ part,<br /> +Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find<br /> +No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.</p> +<h3><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span><span +class="GutSmall">XX</span><br /> +VISITOR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Her</span> little face is +like a walnut shell<br /> +With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns<br /> +Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns;<br /> +And all about her clings an old, sweet smell.<br /> +Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl.<br /> +Well might her bonnets have been born on her.<br /> +Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother<br /> +The subject of a strong religious call?<br /> +In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs,<br /> +All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales,<br /> +Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray,<br /> +Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns:<br /> +A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom’s way,<br /> +Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.</p> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXI</span><br /> +ROMANCE</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Talk</span> of +pluck!’ pursued the Sailor,<br /> + Set at euchre on his elbow,<br /> + ‘I was on the wharf at Charleston,<br /> + Just ashore from off the runner.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It was grey and dirty weather,<br /> + And I heard a drum go rolling,<br /> + Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,<br /> + Awful dour-like and defiant.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘In and out among the cotton,<br /> + Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,<br /> + Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows—<br /> + Poor old Dixie’s bottom dollar!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Some had shoes, but all had rifles,<br +/> + Them that wasn’t bald was beardless,<br /> + And the drum was rolling <i>Dixie</i>,<br /> + And they stepped to it like men, sir!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>‘Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,<br /> + On they swung, the drum a-rolling,<br /> + Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,<br /> + And they meant it too, by thunder!’</p> +<h3><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXII</span><br /> +PASTORAL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> the +Spring.<br /> +Earth has conceived, and her bosom,<br /> +Teeming with summer, is glad.</p> +<p class="poetry">Vistas of change and adventure,<br /> +Thro’ the green land<br /> +The grey roads go beckoning and winding,<br /> +Peopled with wains, and melodious<br /> +With harness-bells jangling:<br /> +Jangling and twangling rough rhythms<br /> +To the slow march of the stately, great horses<br /> +Whistled and shouted along.</p> +<p class="poetry">White fleets of cloud,<br /> +Argosies heavy with fruitfulness,<br /> +Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows.<br /> +Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds<br /> +Sway the tall poplars.<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>Pageants +of colour and fragrance,<br /> +Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless<br /> +Walks the mild spirit of May,<br /> +Visibly blessing the world.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards!<br /> +O, the savour and thrill of the woods,<br /> +When their leafage is stirred<br /> +By the flight of the Angel of Rain!<br /> +Loud lows the steer; in the fallows<br /> +Rooks are alert; and the brooks<br /> +Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro’ the gloamings,<br +/> +Under the rare, shy stars,<br /> +Boy and girl wander,<br /> +Dreaming in darkness and dew.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s the Spring.<br /> +A sprightliness feeble and squalid<br /> +Wakes in the ward, and I sicken,<br /> +Impotent, winter at heart.</p> +<h3><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII</span><br /> +MUSIC</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> the quiet +eve,<br /> +Thro’ my window with the sunset<br /> +Pipes to me a distant organ<br /> +Foolish ditties;</p> +<p class="poetry">And, as when you change<br /> +Pictures in a magic lantern,<br /> +Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling<br /> +Fade and vanish,</p> +<p class="poetry">And I’m well once more . . .<br /> +August flares adust and torrid,<br /> +But my heart is full of April<br /> +Sap and sweetness.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the quiet eve<br /> +I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . .<br /> +Dreaming, and a distant organ<br /> +Pipes me ditties.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>I can see the shop,<br /> +I can smell the sprinkled pavement,<br /> +Where she serves—her chestnut chignon<br /> +Thrills my senses!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, the sight and scent,<br /> +Wistful eve and perfumed pavement!<br /> +In the distance pipes an organ . . .<br /> +The sensation</p> +<p class="poetry">Comes to me anew, <br /> +And my spirit for a moment<br /> +Thro’ the music breathes the blessèd<br /> +Airs of London.</p> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV</span><br /> +SUICIDE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Staring</span> corpselike +at the ceiling,<br /> + See his harsh, unrazored features,<br /> + Ghastly brown against the pillow,<br /> + And his throat—so strangely bandaged!</p> +<p class="poetry">Lack of work and lack of victuals,<br /> + A debauch of smuggled whisky,<br /> + And his children in the workhouse<br /> + Made the world so black a riddle</p> +<p class="poetry">That he plunged for a solution;<br /> + And, although his knife was edgeless,<br /> + He was sinking fast towards one,<br /> + When they came, and found, and saved him.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stupid now with shame and sorrow,<br /> + In the night I hear him sobbing.<br /> + But sometimes he talks a little.<br /> + He has told me all his troubles.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,<br /> + White and wild his eyeballs glisten;<br /> + And his smile, occult and tragic,<br /> + Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!</p> +<h3><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXV</span><br /> +APPARITION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thin-legged</span>, +thin-chested, slight unspeakably,<br /> +Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face—<br /> +Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race,<br /> +Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea,<br /> +The brown eyes radiant with vivacity—<br /> +There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,<br /> +A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace<br /> +Of passion and impudence and energy.<br /> +Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,<br /> +Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,<br /> +Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist:<br /> +A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,<br /> +Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,<br /> +And something of the Shorter-Catechist.</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVI</span><br /> +ANTEROTICS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Laughs</span> the happy +April morn<br /> + Thro’ my grimy, little window,<br /> + And a shaft of sunshine pushes<br /> + Thro’ the shadows in the square.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dogs are tracing thro’ the grass,<br /> + Crows are cawing round the chimneys,<br /> + In and out among the washing<br /> + Goes the West at hide-and-seek.</p> +<p class="poetry">Loud and cheerful clangs the bell.<br /> + Here the nurses troop to breakfast.<br /> + Handsome, ugly, all are women . . .<br /> + O, the Spring—the Spring—the Spring!</p> +<h3><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVII</span><br /> +NOCTURN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> the barren heart +of midnight,<br /> + When the shadow shuts and opens<br /> + As the loud flames pulse and flutter,<br /> + I can hear a cistern leaking.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm,<br /> + Rough, unequal, half-melodious,<br /> + Like the measures aped from nature<br /> + In the infancy of music;</p> +<p class="poetry">Like the buzzing of an insect,<br /> + Still, irrational, persistent . . .<br /> + I must listen, listen, listen<br /> + In a passion of attention;</p> +<p class="poetry">Till it taps upon my heartstrings,<br /> + And my very life goes dripping,<br /> + Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,<br /> + In the drip-drop of the cistern.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span><span +class="GutSmall">XXVIII</span><br /> +DISCHARGED</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Carry</span> me out<br /> +Into the wind and the sunshine,<br /> +Into the beautiful world.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, the wonder, the spell of the streets!<br /> +The stature and strength of the horses,<br /> +The rustle and echo of footfalls,<br /> +The flat roar and rattle of wheels!<br /> +A swift tram floats huge on us . . .<br /> +It’s a dream?<br /> +The smell of the mud in my nostrils<br /> +Blows brave—like a breath of the sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">As of old,<br /> +Ambulant, undulant drapery,<br /> +Vaguery and strangely provocative,<br /> +Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder—<br /> +Is it?—the gleam of a stocking!<br /> +Sudden, a spire<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>Wedged in +the mist! O, the houses,<br /> +The long lines of lofty, grey houses,<br /> +Cross-hatched with shadow and light!<br /> +These are the streets . . .<br /> +Each is an avenue leading<br /> +Whither I will!</p> +<p class="poetry">Free . . . !<br /> +Dizzy, hysterical, faint,<br /> +I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me<br /> +Into the wonderful world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Old Infirmary</span>, <span +class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>, 1873–75</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>ENVOY<br /> +<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Charles Baxter</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Do</span> you remember<br +/> +That afternoon—that Sunday afternoon!—<br /> +When, as the kirks were ringing in,<br /> +And the grey city teemed<br /> +With Sabbath feelings and aspects,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Lewis</span>—our <span +class="smcap">Lewis</span> then,<br /> +Now the whole world’s—and you,<br /> +Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,<br /> +Laden with <span class="smcap">Balzacs</span><br /> +(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),<br /> +The first of many times<br /> +To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay<br /> +So long, so many centuries—<br /> +Or years is it!—ago?</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear <span class="smcap">Charles</span>, since +then<br /> +We have been friends, <span class="smcap">Lewis</span> and you +and I,<br /> +(How good it sounds, ‘<span class="smcap">Lewis</span> and +you and I!’):<br /> +Such friends, I like to think,<br /> +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>That in us +three, <span class="smcap">Lewis</span> and me and you,<br /> +Is something of that gallant dream<br /> +Which old <span class="smcap">Dumas</span>—the generous, +the humane,<br /> +The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven!—<br /> +Dreamed for a blessing to the race,<br /> +The immortal <i>Musketeers</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our <span class="smcap">Athos</span> +rests—the wise, the kind,<br /> +The liberal and august, his fault atoned,<br /> +Rests in the crowded yard<br /> +There at the west of Princes Street. We three—<br /> +You, I, and <span class="smcap">Lewis</span>!—still +afoot,<br /> +Are still together, and our lives,<br /> +In chime so long, may keep<br /> +(God bless the thought!)<br /> +Unjangled till the end.</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry">W. E. H.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Chiswick</span>, <i>March</i> 1888</p> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>THE +SONG<br /> +OF THE SWORD</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>To</i> Rudyard Kipling)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1890</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span><i>The Sword</i><br /> +<i>Singing</i>—<br /> +<i>The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword</i><br /> +<i>Clanging imperious</i><br /> +<i>Forth from Time’s battlements</i><br /> +<i>His ancient and triumphing Song</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the beginning,<br /> +Ere God inspired Himself<br /> +Into the clay thing<br /> +Thumbed to His image,<br /> +The vacant, the naked shell<br /> +Soon to be Man:<br /> +Thoughtful He pondered it,<br /> +Prone there and impotent,<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>Fragile, +inviting<br /> +Attack and discomfiture;<br /> +Then, with a smile—<br /> +As He heard in the Thunder<br /> +That laughed over Eden<br /> +The voice of the Trumpet,<br /> +The iron Beneficence,<br /> +Calling his dooms<br /> +To the Winds of the world—<br /> +Stooping, He drew<br /> +On the sand with His finger<br /> +A shape for a sign<br /> +Of his way to the eyes<br /> +That in wonder should waken,<br /> +For a proof of His will<br /> +To the breaking intelligence.<br /> +That was the birth of me:<br /> +I am the Sword.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bleak and lean, grey and cruel,<br /> +Short-hilted, long shafted,<br /> +I froze into steel;<br /> +And the blood of my elder,<br /> +His hand on the hafts of me,<br /> +Sprang like a wave<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>In the +wind, as the sense<br /> +Of his strength grew to ecstasy;<br /> +Glowed like a coal<br /> +In the throat of the furnace;<br /> +As he knew me and named me<br /> +The War-Thing, the Comrade,<br /> +Father of honour<br /> +And giver of kingship,<br /> +The fame-smith, the song-master,<br /> +Bringer of women<br /> +On fire at his hands<br /> +For the pride of fulfilment,<br /> +<i>Priest</i> (saith the Lord)<br /> +<i>Of his marriage with victory</i><br /> +Ho! then, the Trumpet,<br /> +Handmaid of heroes,<br /> +Calling the peers<br /> +To the place of espousals!<br /> +Ho! then, the splendour<br /> +And glare of my ministry,<br /> +Clothing the earth<br /> +With a livery of lightnings!<br /> +Ho! then, the music<br /> +Of battles in onset,<br /> +And ruining armours,<br /> +<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>And +God’s gift returning<br /> +In fury to God!<br /> +Thrilling and keen<br /> +As the song of the winter stars,<br /> +Ho! then, the sound<br /> +Of my voice, the implacable<br /> +Angel of Destiny!—<br /> +I am the Sword.</p> +<p class="poetry">Heroes, my children,<br /> +Follow, O, follow me!<br /> +Follow, exulting<br /> +In the great light that breaks<br /> +From the sacred Companionship!<br /> +Thrust through the fatuous,<br /> +Thrust through the fungous brood,<br /> +Spawned in my shadow<br /> +And gross with my gift!<br /> +Thrust through, and hearken<br /> +O, hark, to the Trumpet,<br /> +The Virgin of Battles,<br /> +Calling, still calling you<br /> +Into the Presence,<br /> +Sons of the Judgment,<br /> +Pure wafts of the Will!<br /> +<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>Edged to +annihilate,<br /> +Hilted with government,<br /> +Follow, O, follow me,<br /> +Till the waste places<br /> +All the grey globe over<br /> +Ooze, as the honeycomb<br /> +Drips, with the sweetness<br /> +Distilled of my strength,<br /> +And, teeming in peace<br /> +Through the wrath of my coming,<br /> +They give back in beauty<br /> +The dread and the anguish<br /> +They had of me visitant!<br /> +Follow, O follow, then,<br /> +Heroes, my harvesters!<br /> +Where the tall grain is ripe<br /> +Thrust in your sickles!<br /> +Stripped and adust<br /> +In a stubble of empire,<br /> +Scything and binding<br /> +The full sheaves of sovranty:<br /> +Thus, O, thus gloriously,<br /> +Shall you fulfil yourselves!<br /> +Thus, O, thus mightily,<br /> +Show yourselves sons of mine—<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Yea, and +win grace of me:<br /> +I am the Sword!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am the feast-maker:<br /> +Hark, through a noise<br /> +Of the screaming of eagles,<br /> +Hark how the Trumpet,<br /> +The mistress of mistresses,<br /> +Calls, silver-throated<br /> +And stern, where the tables<br /> +Are spread, and the meal<br /> +Of the Lord is in hand!<br /> +Driving the darkness,<br /> +Even as the banners<br /> +And spears of the Morning;<br /> +Sifting the nations,<br /> +The slag from the metal,<br /> +The waste and the weak<br /> +From the fit and the strong;<br /> +Fighting the brute,<br /> +The abysmal Fecundity;<br /> +Checking the gross,<br /> +Multitudinous blunders,<br /> +The groping, the purblind<br /> +<a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>Excesses +in service<br /> +Of the Womb universal,<br /> +The absolute drudge;<br /> +Firing the charactry<br /> +Carved on the World,<br /> +The miraculous gem<br /> +In the seal-ring that burns<br /> +On the hand of the Master—<br /> +Yea! and authority<br /> +Flames through the dim,<br /> +Unappeasable Grisliness<br /> +Prone down the nethermost<br /> +Chasms of the Void!—<br /> +Clear singing, clean slicing;<br /> +Sweet spoken, soft finishing;<br /> +Making death beautiful,<br /> +Life but a coin<br /> +To be staked in the pastime<br /> +Whose playing is more<br /> +Than the transfer of being;<br /> +Arch-anarch, chief builder,<br /> +Prince and evangelist,<br /> +I am the Will of God:<br /> +I am the Sword.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span><i>The Sword</i><br /> +<i>Singing</i>—<br /> +<i>The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword</i><br /> +<i>Clanging majestical</i>,<br /> +<i>As from the starry-staired</i><br /> +<i>Courts of the primal Supremacy</i>,<br /> +<i>His high</i>, <i>irresistible song</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>ARABIAN NIGHTS’<br /> +ENTERTAINMENTS</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>To</i> Elizabeth Robins +Pennell)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1893</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>‘O mes +chères <i>Mille et Une +Nuits</i>!’—<i>Fantasio</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Once</span> on a time<br /> +There was a little boy: a master-mage<br /> +By virtue of a Book<br /> +Of magic—O, so magical it filled<br /> +His life with visionary pomps<br /> +Processional! And Powers<br /> +Passed with him where he passed. And Thrones<br /> +And Dominations, glaived and plumed and mailed,<br /> +Thronged in the criss-cross streets,<br /> +The palaces pell-mell with playing-fields,<br /> +Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades,<br /> +Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul<br /> +Pavilioned jealously, and hid<br /> +As in the dusk, profound,<br /> +Green stillnesses of some enchanted mere.—</p> +<p class="poetry">I shut mine eyes . . . And lo!<br /> +A flickering snatch of memory that floats<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>Upon the +face of a pool of darkness five<br /> +And thirty dead years deep,<br /> +Antic in girlish broideries<br /> +And skirts and silly shoes with straps<br /> +And a broad-ribanded leghorn, he walks<br /> +Plain in the shadow of a church<br /> +(St. Michael’s: in whose brazen call<br /> +To curfew his first wails of wrath were whelmed),<br /> +Sedate for all his haste<br /> +To be at home; and, nestled in his arm,<br /> +Inciting still to quiet and solitude,<br /> +Boarded in sober drab,<br /> +With small, square, agitating cuts<br /> +Let in a-top of the double-columned, close,<br /> +Quakerlike print, a Book! . . .<br /> +What but that blessed brief<br /> +Of what is gallantest and best<br /> +In all the full-shelved Libraries of Romance?<br /> +The Book of rocs,<br /> +Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris,<br /> +Cream-tarts, and lettered apes, and calendars,<br /> +And ghouls, and genies—O, so huge<br /> +They might have overed the tall Minster Tower<br /> +Hands down, as schoolboys take a post!<br /> +In truth, the Book of Camaralzaman,<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade<br /> +The peerless, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour,<br /> +Cairo and Serendib and Candahar,<br /> +And Caspian, and the dim, terrific bulk—<br /> +Ice-ribbed, fiend-visited, isled in spells and storms—<br +/> +Of Kaf! . . . That centre of miracles,<br /> +The sole, unparalleled Arabian Nights!</p> +<p class="poetry">Old friends I had a-many—kindly and +grim<br /> +Familiars, cronies quaint<br /> +And goblin! Never a Wood but housed<br /> +Some morrice of dainty dapperlings. No Brook<br /> +But had his nunnery<br /> +Of green-haired, silvry-curving sprites,<br /> +To cabin in his grots, and pace<br /> +His lilied margents. Every lone Hillside<br /> +Might open upon Elf-Land. Every Stalk<br /> +That curled about a Bean-stick was of the breed<br /> +Of that live ladder by whose delicate rungs<br /> +You climbed beyond the clouds, and found<br /> +The Farm-House where the Ogre, gorged<br /> +And drowsy, from his great oak chair,<br /> +Among the flitches and pewters at the fire,<br /> +Called for his Faëry Harp. And in it flew,<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>And, +perching on the kitchen table, sang<br /> +Jocund and jubilant, with a sound<br /> +Of those gay, golden-vowered madrigals<br /> +The shy thrush at mid-May<br /> +Flutes from wet orchards flushed with the triumphing dawn;<br /> +Or blackbirds rioting as they listened still,<br /> +In old-world woodlands rapt with an old-world spring,<br /> +For Pan’s own whistle, savage and rich and lewd,<br /> +And mocked him call for call!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +could not pass<br /> +The half-door where the cobbler sat in view<br /> +Nor figure me the wizen Leprechaun,<br /> +In square-cut, faded reds and buckle-shoes,<br /> +Bent at his work in the hedge-side, and know<br /> +Just how he tapped his brogue, and twitched<br /> +His wax-end this and that way, both with wrists<br /> +And elbows. In the rich June fields,<br /> +Where the ripe clover drew the bees,<br /> +And the tall quakers trembled, and the West Wind<br /> +Lolled his half-holiday away<br /> +Beside me lolling and lounging through my own,<br /> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>’Twas good to follow the Miller’s Youngest +Son<br /> +On his white horse along the leafy lanes;<br /> +For at his stirrup linked and ran,<br /> +Not cynical and trapesing, as he loped<br /> +From wall to wall above the espaliers,<br /> +But in the bravest tops<br /> +That market-town, a town of tops, could show:<br /> +Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail<br /> +A banner flaunted in disdain<br /> +Of human stratagems and shifts:<br /> +King over All the Catlands, present and past<br /> +And future, that moustached<br /> +Artificer of fortunes, Puss-in-Boots!<br /> +Or Bluebeard’s Closet, with its plenishing<br /> +Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood,<br /> +And wives that hung like fresh-dressed carcases—<br /> +Odd-fangled, most a butcher’s, part<br /> +A faëry chamber hazily seen<br /> +And hazily figured—on dark afternoons<br /> +And windy nights was visiting of the best.<br /> +Then, too, the pelt of hoofs<br /> +Out in the roaring darkness told<br /> +Of Herne the Hunter in his antlered helm<br /> +Galloping, as with despatches from the Pit,<br /> +Between his hell-born Hounds.<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>And Rip +Van Winkle . . . often I lurked to hear,<br /> +Outside the long, low timbered, tarry wall,<br /> +The mutter and rumble of the trolling bowls<br /> +Down the lean plank, before they fluttered the pins;<br /> +For, listening, I could help him play<br /> +His wonderful game,<br /> +In those blue, booming hills, with Mariners<br /> +Refreshed from kegs not coopered in this our world.</p> +<p class="poetry">But what were these so near,<br /> +So neighbourly fancies to the spell that brought<br /> +The run of Ali Baba’s Cave<br /> +Just for the saying ‘Open Sesame,’<br /> +With gold to measure, peck by peck,<br /> +In round, brown wooden stoups<br /> +You borrowed at the chandler’s? . . . Or one time<br /> +Made you Aladdin’s friend at school,<br /> +Free of his Garden of Jewels, Ring and Lamp<br /> +In perfect trim? . . . Or Ladies, fair<br /> +For all the embrowning scars in their white breasts<br /> +Went labouring under some dread ordinance,<br /> +Which made them whip, and bitterly cry the while,<br /> +Strange Curs that cried as they,<br /> +Till there was never a Black Bitch of all<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>Your +consorting but might have gone<br /> +Spell-driven miserably for crimes<br /> +Done in the pride of womanhood and desire . . .<br /> +Or at the ghostliest altitudes of night,<br /> +While you lay wondering and acold,<br /> +Your sense was fearfully purged; and soon<br /> +Queen Labé, abominable and dear,<br /> +Rose from your side, opened the Box of Doom,<br /> +Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw<br /> +Like sulphur at the Docks in bulk),<br /> +And muttered certain words you could not hear;<br /> +And there! a living stream,<br /> +The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags<br /> +And cresses, glittered and sang<br /> +Out of the hearthrug over the nakedness,<br /> +Fair-scrubbed and decent, of your bedroom floor! . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">I was—how many a time!—<br /> +That Second Calendar, Son of a King,<br /> +On whom ’twas vehemently enjoined,<br /> +Pausing at one mysterious door,<br /> +To pry no closer, but content his soul<br /> +With his kind Forty. Yet I could not rest<br /> +For idleness and ungovernable Fate.<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>And the +Black Horse, which fed on sesame<br /> +(That wonder-working word!),<br /> +Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans,<br /> +And soaring, soaring on<br /> +From air to air, came charging to the ground<br /> +Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds,<br /> +And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled<br /> +Flicked at me with his tail,<br /> +And left me blinded, miserable, distraught<br /> +(Even as I was in deed,<br /> +When doctors came, and odious things were done<br /> +On my poor tortured eyes<br /> +With lancets; or some evil acid stung<br /> +And wrung them like hot sand,<br /> +And desperately from room to room<br /> +Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way),<br /> +To get to Bagdad how I might. But there<br /> +I met with Merry Ladies. O you three—<br /> +Safie, Amine, Zobëidé—when my heart<br /> +Forgets you all shall be forgot!<br /> +And so we supped, we and the rest,<br /> +On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates,<br /> +Almonds, pistachios, citrons. And Haroun<br /> +Laughed out of his lordly beard<br /> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>On Giaffar +and Mesrour (<i>I</i> knew the Three<br /> +For all their Mossoul habits). And outside<br /> +The Tigris, flowing swift<br /> +Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed<br /> +With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars;<br /> +The vast, blue night<br /> +Was murmurous with peris’ plumes<br /> +And the leathern wings of genies; words of power<br /> +Were whispering; and old fishermen,<br /> +Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore<br /> +Dead loveliness: or a prodigy in scales<br /> +Worth in the Caliph’s Kitchen pieces of gold:<br /> +Or copper vessels, stopped with lead,<br /> +Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed,<br /> +In durance under potent charactry<br /> +Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, as the Book was glassed<br /> +In Life as in some olden mirror’s quaint,<br /> +Bewildering angles, so would Life<br /> +Flash light on light back on the Book; and both<br /> +Were changed. Once in a house decayed<br /> +From better days, harbouring an errant show<br /> +(For all its stories of dry-rot<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>Were +filled with gruesome visitants in wax,<br /> +Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes),<br /> +I wandered; and no living soul<br /> +Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared<br /> +Upon them staring—staring. Till at last,<br /> +Three sets of rafters from the streets,<br /> +I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room,<br /> +With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene,<br /> +Guarding the door: and there, in a bedroom-set,<br /> +Behind a fence of faded crimson cords,<br /> +With an aspect of frills<br /> +And dimities and dishonoured privacy<br /> +That made you hanker and hesitate to look,<br /> +A Woman with her litter of Babes—all slain,<br /> +All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes<br /> +Staring—still staring; so that I turned and ran<br /> +As for my neck, but in the street<br /> +Took breath. The same, it seemed,<br /> +And yet not all the same, I was to find,<br /> +As I went up! For afterwards,<br /> +Whenas I went my round alone—<br /> +All day alone—in long, stern, silent streets,<br /> +Where I might stretch my hand and take<br /> +Whatever I would: still there were Shapes of Stone,<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Motionless, lifelike, frightening—for the Wrath<br +/> +Had smitten them; but they watched,<br /> +This by her melons and figs, that by his rings<br /> +And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze,<br /> +The Painted Eyes insufferable,<br /> +Now, of those grisly images; and I<br /> +Pursued my best-belovéd quest,<br /> +Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear.<br /> +So the night fell—with never a lamplighter;<br /> +And through the Palace of the King<br /> +I groped among the echoes, and I felt<br /> +That they were there,<br /> +Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes,<br /> +Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far<br /> +A Voice! And in a little while<br /> +Two tapers burning! And the Voice,<br /> +Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was—whose?<br /> +Whose but Zobëidé’s,<br /> +The lady of my heart, like me<br /> +A True Believer, and like me<br /> +An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, sailing to the Isles<br /> +Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall<br /> +A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Swiftly . +. . and grew. Tearing their beards,<br /> +The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship,<br /> +Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad,<br /> +Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman’s hand,<br /> +And, turning broadside on,<br /> +As the most iron would, was haled and sucked<br /> +Nearer, and nearer yet;<br /> +And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps<br /> +Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now<br /> +That swallowed sea and sky; and then,<br /> +Anchors and nails and bolts<br /> +Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang,<br /> +A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides<br /> +Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay,<br /> +A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal<br /> +About the waters; and her crew<br /> +Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left<br /> +To drown. All the long night I swam;<br /> +But in the morning, O, the smiling coast<br /> +Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike,<br /> +Skirted with shelving sands! And a great wave<br /> +Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive.<br /> +So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes,<br /> +And, faring inland, in a desert place<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>I stumbled +on an iron ring—<br /> +The fellow of fifty built into the Quays:<br /> +When, scenting a trap-door,<br /> +I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade<br /> +Stuck into wood. And then,<br /> +The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs,<br /> +Sunk in the naked rock! The cool, clean vault,<br /> +So neat with niche on niche it might have been<br /> +Our beer-cellar but for the rows<br /> +Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist’s jars)<br /> +Full to the wide, squat throats<br /> +With gold-dust, but a-top<br /> +A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things<br /> +I knew for olives! And far, O, far away,<br /> +The Princess of China languished! Far away<br /> +Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief<br /> +Of Eunuchs and the privilege<br /> +Of going out at night<br /> +To play—unkenned, majestical, secure—<br /> +Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped<br /> +Like Tigris shore for shore! Haply a Ghoul<br /> +Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon,<br /> +A thighbone in his fist, and glared<br /> +At supper with a Lady: she who took<br /> +Her rice with tweezers grain by grain.<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>Or you +might stumble—there by the iron gates<br /> +Of the Pump Room—underneath the limes—<br /> +Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers,<br /> +Just as the civil Genie laid him down.<br /> +Or those red-curtained panes,<br /> +Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily<br /> +Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes,<br /> +Might turn a caravansery’s, wherein<br /> +You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk,<br /> +And that fair Persian, bathed in tears,<br /> +You’d not have given away<br /> +For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous<br /> +You had that dark and disleaved afternoon<br /> +Escaped on a roc’s claw,<br /> +Disguised like Sindbad—but in Christmas beef!<br /> +And all the blissful while<br /> +The schoolboy satchel at your hip<br /> +Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze<br /> +Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn<br /> +From over Caspian: yea, the Chief Jewellers<br /> +Of Tartary and the bazaars,<br /> +Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind.—</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child +heart<br /> +The magian East: thus the child eyes<br /> +<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>Spelled +out the wizard message by the light<br /> +Of the sober, workaday hours<br /> +They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass<br /> +In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind<br /> +In ancient Severn’s arm,<br /> +Amongst her water-meadows and her docks,<br /> +Whose floating populace of ships—<br /> +Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines,<br /> +Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters—brought<br /> +To her very doorsteps and geraniums<br /> +The scents of the World’s End; the calls<br /> +That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride<br /> +Like fire on some high errand of the race;<br /> +The irresistible appeals<br /> +For comradeship that sound<br /> +Steadily from the irresistible sea.<br /> +Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale,<br /> +Telling itself anew<br /> +In terms of living, labouring life,<br /> +Took on the colours, busked it in the wear<br /> +Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance,<br /> +The Angel-Playmate, raining down<br /> +His golden influences<br /> +On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did,<br /> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>Walked +with me arm in arm,<br /> +Or left me, as one bediademed with straws<br /> +And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart<br /> +Who had the gift to seek and feel and find<br /> +His fiery-hearted presence everywhere.<br /> +Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things,<br /> +Sends the same silver dews<br /> +Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies<br /> +On some poor collier-hamlet—(mound on mound<br /> +Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk<br /> +Sullenly smoking over a row<br /> +Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air<br /> +A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings<br /> +Of hurtling, tipping trams)—<br /> +As on the amorous nightingales<br /> +And roses of Shíraz, or the walls and towers<br /> +Of Samarcand—the Ineffable—whence you espy<br /> +The splendour of Ginnistan’s embattled spears,<br /> +Like listed lightnings.<br /> + + +Samarcand!<br /> +That name of names! That star-vaned belvedere<br /> +Builded against the Chambers of the South!<br /> +That outpost on the Infinite!<br /> + + +And behold!<br /> +Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide<br /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>Might +overtake you: for one fringe,<br /> +One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one<br /> +Floats founded vague<br /> +In lubberlands delectable—isles of palm<br /> +And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas,<br /> +The promise of wistful hills—<br /> +The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream.</p> +<h2><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>BRIC-À-BRAC</h2> +<p style="text-align: right">1877–1888</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>‘<i>The +tune of the time</i>.’—<span +class="smcap">Hamlet</span>, <i>concerning</i> <span +class="smcap">Osric</span></p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> W. A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Was</span> I a Samurai +renowned,<br /> +Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?<br /> +A histrion angular and profound?<br /> +A priest? a porter?—Child, although<br /> +I have forgotten clean, I know<br /> +That in the shade of Fujisan,<br /> +What time the cherry-orchards blow,<br /> +I loved you once in old Japan.</p> +<p class="poetry">As here you loiter, flowing-gowned<br /> +And hugely sashed, with pins a-row<br /> +Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,<br /> +Demure, inviting—even so,<br /> +When merry maids in Miyako<br /> +To feel the sweet o’ the year began,<br /> +And green gardens to overflow,<br /> +I loved you once in old Japan.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round<br /> +Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,<br /> +A blue canal the lake’s blue bound<br /> +Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!<br /> +Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow,<br /> +I see you turn, with flirted fan,<br /> +Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow . . .<br /> +I loved you once in old Japan!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago;<br /> +But that I was a lucky man<br /> +The Toyokuni here will show:<br /> +I loved you—once—in old Japan.</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>BALLADE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(DOUBLE REFRAIN)</span><br /> +OF YOUTH AND AGE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">I. +M.</span><br /> +Thomas Edward Brown<br /> +(1829–1896)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Spring</span> at her height +on a morn at prime,<br /> +Sails that laugh from a flying squall,<br /> +Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme—<br /> +Youth is the sign of them, one and all.<br /> +Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,<br /> +An empty flagon, a folded page,<br /> +A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball—<br /> +These are a type of the world of Age.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,<br /> +Swords that clatter in onsets tall,<br /> +The words that ring and the fames that climb—<br /> +Youth is the sign of them, one and all.<br /> +Hymnals old in a dusty stall,<br /> +A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,<br /> +The scene of a faded festival—<br /> +These are a type of the world of Age.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>Hours that strut as the heirs of time,<br /> +Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call,<br /> +Songs where the singers their souls sublime—<br /> +Youth is the sign of them, one and all.<br /> +A staff that rests in a nook of wall,<br /> +A reeling battle, a rusted gage,<br /> +The chant of a nearing funeral—<br /> +These are a type of the world of Age.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl—<br +/> +Youth is the sign of them, one and all.<br /> +A smouldering hearth and a silent stage—<br /> +These are a type of the world of Age.</p> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>BALLADE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(DOUBLE REFRAIN)</span><br /> +OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> W. H.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> a ripple of +leaves and a tinkle of streams<br /> +The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,<br /> +And the winds are one with the clouds and beams—<br /> +Midsummer days! Midsummer days!<br /> +The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,<br /> +While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,<br /> +Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise—<br /> +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!</p> +<p class="poetry">The wood’s green heart is a nest of +dreams,<br /> +The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,<br /> +The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams—<br /> +Midsummer days! Midsummer days!<br /> +In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,<br /> +All secret shadows and mystic lights,<br /> +Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze—<br /> +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>There’s a music of bells from the trampling +teams,<br /> +Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,<br /> +The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams—<br /> +Midsummer days! Midsummer days!<br /> +A soul from the honeysuckle strays,<br /> +And the nightingale as from prophet heights<br /> +Sings to the Earth of her million Mays—<br /> +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">And it’s O, for my dear and the charm +that stays—<br /> +Midsummer days! Midsummer days!<br /> +It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights—<br /> +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>BALLADE<br /> +OF DEAD ACTORS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">I. +M.</span><br /> +Edward John Henley<br /> +(1861–1898)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> are the +passions they essayed,<br /> +And where the tears they made to flow?<br /> +Where the wild humours they portrayed<br /> +For laughing worlds to see and know?<br /> +Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe?<br /> +Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall?<br /> +And Millamant and Romeo?<br /> +Into the night go one and all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?<br /> +The plumes, the armours—friend and foe?<br /> +The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,<br /> +The mantles glittering to and fro?<br /> +The pomp, the pride, the royal show?<br /> +The cries of war and festival?<br /> +The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?<br /> +Into the night go one and all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>The curtain falls, the play is played:<br /> +The Beggar packs beside the Beau;<br /> +The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;<br /> +The Thunder huddles with the Snow.<br /> +Where are the revellers high and low?<br /> +The clashing swords? The lover’s call?<br /> +The dancers gleaming row on row?<br /> +Into the night go one and all.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry"> Prince, in one common +overthrow<br /> +The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:<br /> +As dust that drives, as straws that blow,<br /> +Into the night go one and all.</p> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>BALLADE<br /> +MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> C. M.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fountains</span> that frisk +and sprinkle<br /> +The moss they overspill;<br /> +Pools that the breezes crinkle;<br /> +The wheel beside the mill,<br /> +With its wet, weedy frill;<br /> +Wind-shadows in the wheat;<br /> +A water-cart in the street;<br /> +The fringe of foam that girds<br /> +An islet’s ferneries;<br /> +A green sky’s minor thirds—<br /> +To live, I think of these!</p> +<p class="poetry">Of ice and glass the tinkle,<br /> +Pellucid, silver-shrill;<br /> +Peaches without a wrinkle;<br /> +Cherries and snow at will,<br /> +From china bowls that fill<br /> +The senses with a sweet<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>Incuriousness of heat;<br /> +A melon’s dripping sherds;<br /> +Cream-clotted strawberries;<br /> +Dusk dairies set with curds—<br /> +To live, I think of these!</p> +<p class="poetry">Vale-lily and periwinkle;<br /> +Wet stone-crop on the sill;<br /> +The look of leaves a-twinkle<br /> +With windlets clear and still;<br /> +The feel of a forest rill<br /> +That wimples fresh and fleet<br /> +About one’s naked feet;<br /> +The muzzles of drinking herds;<br /> +Lush flags and bulrushes;<br /> +The chirp of rain-bound birds—<br /> +To live, I think of these!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Dark aisles, new packs of cards,<br /> +Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards,<br /> +Dawn dews and starlit seas,<br /> +White marbles, whiter words—<br /> +To live, I think of these!</p> +<h3><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>BALLADE OF TRUISMS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gold</span> or silver, +every day,<br /> + Dies to gray.<br +/> +There are knots in every skein.<br /> +Hours of work and hours of play<br /> + Fade away<br /> +Into one immense Inane.<br /> +Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,<br /> + Are as vain<br +/> +As the foam or as the spray.<br /> +Life goes crooning, faint and fain,<br /> + One refrain:<br +/> +‘If it could be always May!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Though the earth be green and gay,<br /> + Though, they +say,<br /> +Man the cup of heaven may drain;<br /> +Though, his little world to sway,<br /> + He display<br /> +Hoard on hoard of pith and brain:<br /> +Autumn brings a mist and rain<br /> + That +constrain<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Him and +his to know decay,<br /> +Where undimmed the lights that wane<br /> + Would remain,<br +/> +If it could be always May.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Yea</i>, alas, must turn to <i>Nay</i>,<br +/> + Flesh to +clay.<br /> +Chance and Time are ever twain.<br /> +Men may scoff, and men may pray,<br /> + But they pay<br +/> +Every pleasure with a pain.<br /> +Life may soar, and Fortune deign<br /> + To explain<br /> +Where her prizes hide and stay;<br /> +But we lack the lusty train<br /> + We should +gain,<br /> +If it could be always May.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Time, the pedagogue, his cane<br /> + Might retain,<br +/> +But his charges all would stray<br /> +Truanting in every lane—<br /> + Jack with +Jane—<br /> +If it could be always May.</p> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>DOUBLE +BALLADE<br /> +OF LIFE AND FATE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fools</span> may pine, and +sots may swill,<br /> +Cynics gibe, and prophets rail,<br /> +Moralists may scourge and drill,<br /> +Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail.<br /> +Let them whine, or threat, or wail!<br /> +Till the touch of Circumstance<br /> +Down to darkness sink the scale,<br /> +Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.</p> +<p class="poetry">What if skies be wan and chill?<br /> +What if winds be harsh and stale?<br /> +Presently the east will thrill,<br /> +And the sad and shrunken sail,<br /> +Bellying with a kindly gale,<br /> +Bear you sunwards, while your chance<br /> +Sends you back the hopeful hail:—<br /> +‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>Idle shot or coming bill,<br /> +Hapless love or broken bail,<br /> +Gulp it (never chew your pill!),<br /> +And, if Burgundy should fail,<br /> +Try the humbler pot of ale!<br /> +Over all is heaven’s expanse.<br /> +Gold’s to find among the shale.<br /> +Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,<br /> +Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,<br /> +Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,<br /> +Hard Sir Æger dints his mail;<br /> +And the while by hill and dale<br /> +Tristram’s braveries gleam and glance,<br /> +And his blithe horn tells its tale:—<br /> +‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Araminta’s grand and shrill,<br /> +Delia’s passionate and frail,<br /> +Doris drives an earnest quill,<br /> +Athanasia takes the veil:<br /> +Wiser Phyllis o’er her pail,<br /> +At the heart of all romance<br /> +<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>Reading, +sings to Strephon’s flail:—<br /> +‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Every Jack must have his Jill<br /> +(Even Johnson had his Thrale!):<br /> +Forward, couples—with a will!<br /> +This, the world, is not a jail.<br /> +Hear the music, sprat and whale!<br /> +Hands across, retire, advance!<br /> +Though the doomsman’s on your trail,<br /> +Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Boys and girls, at slug and snail<br /> +And their kindred look askance.<br /> +Pay your footing on the nail:<br /> +Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.</p> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>DOUBLE +BALLADE<br /> +OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> big teetotum +twirls,<br /> +And epochs wax and wane<br /> +As chance subsides or swirls;<br /> +But of the loss and gain<br /> +The sum is always plain.<br /> +Read on the mighty pall,<br /> +The weed of funeral<br /> +That covers praise and blame,<br /> +The —isms and the —anities,<br /> +Magnificence and shame:—<br /> +‘O Vanity of Vanities!’</p> +<p class="poetry">The Fates are subtile girls!<br /> +They give us chaff for grain.<br /> +And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,<br /> +Like bolted death, disdain<br /> +At all that heart and brain<br /> +Conceive, or great or small,<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>Upon this +earthly ball.<br /> +Would you be knight and dame?<br /> +Or woo the sweet humanities?<br /> +Or illustrate a name?<br /> +O Vanity of Vanities!</p> +<p class="poetry">We sound the sea for pearls,<br /> +Or drown them in a drain;<br /> +We flute it with the merles,<br /> +Or tug and sweat and strain;<br /> +We grovel, or we reign;<br /> +We saunter, or we brawl;<br /> +We answer, or we call;<br /> +We search the stars for Fame,<br /> +Or sink her subterranities;<br /> +The legend’s still the same:—<br /> +‘O Vanity of Vanities!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Here at the wine one birls,<br /> +There some one clanks a chain.<br /> +The flag that this man furls<br /> +That man to float is fain.<br /> +Pleasure gives place to pain:<br /> +These in the kennel crawl,<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>While +others take the wall.<br /> +<i>She</i> has a glorious aim,<br /> +<i>He</i> lives for the inanities.<br /> +What comes of every claim?<br /> +O Vanity of Vanities!</p> +<p class="poetry">Alike are clods and earls.<br /> +For sot, and seer, and swain,<br /> +For emperors and for churls,<br /> +For antidote and bane,<br /> +There is but one refrain:<br /> +But one for king and thrall,<br /> +For David and for Saul,<br /> +For fleet of foot and lame,<br /> +For pieties and profanities,<br /> +The picture and the frame:—<br /> +‘O Vanity of Vanities!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Life is a smoke that curls—<br /> +Curls in a flickering skein,<br /> +That winds and whisks and whirls<br /> +A figment thin and vain,<br /> +Into the vast Inane.<br /> +One end for hut and hall!<br /> +<a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>One end +for cell and stall!<br /> +Burned in one common flame<br /> +Are wisdoms and insanities.<br /> +For this alone we came:—<br /> +‘O Vanity of Vanities!’</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Envoy</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, pride must have a fall.<br /> +What is the worth of all<br /> +Your state’s supreme urbanities?<br /> +Bad at the best’s the game.<br /> +Well might the Sage exclaim:—<br /> +‘O Vanity of Vanities!’</p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>AT +QUEENSFERRY</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> W. G. S.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> blackbird sang, +the skies were clear and clean<br /> +We bowled along a road that curved a spine<br /> +Superbly sinuous and serpentine<br /> +Thro’ silent symphonies of summer green.<br /> +Sudden the Forth came on us—sad of mien,<br /> +No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line:<br /> +A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign<br /> +Of life or death, two spits of sand between.<br /> +Water and sky merged blank in mist together,<br /> +The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship’s spars<br /> +Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze:<br /> +We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather,<br /> +The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars,<br /> +Where Lancelot rides clanking thro’ the haze.</p> +<h3><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>ORIENTALE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She’s</span> an +enchanting little Israelite,<br /> +A world of hidden dimples!—Dusky-eyed,<br /> +A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride,<br /> +With hair escaped from some Arabian Night,<br /> +Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white,<br /> +Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside<br /> +The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride,<br /> +Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight.<br /> +And when she passes with the dreadful boys<br /> +And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude,<br /> +My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range<br /> +The Land o’ the Sun, commingles with the noise<br /> +Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood<br /> +A touch Sidonian—modern—taking—strange!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>IN +FISHERROW</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">hard</span> north-easter +fifty winters long<br /> +Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;<br /> +Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;<br /> +Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.<br /> +A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng<br /> +Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck,<br /> +A white vest broidered black, her person deck,<br /> +Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.<br /> +Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh,<br /> +Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers,<br /> +The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye,<br /> +Ever and anon imploring you to buy,<br /> +As looking down the street she onward lingers,<br /> +Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.</p> +<h3><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>BACK-VIEW</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> D. F.</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">watched</span> you +saunter down the sand:<br /> +Serene and large, the golden weather<br /> +Flowed radiant round your peacock feather,<br /> +And glistered from your jewelled hand.<br /> +Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand<br /> +And bound with blue ribands together,<br /> +Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather,<br /> +That round your lissome shoulder spanned.<br /> +Your grace was quick my sense to seize:<br /> +The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses,<br /> +The close-drawn scarf, and under these<br /> +The flowing, flapping draperies—<br /> +My thought an outline still caresses,<br /> +Enchanting, comic, Japanese!</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>CROLUIS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> G. W.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> beach was +crowded. Pausing now and then,<br /> +He groped and fiddled doggedly along,<br /> +His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng<br /> +The stony peevishness of sightless men.<br /> +He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again,<br /> +Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song,<br /> +So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong,<br /> +You hardly could distinguish one in ten.<br /> +He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand,<br /> +And, grasping wearily his bread-winner,<br /> +Stared dim towards the blue immensity,<br /> +Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand.<br /> +He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir:<br /> +His gesture spoke a vast despondency.</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> A. J.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">black</span> and glassy +float, opaque and still,<br /> +The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep,<br /> +Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep<br /> +The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill;<br /> +Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze;<br /> +The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke;<br /> +The braes beyond—and when the ripple awoke,<br /> +They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze.<br /> +The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore<br /> +A noise of running water whispered near.<br /> +A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird<br /> +Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore,<br +/> +Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear,<br /> +Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.</p> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>FROM +A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To</i> M. M. M‘B.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Above</span> the Crags that +fade and gloom<br /> +Starts the bare knee of Arthur’s Seat;<br /> +Ridged high against the evening bloom,<br /> +The Old Town rises, street on street;<br /> +With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead,<br /> +Like rampired walls the houses lean,<br /> +All spired and domed and turreted,<br /> +Sheer to the valley’s darkling green;<br /> +Ranged in mysterious disarray,<br /> +The Castle, menacing and austere,<br /> +Looms through the lingering last of day;<br /> +And in the silver dusk you hear,<br /> +Reverberated from crag and scar,<br /> +Bold bugles blowing points of war.</p> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>IN +THE DIALS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> <i>Garryowen</i> +upon an organ ground<br /> +Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,<br /> +With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,<br /> +As in the tumult of a witches’ round.<br /> +Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.<br /> +Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.<br /> +The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip.<br /> +High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.<br /> +The music reels and hurtles, and the night<br /> +Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light<br /> +Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused<br /> +With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,<br /> +Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags<br /> +Look on dispassionate—critical—something +’mused.</p> +<h3><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>THE +GODS ARE DEAD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> gods are +dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?<br /> +Living at least in Lemprière undeleted,<br /> +The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,<br /> +Are one and all, I like to think, retreated<br /> +In some still land of lilacs and the rose.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once higeh they sat, and high o’er +earthly shows<br /> +With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.<br /> +Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes,<br /> + + +The gods are dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">It must be true. The world, a world of +prose,<br /> +Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,<br /> +Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!<br /> +Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows<br /> +Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:—<br /> + + +‘The Gods are Dead!’</p> +<h3><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span><i>To</i> F. W.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> us be drunk, and +for a while forget,<br /> +Forget, and, ceasing even from regret,<br /> +Live without reason and despite of rhyme,<br /> +As in a dream preposterous and sublime,<br /> +Where place and hour and means for once are met.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is the use of effort? Love and +debt<br /> +And disappointment have us in a net.<br /> +Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . .<br /> + + +Let us be drunk.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain our little hour we strut and fret,<br +/> +And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet:<br /> +We cannot please the tragicaster Time.<br /> +To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime,<br /> +Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet,<br /> + + +Let us be drunk!</p> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>WHEN +YOU ARE OLD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> you are old, +and I am passed away—<br /> +Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray—<br /> +I think, whate’er the end, this dream of mine,<br /> +Comforting you, a friendly star will shine<br /> +Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.</p> +<p class="poetry">So may it be: that so dead Yesterday,<br /> +No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay,<br /> +May serve you memories like almighty wine,<br /> + + +When you are old!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the +sway<br /> +Of death the past’s enormous disarray<br /> +Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,<br /> +Live on well pleased: immortal and divine<br /> +Love shall still tend you, as God’s angels may,<br /> + + +When you are old.</p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>BESIDE THE IDLE SUMMER SEA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Beside</span> the idle +summer sea<br /> +And in the vacant summer days,<br /> +Light Love came fluting down the ways,<br /> +Where you were loitering with me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who has not welcomed, even as we,<br /> +That jocund minstrel and his lays<br /> +Beside the idle summer sea<br /> +And in the vacant summer days?</p> +<p class="poetry">We listened, we were fancy-free;<br /> +And lo! in terror and amaze<br /> +We stood alone—alone at gaze<br /> +With an implacable memory<br /> +Beside the idle summer sea.</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>I. +M.<br /> +R. G. C. B.<br /> +1878</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> ways of Death +are soothing and serene,<br /> +And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.<br /> +From camp and church, the fireside and the street,<br /> +She beckons forth—and strife and song have been.</p> +<p class="poetry">A summer night descending cool and green<br /> +And dark on daytime’s dust and stress and heat,<br /> +The ways of Death are soothing and serene,<br /> +And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.</p> +<p class="poetry">O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien<br +/> +And radiant faces look upon, and greet<br /> +This last of all your lovers, and to meet<br /> +Her kiss, the Comforter’s, your spirit lean . . .<br /> +The ways of Death are soothing and serene.</p> +<h3><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>WE +SHALL SURELY DIE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> shall surely +die:<br /> +Must we needs grow old?<br /> +Grow old and cold,<br /> +And we know not why?</p> +<p class="poetry">O, the By-and-By,<br /> +And the tale that’s told!<br /> +We shall surely die:<br /> +Must we needs grow old?</p> +<p class="poetry">Grow old and sigh,<br /> +Grudge and withhold,<br /> +Resent and scold? . . .<br /> +Not you and I?<br /> +We shall surely die!</p> +<h3><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>WHAT +IS TO COME</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> is to come we +know not. But we know<br /> +That what has been was good—was good to show,<br /> +Better to hide, and best of all to bear.<br /> +We are the masters of the days that were:<br /> +We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so.</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow?<br +/> +Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe—<br /> +Dear, though it spoil and break us!—need we care<br /> + + +What is to come?</p> +<p class="poetry">Let the great winds their worst and wildest +blow,<br /> +Or the gold weather round us mellow slow:<br /> +We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare<br /> +And we can conquer, though we may not share<br /> +In the rich quiet of the afterglow<br /> + + +What is to come.</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>ECHOES</h2> +<p style="text-align: right">1872–1889</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span><i>Aquí está encerrada el alma del +licenciado Pedro Garcías</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Gil Blas</span> <i>AU LECTEUR</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span><span class="GutSmall">I</span><br /> +TO MY MOTHER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Chiming</span> a dream by +the way<br /> + With ocean’s rapture and roar,<br /> +I met a maiden to-day<br /> + Walking alone on the shore:<br /> +Walking in maiden wise,<br /> + Modest and kind and fair,<br /> +The freshness of spring in her eyes<br /> + And the fulness of spring in her hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst<br /> + Were swift on the floor of the sea,<br /> +And a mad wind was romping its worst,<br /> + But what was their magic to me?<br /> +Or the charm of the midsummer skies?<br /> + I only saw she was there,<br /> +A dream of the sea in her eyes<br /> + And the kiss of the sea in her hair.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>I watched her vanish in space;<br /> + She came where I walked no more;<br /> +But something had passed of her grace<br /> + To the spell of the wave and the shore;<br /> +And now, as the glad stars rise,<br /> + She comes to me, rosy and rare,<br /> +The delight of the wind in her eyes<br /> + And the hand of the wind in her hair.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1872</p> +<h3><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span><span class="GutSmall">II</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span> is +bitter. All the faces of the years,<br /> +Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears.<br /> + Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep?<br /> +In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers,<br /> +Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . .<br /> + + +Let me sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Riches won but mock the old, unable years;<br +/> +Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears;<br /> + Love must wither, or must live alone and weep.<br /> +In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers,<br /> +While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . .<br /> + + +Let me sleep.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1872</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span><span class="GutSmall">III</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">gather</span> me the +rose, the rose,<br /> + While yet in flower we find it,<br /> +For summer smiles, but summer goes,<br /> + And winter waits behind it!</p> +<p class="poetry">For with the dream foregone, foregone,<br /> + The deed forborne for ever,<br /> +The worm, regret, will canker on,<br /> + And Time will turn him never.</p> +<p class="poetry">So well it were to love, my love,<br /> + And cheat of any laughter<br /> +The fate beneath us and above,<br /> + The dark before and after.</p> +<p class="poetry">The myrtle and the rose, the rose,<br /> + The sunshine and the swallow,<br /> +The dream that comes, the wish that goes,<br /> + The memories that follow!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1874</p> +<h3><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span><span class="GutSmall">IV</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">I. M.</span><br /> +R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE<br /> +(1846–1899)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Out</span> of the night +that covers me,<br /> + Black as the Pit from pole to pole,<br /> +I thank whatever gods may be<br /> + For my unconquerable soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the fell clutch of circumstance<br /> + I have not winced nor cried aloud.<br /> +Under the bludgeonings of chance<br /> + My head is bloody, but unbowed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beyond this place of wrath and tears<br /> + Looms but the Horror of the shade,<br /> +And yet the menace of the years<br /> + Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.</p> +<p class="poetry">It matters not how strait the gate,<br /> + How charged with punishments the scroll,<br /> +I am the master of my fate:<br /> + I am the captain of my soul.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span><span class="GutSmall">V</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> the Reaper.<br +/> +All things with heedful hook<br /> +Silent I gather.<br /> +Pale roses touched with the spring,<br /> +Tall corn in summer,<br /> +Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms—<br /> +Reaping, still reaping—<br /> +All things with heedful hook<br /> +Timely I gather.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am the Sower.<br /> +All the unbodied life<br /> +Runs through my seed-sheet.<br /> +Atom with atom wed,<br /> +Each quickening the other,<br /> +Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>Ceaselessly sowing,<br /> +Life, incorruptible life,<br /> +Flows from my seed-sheet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Maker and breaker,<br /> +I am the ebb and the flood,<br /> +Here and Hereafter.<br /> +Sped through the tangle and coil<br /> +Of infinite nature,<br /> +Viewless and soundless I fashion all being.<br /> +Taker and giver,<br /> +I am the womb and the grave,<br /> +The Now and the Ever.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span><span class="GutSmall">VI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Praise</span> the generous +gods for giving<br /> + In a world of wrath and strife<br /> +With a little time for living,<br /> + Unto all the joy of life.</p> +<p class="poetry">At whatever source we drink it,<br /> + Art or love or faith or wine,<br /> +In whatever terms we think it,<br /> + It is common and divine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Praise the high gods, for in giving<br /> + This to man, and this alone,<br /> +They have made his chance of living<br /> + Shine the equal of their own.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span><span class="GutSmall">VII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fill</span> a glass with +golden wine,<br /> + And the while your lips are wet<br /> +Set their perfume unto mine,<br /> + And forget,<br +/> +Every kiss we take and give<br /> +Leaves us less of life to live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet again! Your whim and mine<br /> + In a happy while have met.<br /> +All your sweets to me resign,<br /> + Nor regret<br /> +That we press with every breath,<br /> +Sighed or singing, nearer death.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span><span class="GutSmall">VIII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We’ll</span> go no +more a-roving by the light of the moon.<br /> +November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June.<br /> +The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere.<br /> +We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of +the moon.<br /> +The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune.<br /> +Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year.<br +/> +We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the +moon.<br /> +If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon.<br /> +No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear,<br /> +We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span><span class="GutSmall">IX</span><br /> +<i>To</i> W. R.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Madam</span> Life’s a +piece in bloom<br /> + Death goes dogging everywhere:<br /> +She’s the tenant of the room,<br /> + He’s the ruffian on the stair.</p> +<p class="poetry">You shall see her as a friend,<br /> + You shall bilk him once and twice;<br /> +But he’ll trap you in the end,<br /> + And he’ll stick you for her price.</p> +<p class="poetry">With his kneebones at your chest,<br /> + And his knuckles in your throat,<br /> +You would reason—plead—protest!<br /> + Clutching at her petticoat;</p> +<p class="poetry">But she’s heard it all before,<br /> + Well she knows you’ve had your fun,<br /> +Gingerly she gains the door,<br /> + And your little job is done.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1877</p> +<h3><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span><span class="GutSmall">X</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sea is full of +wandering foam,<br /> + The sky of driving cloud;<br /> +My restless thoughts among them roam . . .<br /> + The night is dark and loud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are the hours that came to me<br /> + So beautiful and bright?<br /> +A wild wind shakes the wilder sea . . .<br /> + O, dark and loud’s the night!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span><span class="GutSmall">XI</span><br /> +<i>To</i> W. R.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thick</span> is the +darkness—<br /> + Sunward, O, sunward!<br /> +Rough is the highway—<br /> + Onward, still onward!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dawn harbours surely<br /> + East of the shadows.<br /> +Facing us somewhere<br /> + Spread the sweet meadows.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upward and forward!<br /> + Time will restore us:<br /> +Light is above us,<br /> + Rest is before us.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span><span class="GutSmall">XII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> me at my +fifth-floor window<br /> + The chimney-pots in rows<br /> +Are sets of pipes pandean<br /> + For every wind that blows;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the smoke that whirls and eddies<br /> + In a thousand times and keys<br /> +Is really a visible music<br /> + Set to my reveries.</p> +<p class="poetry">O monstrous pipes, melodious<br /> + With fitful tune and dream,<br /> +The clouds are your only audience,<br /> + Her thought is your only theme!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span><span class="GutSmall">XIII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bring</span> her again, O +western wind,<br /> + Over the western sea:<br /> +Gentle and good and fair and kind,<br /> + Bring her again to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Not that her fancy holds me dear,<br /> + Not that a hope may be:<br /> +Only that I may know her near,<br /> + Wind of the western sea.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span><span class="GutSmall">XIV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wan sun westers, +faint and slow;<br /> +The eastern distance glimmers gray;<br /> +An eerie haze comes creeping low<br /> +Across the little, lonely bay;<br /> +And from the sky-line far away<br /> +About the quiet heaven are spread<br /> +Mysterious hints of dying day,<br /> +Thin, delicate dreams of green and red.</p> +<p class="poetry">And weak, reluctant surges lap<br /> +And rustle round and down the strand.<br /> +No other sound . . . If it should hap,<br /> +The ship that sails from fairy-land!<br /> +The silken shrouds with spells are manned,<br /> +The hull is magically scrolled,<br /> +The squat mast lives, and in the sand<br /> +The gold prow-griffin claws a hold.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>It steals to seaward silently;<br /> +Strange fish-folk follow thro’ the gloom;<br /> +Great wings flap overhead; I see<br /> +The Castle of the Drowsy Doom<br /> +Vague thro’ the changeless twilight loom,<br /> +Enchanted, hushed. And ever there<br /> +She slumbers in eternal bloom,<br /> +Her cushions hid with golden hair.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span><span class="GutSmall">XV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a wheel +inside my head<br /> + Of wantonness and wine,<br /> + An old, cracked fiddle is begging +without,<br /> +But the wind with scents of the sea is fed,<br /> + And the sun seems glad to shine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sun and the wind are akin to you,<br /> + As you are akin to June.<br /> + But the fiddle! . . . It giggles +and twitters about,<br /> +And, love and laughter! who gave him the cue?—<br /> + He’s playing your favourite tune.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span><span class="GutSmall">XVI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">While</span> the west is +paling<br /> + Starshine is begun.<br /> +While the dusk is failing<br /> + Glimmers up the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">So, till darkness cover<br /> + Life’s retreating gleam,<br /> +Lover follows lover,<br /> + Dream succeeds to dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stoop to my endeavour,<br /> + O my love, and be<br /> +Only and for ever<br /> + Sun and stars to me.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span><span class="GutSmall">XVII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sands are alive +with sunshine,<br /> + The bathers lounge and throng,<br /> +And out in the bay a bugle<br /> + Is lilting a gallant song.</p> +<p class="poetry">The clouds go racing eastward,<br /> + The blithe wind cannot rest,<br /> +And a shard on the shingle flashes<br /> + Like the shining soul of a jest;</p> +<p class="poetry">While children romp in the surges,<br /> + And sweethearts wander free,<br /> +And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . .<br /> + I would it were deep over me!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1875</p> +<h3><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span><span class="GutSmall">XVIII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> A. D.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> nightingale has +a lyre of gold,<br /> + The lark’s is a clarion-call,<br /> +And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,<br /> + But I love him best of all.</p> +<p class="poetry">For his song is all of the joy of life,<br /> + And we in the mad, spring weather,<br /> +We two have listened till he sang<br /> + Our hearts and lips together.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span><span class="GutSmall">XIX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Your</span> heart has +trembled to my tongue,<br /> + Your hands in mine have lain,<br /> +Your thought to me has leaned and clung,<br /> + + +Again and yet again,<br /> + + +My dear,<br /> + + +Again and yet again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now die the dream, or come the wife,<br /> + The past is not in vain,<br /> +For wholly as it was your life<br /> + + +Can never be again,<br /> + + +My dear,<br /> + + +Can never be again.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span><span class="GutSmall">XX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> surges gushed +and sounded,<br /> + The blue was the blue of June,<br /> +And low above the brightening east<br /> + Floated a shred of moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">The woods were black and solemn,<br /> + The night winds large and free,<br /> +And in your thought a blessing seemed<br /> + To fall on land and sea.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1877</p> +<h3><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span><span class="GutSmall">XXI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> flash across the +level.<br /> + We thunder thro’ the bridges.<br /> +We bicker down the cuttings.<br /> + We sway along the ridges.</p> +<p class="poetry">A rush of streaming hedges,<br /> + Of jostling lights and shadows,<br /> +Of hurtling, hurrying stations,<br /> + Of racing woods and meadows.</p> +<p class="poetry">We charge the tunnels headlong—<br /> + The blackness roars and shatters.<br /> +We crash between embankments—<br /> + The open spins and scatters.</p> +<p class="poetry">We shake off the miles like water,<br /> + We might carry a royal ransom;<br /> +And I think of her waiting, waiting,<br /> + And long for a common hansom.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span><span class="GutSmall">XXII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> West a +glimmering lake of light,<br /> + A dream of pearly weather,<br /> +The first of stars is burning white—<br /> + The star we watch together.<br /> +Is April dead? The unresting year<br /> + Will shape us our September,<br /> +And April’s work is done, my dear—<br /> + Do you not remember?</p> +<p class="poetry">O gracious eve! O happy star,<br /> + Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!—<br /> +Who lives of lovers near or far<br /> + So glad as I in thinking?<br /> +The gallant world is warm and green,<br /> + For May fulfils November.<br /> +When lights and leaves and loves have been,<br /> + Sweet, will you remember?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>O star benignant and serene,<br /> + I take the good to-morrow,<br /> +That fills from verge to verge my dream,<br /> + With all its joy and sorrow!<br /> +The old, sweet spell is unforgot<br /> + That turns to June December;<br /> +And, tho’ the world remembered not,<br /> + Love, we would remember.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span><span class="GutSmall">XXIII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> skies are strown +with stars,<br /> + The streets are fresh with dew<br /> +A thin moon drifts to westward,<br /> +The night is hushed and cheerful.<br /> + My thought is quick with you.</p> +<p class="poetry">Near windows gleam and laugh,<br /> + And far away a train<br /> +Clanks glowing through the stillness:<br /> +A great content’s in all things,<br /> + And life is not in vain.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1877</p> +<h3><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span><span class="GutSmall">XXIV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> full sea rolls +and thunders<br /> + In glory and in glee.<br /> +O, bury me not in the senseless earth<br /> + But in the living sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, bury me where it surges<br /> + A thousand miles from shore,<br /> +And in its brotherly unrest<br /> + I’ll range for evermore.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span><span class="GutSmall">XXV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the year +that’s come and gone, love, his flying feather<br /> +Stooping slowly, gave us heart, and bade us walk together.<br /> +In the year that’s coming on, though many a troth be +broken,<br /> +We at least will not forget aught that love hath spoken.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the year that’s come and gone, dear, +we wove a tether<br /> +All of gracious words and thoughts, binding two together.<br /> +In the year that’s coming on with its wealth of roses<br /> +We shall weave it stronger, yet, ere the circle closes.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>In the year that’s come and gone, in the golden +weather,<br /> +Sweet, my sweet, we swore to keep the watch of life together.<br +/> +In the year that’s coming on, rich in joy and sorrow,<br /> +We shall light our lamp, and wait life’s mysterious +morrow.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1877</p> +<h3><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span><span class="GutSmall">XXVI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the placid summer +midnight,<br /> + Under the drowsy sky,<br /> +I seem to hear in the stillness<br /> + The moths go glimmering by.</p> +<p class="poetry">One by one from the windows<br /> + The lights have all been sped.<br /> +Never a blind looks conscious—<br /> + The street is asleep in bed!</p> +<p class="poetry">But I come where a living casement<br /> + Laughs luminous and wide;<br /> +I hear the song of a piano<br /> + Break in a sparkling tide;</p> +<p class="poetry">And I feel, in the waltz that frolics<br /> + And warbles swift and clear,<br /> +A sudden sense of shelter<br /> + And friendliness and cheer . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>A sense of tinkling glasses,<br /> + Of love and laughter and light—<br /> +The piano stops, and the window<br /> + Stares blank out into the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">The blind goes out, and I wander<br /> + To the old, unfriendly sea,<br /> +The lonelier for the memory<br /> + That walks like a ghost with me.</p> +<h3><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span><span class="GutSmall">XXVII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> sauntered by the +swinging seas,<br /> + A jewel glittered at her ear,<br /> +And, teasing her along, the breeze<br /> + Brought many a rounded grace more near.</p> +<p class="poetry">So passing, one with wave and beam,<br /> + She left for memory to caress<br /> +A laughing thought, a golden gleam,<br /> + A hint of hidden loveliness.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span><span class="GutSmall">XXVIII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> S. C.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Blithe</span> dreams arise +to greet us,<br /> + And life feels clean and new,<br /> +For the old love comes to meet us<br /> + In the dawning and the dew.<br /> +O’erblown with sunny shadows,<br /> + O’ersped with winds at play,<br /> +The woodlands and the meadows<br /> + Are keeping holiday.<br /> +Wild foals are scampering, neighing,<br /> + Brave merles their hautboys blow:<br /> +Come! let us go a-maying<br /> + As in the Long-Ago.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here we but peak and dwindle:<br /> + The clank of chain and crane,<br /> +The whir of crank and spindle<br /> + Bewilder heart and brain;<br /> +<a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>The ends +of our endeavour<br /> + Are merely wealth and fame,<br /> +Yet in the still Forever<br /> + We’re one and all the same;<br /> +Delaying, still delaying,<br /> + We watch the fading west:<br /> +Come! let us go a-maying,<br /> + Nor fear to take the best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet beautiful and spacious<br /> + The wise, old world appears.<br /> +Yet frank and fair and gracious<br /> + Outlaugh the jocund years.<br /> +Our arguments disputing,<br /> + The universal Pan<br /> +Still wanders fluting—fluting—<br /> + Fluting to maid and man.<br /> +Our weary well-a-waying<br /> + His music cannot still:<br /> +Come! let us go a-maying,<br /> + And pipe with him our fill.</p> +<p class="poetry">When wanton winds are flowing<br /> + Among the gladdening glass;<br /> +<a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Where +hawthorn brakes are blowing,<br /> + And meadow perfumes pass;<br /> +Where morning’s grace is greenest,<br /> + And fullest noon’s of pride;<br /> +Where sunset spreads serenest,<br /> + And sacred night’s most wide;<br /> +Where nests are swaying, swaying,<br /> + And spring’s fresh voices call,<br /> +Come! let us go a-maying,<br /> + And bless the God of all!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1878</p> +<h3><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span><span class="GutSmall">XXIX</span><br /> +<i>To</i> R. L. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">child</span>,<br /> +Curious and innocent,<br /> +Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing<br /> +Loses himself in the Fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thro’ the jostle and din<br /> +Wandering, he revels,<br /> +Dreaming, desiring, possessing;<br /> +Till, of a sudden<br /> +Tired and afraid, he beholds<br /> +The sordid assemblage<br /> +Just as it is; and he runs<br /> +With a sob to his Nurse<br /> +(Lighting at last on him),<br /> +And in her motherly bosom<br /> +Cries him to sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>Thus thro’ the World,<br /> +Seeing and feeling and knowing,<br /> +Goes Man: till at last,<br /> +Tired of experience, he turns<br /> +To the friendly and comforting breast<br /> +Of the old nurse, Death.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span><span class="GutSmall">XXX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Kate-a-Whimsies</span>, +John-a-Dreams,<br /> + Still debating, still delay,<br /> +And the world’s a ghost that gleams—<br /> + Wavers—vanishes away!</p> +<p class="poetry">We must live while live we can;<br /> + We should love while love we may.<br /> +Dread in women, doubt in man . . .<br /> + So the Infinite runs away.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">have</span> you blessed, +behind the stars,<br /> + The blue sheen in the skies,<br /> +When June the roses round her calls?—<br /> +Then do you know the light that falls<br /> + From her belovèd eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">And have you felt the sense of peace<br /> + That morning meadows give?—<br /> +Then do you know the spirit of grace,<br /> +The angel abiding in her face,<br /> + Who makes it good to live.</p> +<p class="poetry">She shines before me, hope and dream,<br /> + So fair, so still, so wise,<br /> +That, winning her, I seem to win<br /> +Out of the dust and drive and din<br /> + A nook of Paradise.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1877</p> +<h3><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> D. H.</h3> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">Falmouth</span> is a +fine town with ships in the bay,<br /> +And I wish from my heart it’s there I was to-day;<br /> +I wish from my heart I was far away from here,<br /> +Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.<br /> + For it’s home, dearie, +home—it’s home I want to be.<br /> + Our topsails are hoisted, and +we’ll away to sea.<br /> + O, the oak and the ash and the +bonnie birken tree<br /> + They’re all growing green in +the old countrie.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet<br /> +With her babe on her arm, as she came down the street;<br /> +And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready<br /> +For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.<br /> + And it’s home, dearie, home +. . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;<br /> +And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king:<br /> +With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue<br /> +He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do.<br /> + And it’s home, dearie, home +. . .</p> +<p class="poetry">O, there’s a wind a-blowing, a-blowing +from the west,<br /> +And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,<br /> +For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free,<br /> +And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie.<br /> + For it’s home, dearie, +home—it’s home I want to be.<br /> + Our topsails are hoisted, and +we’ll away to sea.<br /> + O, the oak and the ash and the +bonnie birken tree<br /> + They’re all growing green in +the old countrie.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1878</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Note</span>.—The burthen and the third stanza +are old.</p> +<h3><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXIII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> ways are green +with the gladdening sheen<br /> + Of the young year’s fairest daughter.<br /> +O, the shadows that fleet o’er the springing wheat!<br /> + O, the magic of running water!<br /> +The spirit of spring is in every thing,<br /> + The banners of spring are streaming,<br /> +We march to a tune from the fifes of June,<br /> + And life’s a dream worth dreaming.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s all very well to sit and spell<br /> + At the lesson there’s no gainsaying;<br /> +But what the deuce are wont and use<br /> + When the whole mad world’s a-maying?<br /> +When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows,<br /> + And the air’s with love-motes teeming,<br /> +When fancies break, and the senses wake,<br /> + O, life’s a dream worth dreaming!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>What Nature has writ with her lusty wit<br /> + Is worded so wisely and kindly<br /> +That whoever has dipped in her manuscript<br /> + Must up and follow her blindly.<br /> +Now the summer prime is her blithest rhyme<br /> + In the being and the seeming,<br /> +And they that have heard the overword<br /> + Know life’s a dream worth dreaming.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1878</p> +<h3><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXIV</span><br /> +<i>To</i> K. de M.</h3> +<blockquote><p><i>Love blows as the wind blows</i>,<br /> +<i>Love blows into the heart</i>.—<span class="smcap">Nile +Boat-Song</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span> in her creaking +shoes<br /> +Goes, and more formal grows,<br /> +A round of calls and cues:<br /> +Love blows as the wind blows.<br /> +Blows! . . . in the quiet close<br /> +As in the roaring mart,<br /> +By ways no mortal knows<br /> +Love blows into the heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stars some cadence use,<br /> +Forthright the river flows,<br /> +In order fall the dews,<br /> +Love blows as the wind blows:<br /> +Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows<br /> +The courses of his chart?<br /> +A spirit that comes and goes,<br /> +Love blows into the heart.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1878</p> +<h3><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXV</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">I. M.</span><br /> +MARGARITÆ SORORI<br /> +(1886)</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">late</span> lark twitters +from the quiet skies;<br /> +And from the west,<br /> +Where the sun, his day’s work ended,<br /> +Lingers as in content,<br /> +There falls on the old, grey city<br /> +An influence luminous and serene,<br /> +A shining peace.</p> +<p class="poetry">The smoke ascends<br /> +In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires<br /> +Shine, and are changed. In the valley<br /> +Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,<br /> +Closing his benediction,<br /> +<a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>Sinks, +and the darkening air<br /> +Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—<br /> +Night with her train of stars<br /> +And her great gift of sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">So be my passing!<br /> +My task accomplished and the long day done,<br /> +My wages taken, and in my heart<br /> +Some late lark singing,<br /> +Let me be gathered to the quiet west,<br /> +The sundown splendid and serene,<br /> +Death.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1876</p> +<h3><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXVI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">gave</span> my heart to a +woman—<br /> + I gave it her, branch and root.<br /> +She bruised, she wrung, she tortured,<br /> + She cast it under foot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under her feet she cast it,<br /> + She trampled it where it fell,<br /> +She broke it all to pieces,<br /> + And each was a clot of hell.</p> +<p class="poetry">There in the rain and the sunshine<br /> + They lay and smouldered long;<br /> +And each, when again she viewed them,<br /> + Had turned to a living song.</p> +<h3><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXVII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> W. A.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Or</span> ever the knightly +years were gone<br /> + With the old world to the grave,<br /> +I was a King in Babylon<br /> + And you were a Christian Slave.</p> +<p class="poetry">I saw, I took, I cast you by,<br /> + I bent and broke your pride.<br /> +You loved me well, or I heard them lie,<br /> + But your longing was denied.<br /> +Surely I knew that by and by<br /> + You cursed your gods and died.</p> +<p class="poetry">And a myriad suns have set and shone<br /> + Since then upon the grave<br /> +Decreed by the King in Babylon<br /> + To her that had been his Slave.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pride I trampled is now my scathe,<br /> + For it tramples me again.<br /> +<a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>The old +resentment lasts like death,<br /> + For you love, yet you refrain.<br /> +I break my heart on your hard unfaith,<br /> + And I break my heart in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet not for an hour do I wish undone<br /> + The deed beyond the grave,<br /> +When I was a King in Babylon<br /> + And you were a Virgin Slave.</p> +<h3><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXVIII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> the way to +Kew,<br /> +By the river old and gray,<br /> +Where in the Long Ago<br /> +We laughed and loitered so,<br /> +I met a ghost to-day,<br /> +A ghost that told of you—<br /> +A ghost of low replies<br /> +And sweet, inscrutable eyes<br /> +Coming up from Richmond<br /> +As you used to do.</p> +<p class="poetry">By the river old and gray,<br /> +The enchanted Long Ago<br /> +Murmured and smiled anew.<br /> +On the way to Kew,<br /> +March had the laugh of May,<br /> +The bare boughs looked aglow,<br /> +And old, immortal words<br /> +Sang in my breast like birds,<br /> +Coming up from Richmond<br /> +As I used with you.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>With the life of Long Ago<br /> +Lived my thought of you.<br /> +By the river old and gray<br /> +Flowing his appointed way<br /> +As I watched I knew<br /> +What is so good to know—<br /> +Not in vain, not in vain,<br /> +Shall I look for you again<br /> +Coming up from Richmond<br /> +On the way to Kew.</p> +<h3><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span><span class="GutSmall">XXXIX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Past was goodly +once, and yet, when all is said,<br /> +The best of it we know is that it’s done and dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dwindled and faded quite, perished beyond +recall,<br /> +Nothing is left at last of what one time was all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Coming back like a ghost, staring and lingering +on,<br /> +Never a word it speaks but proves it dead and gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Duty and work and joy—these things it +cannot give;<br /> +And the Present is life, and life is good to live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let it lie where it fell, far from the living +sun,<br /> +The Past that, goodly once, is gone and dead and done.</p> +<h3><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span><span class="GutSmall">XL</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> spring, my +dear,<br /> +Is no longer spring.<br /> +Does the blackbird sing<br /> +What he sang last year?<br /> +Are the skies the old<br /> +Immemorial blue?<br /> +Or am I, or are you,<br /> +Grown cold?</p> +<p class="poetry">Though life be change,<br /> +It is hard to bear<br /> +When the old sweet air<br /> +Sounds forced and strange.<br /> +To be out of tune,<br /> +Plain You and I . . .<br /> +It were better to die,<br /> +And soon!</p> +<h3><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span><span class="GutSmall">XLVI</span><br /> +<i>To</i> R. A. M. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Spirit of Wine</i><br /> +<i>Sang in my glass</i>, <i>and I listened</i><br /> +<i>With love to his odorous music</i>,<br /> +<i>His flushed and magnificent song</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">—‘I am health, I am heart, I am +life!<br /> +For I give for the asking<br /> +The fire of my father, the Sun,<br /> +And the strength of my mother, the Earth.<br /> +Inspiration in essence,<br /> +I am wisdom and wit to the wise,<br /> +His visible muse to the poet,<br /> +The soul of desire to the lover,<br /> +The genius of laughter to all.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, lean on me, ye that are weary!<br +/> +Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting!<br /> +Haste, ye that lag by the way!<br /> +I am Pride, the consoler;<br /> +<a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>Valour +and Hope are my henchmen;<br /> +I am the Angel of Rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I am life, I am wealth, I am fame:<br /> +For I captain an army<br /> +Of shining and generous dreams;<br /> +And mine, too, all mine, are the keys<br /> +Of that secret spiritual shrine,<br /> +Where, his work-a-day soul put by,<br /> +Shut in with his saint of saints—<br /> +With his radiant and conquering self—<br /> +Man worships, and talks, and is glad.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Come, sit with me, ye that are +lovely,<br /> +Ye that are paid with disdain,<br /> +Ye that are chained and would soar!<br /> +I am beauty and love;<br /> +I am friendship, the comforter;<br /> +I am that which forgives and forgets.’—</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Spirit of Wine</i><br /> +<i>Sang in my heart</i>, <i>and I triumphed</i><br /> +<i>In the savour and scent of his music</i>,<br /> +<i>His magnetic and mastering song</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span><span class="GutSmall">XLII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">wink</span> from Hesper, +falling<br /> + Fast in the wintry sky,<br /> +Comes through the even blue,<br /> +Dear, like a word from you . . .<br /> + Is it good-bye?</p> +<p class="poetry">Across the miles between us<br /> + I send you sigh for sigh.<br /> +Good-night, sweet friend, good-night:<br /> +Till life and all take flight,<br /> + Never good-bye.</p> +<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span><span class="GutSmall">XLII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Friends</span> . . . old +friends . . .<br /> +One sees how it ends.<br /> +A woman looks<br /> +Or a man tells lies,<br /> +And the pleasant brooks<br /> +And the quiet skies,<br /> +Ruined with brawling<br /> +And caterwauling,<br /> +Enchant no more<br /> +As they did before.<br /> +And so it ends<br /> +With friends.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friends . . . old friends . . .<br /> +And what if it ends?<br /> +Shall we dare to shirk<br /> +What we live to learn?<br /> +It has done its work,<br /> +It has served its turn;<br /> +And, forgive and forget<br /> +Or hanker and fret,<br /> +<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>We can +be no more<br /> +As we were before.<br /> +When it ends, it ends<br /> +With friends.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friends . . . old friends . . .<br /> +So it breaks, so it ends.<br /> +There let it rest!<br /> +It has fought and won,<br /> +And is still the best<br /> +That either has done.<br /> +Each as he stands<br /> +The work of its hands,<br /> +Which shall be more<br /> +As he was before? . . .<br /> +What is it ends<br /> +With friends?</p> +<h3><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span><span class="GutSmall">XLIV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> it should come to +be,<br /> +This proof of you and me,<br /> + This type and sign<br /> +Of hours that smiled and shone,<br /> +And yet seemed dead and gone<br /> + As old-world wine:</p> +<p class="poetry">Of Them Within the Gate<br /> +Ask we no richer fate,<br /> + No boon above,<br /> +For girl child or for boy,<br /> +My gift of life and joy,<br /> + Your gift of love.</p> +<h3><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +176</span><span class="GutSmall">XLV</span><br /> +<i>To</i> W. B.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> the brake the +Nightingale<br /> + Sings exulting to the Rose;<br /> +Though he sees her waxing pale<br /> + In her passionate repose,<br /> +While she triumphs waxing frail,<br /> + Fading even while she glows;<br /> + Though he +knows<br /> + How it +goes—<br /> +Knows of last year’s Nightingale<br /> + Dead with last year’s Rose.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise the enamoured Nightingale,<br /> + Wise the well-belovèd Rose!<br /> +Love and life shall still prevail,<br /> + Nor the silence at the close<br /> +Break the magic of the tale<br /> + In the telling, though it shows—<br /> + <a +name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>Who but +knows<br /> + How it +goes!—<br /> +Life a last year’s Nightingale,<br /> + Love a last year’s Rose.</p> +<h3><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span><span class="GutSmall">XLVI</span><br /> +MATRI DILECTISSIMÆ<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">I. M.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the waste hour<br +/> +Between to-day and yesterday<br /> +We watched, while on my arm—<br /> +Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone—<br /> +Dabbled in sweat the sacred head<br /> +Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange:<br /> +Till the dear face turned dead,<br /> +And to a sound of lamentation<br /> +The good, heroic soul with all its wealth—<br /> +Its sixty years of love and sacrifice,<br /> +Suffering and passionate faith—was reabsorbed<br /> +In the inexorable Peace,<br /> +And life was changed to us for evermore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Was nothing left of her but tears<br /> +Like blood-drops from the heart?<br /> +<a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>Nought +save remorse<br /> +For duty unfulfilled, justice undone,<br /> +And charity ignored? Nothing but love,<br /> +Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth,<br /> +But for this passing<br /> +Into the unimaginable abyss<br /> +These things had never been?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, there were we,<br /> +Her five strong sons!<br /> +To her Death came—the great Deliverer came!—<br /> +As equal comes to equal, throne to throne.<br /> +She was a mother of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stars shine as of old. The unchanging +River,<br /> +Bent on his errand of immortal law,<br /> +Works his appointed way<br /> +To the immemorial sea.<br /> +And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:—<br /> +That she in us yet works and shines,<br /> +Lives and fulfils herself,<br /> +Unending as the river and the stars.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dearest, live on<br /> +In such an immortality<br /> +<a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>As we +thy sons,<br /> +Born of thy body and nursed<br /> +At those wild, faithful breasts,<br /> +Can give—of generous thoughts,<br /> +And honourable words, and deeds<br /> +That make men half in love with fate!<br /> +Live on, O brave and true,<br /> +In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine—<br /> +Our best and theirs! What is that best but thee—<br +/> +Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass<br /> +Like light along the infinite of space<br /> +To the immitigable end?</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the river and the stars,<br /> +O royal and radiant soul,<br /> +Thou dost return, thine influences return<br /> +Upon thy children as in life, and death<br /> +Turns stingless! What is Death<br /> +But Life in act? How should the Unteeming Grave<br /> +Be victor over thee,<br /> +Mother, a mother of men?</p> +<h3><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span><span class="GutSmall">XLVII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Crosses</span> and troubles +a-many have proved me.<br /> +One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me.<br /> +I have worked and dreamed, and I’ve talked at will.<br /> +Of art and drink I have had my fill.<br /> +I’ve comforted here, and I’ve succoured there.<br /> +I’ve faced my foes, and I’ve backed my friends.<br /> +I’ve blundered, and sometimes made amends.<br /> +I have prayed for light, and I’ve known despair.<br /> +Now I look before, as I look behind,<br /> +Come storm, come shine, whatever befall,<br /> +With a grateful heart and a constant mind,<br /> +For the end I know is the best of all.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1888–1889</p> +<h2><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>LONDON VOLUNTARIES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>To</i> Charles Whibley)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1890–1892</p> +<h3><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span><span class="GutSmall">I</span><br /> +<i>Grave</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">St. Margaret’s</span> +bells,<br /> +Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles,<br /> +Sing in the storied air,<br /> +All rosy-and-golden, as with memories<br /> +Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas<br /> +Disconsolate for that the night is nigh.<br /> +O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam<br /> +(Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!)<br /> +Touching these solemn ancientries, and there,<br /> +The silent River ranging tide-mark high<br /> +And the callow, grey-faced Hospital,<br /> +With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream!<br /> +The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees,<br /> +And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky<br /> +(Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!)<br /> +Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall.<br /> +The sober Sabbath stir—<br /> +<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +186</span>Leisurely voices, desultory feet!—<br /> +Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street,<br /> +Where in their summer frocks the girls go by,<br /> +And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer,<br /> +Just as they did an hundred years ago,<br /> +Just as an hundred years to come they will:—<br /> +When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low,<br /> +And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil,<br /> +Nor any sunset fade serene and slow;<br /> +But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die.</p> +<h3><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span><span class="GutSmall">II</span><br /> +<i>Andante con moto</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Forth</span> from the dust +and din,<br /> +The crush, the heat, the many-spotted glare,<br /> +The odour and sense of life and lust aflare,<br /> +The wrangle and jangle of unrests,<br /> +Let us take horse, Dear Heart, take horse and win—<br /> +As from swart August to the green lap of May—<br /> +To quietness and the fresh and fragrant breasts<br /> +Of the still, delicious night, not yet aware<br /> +In any of her innumerable nests<br /> +Of that first sudden plash of dawn,<br /> +Clear, sapphirine, luminous, large,<br /> +Which tells that soon the flowing springs of day<br /> +In deep and ever deeper eddies drawn<br /> +Forward and up, in wider and wider way,<br /> +Shall float the sands, and brim the shores,<br /> +<a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>On this +our lith of the World, as round it roars<br /> +And spins into the outlook of the Sun<br /> +(The Lord’s first gift, the Lord’s especial +charge),<br /> +With light, with living light, from marge to marge<br /> +Until the course He set and staked be run.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through street and square, through square and +street,<br /> +Each with his home-grown quality of dark<br /> +And violated silence, loud and fleet,<br /> +Waylaid by a merry ghost at every lamp,<br /> +The hansom wheels and plunges. Hark, O, hark,<br /> +Sweet, how the old mare’s bit and chain<br /> +Ring back a rough refrain<br /> +Upon the marked and cheerful tramp<br /> +Of her four shoes! Here is the Park,<br /> +And O, the languid midsummer wafts adust,<br /> +The tired midsummer blooms!<br /> +O, the mysterious distances, the glooms<br /> +Romantic, the august<br /> +And solemn shapes! At night this City of Trees<br /> +Turns to a tryst of vague and strange<br /> +And monstrous Majesties,<br /> +<a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>Let +loose from some dim underworld to range<br /> +These terrene vistas till their twilight sets:<br /> +When, dispossessed of wonderfulness, they stand<br /> +Beggared and common, plain to all the land<br /> +For stooks of leaves! And lo! the Wizard Hour,<br /> +His silent, shining sorcery winged with power!<br /> +Still, still the streets, between their carcanets<br /> +Of linking gold, are avenues of sleep.<br /> +But see how gable ends and parapets<br /> +In gradual beauty and significance<br /> +Emerge! And did you hear<br /> +That little twitter-and-cheep,<br /> +Breaking inordinately loud and clear<br /> +On this still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere?<br /> +’Tis a first nest at matins! And behold<br /> +A rakehell cat—how furtive and acold!<br /> +A spent witch homing from some infamous dance—<br /> +Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade<br /> +Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade!<br /> +And now! a little wind and shy,<br /> +The smell of ships (that earnest of romance),<br /> +A sense of space and water, and thereby<br /> +A lamplit bridge ouching the troubled sky,<br /> +And look, O, look! a tangle of silver gleams<br /> +<a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>And +dusky lights, our River and all his dreams,<br /> +His dreams that never save in our deaths can die.</p> +<p class="poetry">What miracle is happening in the air,<br /> +Charging the very texture of the gray<br /> +With something luminous and rare?<br /> +The night goes out like an ill-parcelled fire,<br /> +And, as one lights a candle, it is day.<br /> +The extinguisher, that perks it like a spire<br /> +On the little formal church, is not yet green<br /> +Across the water: but the house-tops nigher,<br /> +The corner-lines, the chimneys—look how clean,<br /> +How new, how naked! See the batch of boats,<br /> +Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam!<br /> +And those are barges that were goblin floats,<br /> +Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream!<br /> +And in the piles the water frolics clear,<br /> +The ripples into loose rings wander and flee,<br /> +And we—we can behold that could but hear<br /> +The ancient River singing as he goes,<br /> +New-mailed in morning, to the ancient Sea.<br /> +The gas burns lank and jaded in its glass:<br /> +The old Ruffian soon shall yawn himself awake,<br /> +<a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>And +light his pipe, and shoulder his tools, and take<br /> +His hobnailed way to work!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Let +us too pass—<br /> +Pass ere the sun leaps and your shadow shows—<br /> +Through these long, blindfold rows<br /> +Of casements staring blind to right and left,<br /> +Each with his gaze turned inward on some piece<br /> +Of life in death’s own likeness—Life bereft<br /> +Of living looks as by the Great Release—<br /> +Pass to an exquisite night’s more exquisite close!</p> +<p class="poetry">Reach upon reach of burial—so they +feel,<br /> +These colonies of dreams! And as we steal<br /> +Homeward together, but for the buxom breeze,<br /> +Fitfully frolicking to heel<br /> +With news of dawn-drenched woods and tumbling seas,<br /> +We might—thus awed, thus lonely that we are—<br /> +Be wandering some dispeopled star,<br /> +Some world of memories and unbroken graves,<br /> +So broods the abounding Silence near and far:<br /> +Till even your footfall craves<br /> +Forgiveness of the majesty it braves.</p> +<h3><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span><span class="GutSmall">III</span><br /> +<i>Scherzando</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> through the +ancient Strand<br /> +The spirit of October, mild and boon<br /> +And sauntering, takes his way<br /> +This golden end of afternoon,<br /> +As though the corn stood yellow in all the land,<br /> +And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lo! the round sun, half-down the western +slope—<br /> +Seen as along an unglazed telescope—<br /> +Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day:<br /> +Gifting the long, lean, lanky street<br /> +And its abounding confluences of being<br /> +With aspects generous and bland;<br /> +Making a thousand harnesses to shine<br /> +As with new ore from some enchanted mine,<br /> +And every horse’s coat so full of sheen<br /> +<a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>He looks +new-tailored, and every ’bus feels clean,<br /> +And never a hansom but is worth the feeing;<br /> +And every jeweller within the pale<br /> +Offers a real Arabian Night for sale;<br /> +And even the roar<br /> +Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour<br /> +Eastward and westward, sounds suffused—<br /> +Seems as it were bemused<br /> +And blurred, and like the speech<br /> +Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach—<br /> +With this enchanted lustrousness,<br /> +This mellow magic, that (as a man’s caress<br /> +Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,<br /> +A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore<br /> +Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)<br /> +Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless<br /> +Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more:<br /> +Till Clement’s, angular and cold and staid,<br /> +Gleams forth in glamour’s very stuffs arrayed;<br /> +And Bride’s, her aëry, unsubstantial charm<br /> +Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone<br /> +Grown flushed and warm,<br /> +Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown;<br /> +And the high majesty of Paul’s<br /> +Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls—<br /> +<a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>Calls to +his millions to behold and see<br /> +How goodly this his London Town can be!</p> +<p class="poetry">For earth and sky and air<br /> +Are golden everywhere,<br /> +And golden with a gold so suave and fine<br /> +The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.<br /> +Trafalgar Square<br /> +(The fountains volleying golden glaze)<br /> +Shines like an angel-market. High aloft<br /> +Over his couchant Lions, in a haze<br /> +Shimmering and bland and soft,<br /> +A dust of chrysoprase,<br /> +Our Sailor takes the golden gaze<br /> +Of the saluting sun, and flames superb,<br /> +As once he flamed it on his ocean round.<br /> +The dingy dreariness of the picture-place,<br /> +Turned very nearly bright,<br /> +Takes on a luminous transiency of grace,<br /> +And shows no more a scandal to the ground.<br /> +The very blind man pottering on the kerb,<br /> +Among the posies and the ostrich feathers<br /> +And the rude voices touched with all the weathers<br /> +Of the long, varying year,<br /> +Shares in the universal alms of light.<br /> +<a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>The +windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires,<br /> +The height and spread of frontage shining sheer,<br /> +The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires—<br /> +’Tis El Dorado—El Dorado plain,<br /> +The Golden City! And when a girl goes by,<br /> +Look! as she turns her glancing head,<br /> +A call of gold is floated from her ear!<br /> +Golden, all golden! In a golden glory,<br /> +Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky,<br /> +The day, not dies but, seems<br /> +Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed<br /> +Upon a past of golden song and story<br /> +And memories of gold and golden dreams.</p> +<h3><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span><span class="GutSmall">IV</span><br /> +<i>Largo e mesto</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Out</span> of the poisonous +East,<br /> +Over a continent of blight,<br /> +Like a maleficent Influence released<br /> +From the most squalid cellarage of hell,<br /> +The Wind-Fiend, the abominable—<br /> +The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light—<br /> +Comes slouching, sullen and obscene,<br /> +Hard on the skirts of the embittered night;<br /> +And in a cloud unclean<br /> +Of excremental humours, roused to strife<br /> +By the operation of some ruinous change,<br /> +Wherever his evil mandate run and range,<br /> +Into a dire intensity of life,<br /> +A craftsman at his bench, he settles down<br /> +To the grim job of throttling London Town.</p> +<p class="poetry">So, by a jealous lightlessness beset<br /> +That might have oppressed the dragons of old time<br /> +<a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime,<br /> +A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams,<br /> +Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet,<br /> +The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark<br /> +In shameful occultation, seems<br /> +A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting,<br /> +With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting,<br /> +Rent in the stuff of a material dark,<br /> +Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale,<br /> +Shows like the leper’s living blotch of bale:<br /> +Uncoiling monstrous into street on street<br /> +Paven with perils, teeming with mischance,<br /> +Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread,<br /> +Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet<br /> +Somewhither in the hideousness ahead;<br /> +Working through wicked airs and deadly dews<br /> +That make the laden robber grin askance<br /> +At the good places in his black romance,<br /> +And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose<br /> +Go pinched and pined to bed<br /> +Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way<br /> +From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows,<br +/> +His green garlands and windy eyots forgot,<br /> +<a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>The old +Father-River flows,<br /> +His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom,<br /> +As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore,<br /> +Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides,<br /> +Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot<br /> +In the squalor of the universal shore:<br /> +His voices sounding through the gruesome air<br /> +As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom<br /> +With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides:<br /> +The while his children, the brave ships,<br /> +No more adventurous and fair,<br /> +Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides,<br /> +But infamously enchanted,<br /> +Huddle together in the foul eclipse,<br /> +Or feel their course by inches desperately,<br /> +As through a tangle of alleys murder-haunted,<br /> +From sinister reach to reach out—out—to sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Death the while—<br /> +Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile,<br /> +Death in his threadbare working trim—<br /> +Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland,<br /> +And with expert, inevitable hand<br /> +Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung,<br /> +<a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>Or +flicks the clot well into the labouring heart:<br /> +Thus signifying unto old and young,<br /> +However hard of mouth or wild of whim,<br /> +’Tis time—’tis time by his ancient +watch—to part<br /> +From books and women and talk and drink and art.<br /> +And you go humbly after him<br /> +To a mean suburban lodging: on the way<br /> +To what or where<br /> +Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say:<br /> +And you—how should you care<br /> +So long as, unreclaimed of hell,<br /> +The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable,<br /> +Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down<br /> +To the black job of burking London Town?</p> +<h3><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span><span class="GutSmall">V</span><br /> +<i>Allegro maëstoso</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Spring</span> winds that +blow<br /> +As over leagues of myrtle-blooms and may;<br /> +Bevies of spring clouds trooping slow,<br /> +Like matrons heavy bosomed and aglow<br /> +With the mild and placid pride of increase! Nay,<br /> +What makes this insolent and comely stream<br /> +Of appetence, this freshet of desire<br /> +(Milk from the wild breasts of the wilful Day!),<br /> +Down Piccadilly dance and murmur and gleam<br /> +In genial wave on wave and gyre on gyre?<br /> +Why does that nymph unparalleled splash and churn<br /> +The wealth of her enchanted urn<br /> +Till, over-billowing all between<br /> +Her cheerful margents, grey and living green,<br /> +It floats and wanders, glittering and fleeing,<br /> +An estuary of the joy of being?<br /> +Why should the lovely leafage of the Park<br /> +Touch to an ecstasy the act of seeing?<br /> +<a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>—Sure, sure my paramour, my Bride of Brides,<br +/> +Lingering and flushed, mysteriously abides<br /> +In some dim, eye-proof angle of odorous dark,<br /> +Some smiling nook of green-and-golden shade,<br /> +In the divine conviction robed and crowned<br /> +The globe fulfils his immemorial round<br /> +But as the marrying-place of all things made!</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no man, this deifying day,<br /> +But feels the primal blessing in his blood.<br /> +There is no woman but disdains—<br /> +The sacred impulse of the May<br /> +Brightening like sex made sunshine through her veins—<br /> +To vail the ensigns of her womanhood.<br /> +None but, rejoicing, flaunts them as she goes,<br /> +Bounteous in looks of her delicious best,<br /> +On her inviolable quest:<br /> +These with their hopes, with their sweet secrets those,<br /> +But all desirable and frankly fair,<br /> +As each were keeping some most prosperous tryst,<br /> +And in the knowledge went imparadised!<br /> +For look! a magical influence everywhere,<br /> +Look how the liberal and transfiguring air<br /> +<a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>Washes +this inn of memorable meetings,<br /> +This centre of ravishments and gracious greetings,<br /> +Till, through its jocund loveliness of length<br /> +A tidal-race of lust from shore to shore,<br /> +A brimming reach of beauty met with strength,<br /> +It shines and sounds like some miraculous dream,<br /> +Some vision multitudinous and agleam,<br /> +Of happiness as it shall be evermore!</p> +<p class="poetry">Praise God for giving<br /> +Through this His messenger among the days<br /> +His word the life He gave is thrice-worth living!<br /> +For Pan, the bountiful, imperious Pan—<br /> +Not dead, not dead, as impotent dreamers feigned,<br /> +But the gay genius of a million Mays<br /> +Renewing his beneficent endeavour!—<br /> +Still reigns and triumphs, as he hath triumphed and reigned<br /> +Since in the dim blue dawn of time<br /> +The universal ebb-and-flow began,<br /> +To sound his ancient music, and prevails,<br /> +By the persuasion of his mighty rhyme,<br /> +Here in this radiant and immortal street<br /> +Lavishly and omnipotently as ever<br /> +In the open hills, the undissembling dales,<br /> +<a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>The +laughing-places of the juvenile earth.<br /> +For lo! the wills of man and woman meet,<br /> +Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared,<br /> +As once in Eden’s prodigal bowers befell,<br /> +To share his shameless, elemental mirth<br /> +In one great act of faith: while deep and strong,<br /> +Incomparably nerved and cheered,<br /> +The enormous heart of London joys to beat<br /> +To the measures of his rough, majestic song;<br /> +The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell<br /> +That keeps the rolling universe ensphered,<br /> +And life, and all for which life lives to long,<br /> +Wanton and wondrous and for ever well.</p> +<h2><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>RHYMES AND RHYTHMS</h2> +<p style="text-align: right">1889–1892</p> +<h3><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span><i>PROLOGUE</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>Something is dead</i> . . .<br /> +<i>The grace of sunset solitudes</i>, <i>the march</i><br /> +<i>Of the solitary moon</i>, <i>the pomp and power</i><br /> +<i>Of round on round of shining soldier-stars</i><br /> +<i>Patrolling space</i>, <i>the bounties of the sun</i>—<br +/> +<i>Sovran</i>, <i>tremendous</i>, <i>unimaginable</i>—<br +/> +<i>The multitudinous friendliness of the sea</i>,<br /> +<i>Possess no more—no more</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Something is dead</i> . . .<br /> +<i>The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks</i><br /> +<i>And spreads</i>, <i>the burden of Winter heavier +weighs</i>,<br /> +<i>His melancholy close and closer yet</i><br /> +<i>Cleaves</i>, <i>and those incantations of the Spring</i><br /> +<i>That made the heart a centre of miracles</i><br /> +<i>Grow formal</i>, <i>and the wonder-working bours</i><br /> +<i>Arise no more—no more</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Something is dead</i> . . .<br /> +<i>’Tis time to creep in close about the fire</i><br /> +<a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span><i>And +tell grey tales of what we were</i>, <i>and dream</i><br /> +<i>Old dreams and faded</i>, <i>and as we may rejoice</i><br /> +<i>In the young life that round us leaps and laughs</i>,<br /> +<i>A fountain in the sunshine</i>, <i>in the pride</i><br /> +<i>Of God’s best gift that to us twain returns</i>,<br /> +<i>Dear Heart</i>, <i>no more—no more</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span><span class="GutSmall">I</span><br /> +<i>To</i> H. B. M. W.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> forlorn +sunsets flare and fade<br /> + On desolate sea and lonely sand,<br /> +Out of the silence and the shade<br /> + What is the voice of strange command<br /> +Calling you still, as friend calls friend<br /> + With love that cannot brook delay,<br /> +To rise and follow the ways that wend<br /> + Over the hills and far away?</p> +<p class="poetry">Hark in the city, street on street<br /> + A roaring reach of death and life,<br /> +Of vortices that clash and fleet<br /> + And ruin in appointed strife,<br /> +Hark to it calling, calling clear,<br /> + Calling until you cannot stay<br /> +From dearer things than your own most dear<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow,<br /> + Out of the sight of lamp and star,<br /> +It calls you where the good winds blow,<br /> + And the unchanging meadows are:<br /> +From faded hopes and hopes agleam,<br /> + It calls you, calls you night and day<br /> +Beyond the dark into the dream<br /> + Over the hills and far away</p> +<h3><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span><span class="GutSmall">II</span><br /> +<i>To</i> R. F. B.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> are the Choice of +the Will: God, when He gave the word<br /> +That called us into line, set in our hand a sword;</p> +<p class="poetry">Set us a sword to wield none else could lift +and draw,<br /> +And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law.</p> +<p class="poetry">East and west and north, wherever the battle +grew,<br /> +As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy +cease—<br /> +(Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of +peace!)—</p> +<p class="poetry">Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or +fire,<br /> +Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>Road was never so rough that we left its purpose +dark;<br /> +Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark;</p> +<p class="poetry">We tracked the winds of the world to the steps +of their very thrones;<br /> +The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones;</p> +<p class="poetry">Till now the name of names, England, the name +of might,<br /> +Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal +night;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the call of her morning drum goes in a +girdle of sound,<br /> +Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and +round;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to +the mother-breeze,<br /> +Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her +flowers,<br /> +And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and +showers!</p> +<p class="poetry">Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us +fade and die,<br /> +While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay +their father’s debt,<br /> +And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set;</p> +<p class="poetry">And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that +none shall brave,<br /> +Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming +Grave.</p> +<h3><a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span><span class="GutSmall">III</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">desolate</span> shore,<br +/> +The sinister seduction of the Moon,<br /> +The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Flaunting, tawdry and grim,<br /> +From cloud to cloud along her beat,<br /> +Leering her battered and inveterate leer,<br /> +She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,<br /> +Her horrible old man,<br /> +Mumbling old oaths and warming<br /> +His villainous old bones with villainous talk—<br /> +The secrets of their grisly housekeeping<br /> +Since they went out upon the pad<br /> +In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:<br /> +Growling, hideous and hoarse,<br /> +Tales of unnumbered Ships,<br /> +Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,<br /> +In some vile alley of the night<br /> +<a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>Waylaid +and bludgeoned—<br /> +Dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Deep cellared in primeval ooze,<br /> +Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,<br /> +They lie where the lean water-worm<br /> +Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides<br /> +Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,<br /> +Thus fouled and desecrate,<br /> +The summons of the Trumpet, and the while<br /> +These Twain, their murderers,<br /> +Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,<br /> +Hang at the heels of their children—She aloft<br /> +As in the shining streets,<br /> +He as in ambush at some accomplice door.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stalwart Ships,<br /> +The beautiful and bold adventurers!<br /> +Stationed out yonder in the isle,<br /> +The tall Policeman,<br /> +Flashing his bull’s-eye, as he peers<br /> +About him in the ancient vacancy,<br /> +Tells them this way is safety—this way home.</p> +<h3><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span><span class="GutSmall">IV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> came with the +threat of a waning moon<br /> + And the wail of an ebbing tide,<br /> +But many a woman has lived for less,<br /> + And many a man has died;<br /> +For life upon life took hold and passed,<br /> + Strong in a fate set free,<br /> +Out of the deep into the dark<br /> + On for the years to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the gloom of a waning moon<br /> + And the song of an ebbing tide,<br /> +Chance upon chance of love and death<br /> + Took wing for the world so wide.<br /> +O, leaf out of leaf is the way of the land,<br /> + Wave out of wave of the sea<br /> +And who shall reckon what lives may live<br /> + In the life that we bade to be?</p> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span><span class="GutSmall">V</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span>, my heart, do we +love her so?<br /> + (Geraldine, Geraldine!)<br /> +Why does the great sea ebb and flow?—<br /> + Why does the round world spin?<br /> +Geraldine, Geraldine,<br /> + Bid me my life renew:<br /> +What is it worth unless I win,<br /> + Love—love and you?</p> +<p class="poetry">Why, my heart, when we speak her name<br /> + (Geraldine, Geraldine!)<br /> +Throbs the word like a flinging flame?—<br /> + Why does the Spring begin?<br /> +Geraldine, Geraldine,<br /> + Bid me indeed to be:<br /> +Open your heart, and take us in,<br /> + Love—love and me.</p> +<h3><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span><span class="GutSmall">VI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> with the ruined +sunset,<br /> + The strange forsaken sands,<br /> +What is it waits, and wanders,<br /> + And signs with desparate hands?</p> +<p class="poetry">What is it calls in the twilight—<br /> + Calls as its chance were vain?<br /> +The cry of a gull sent seaward<br /> + Or the voice of an ancient pain?</p> +<p class="poetry">The red ghost of the sunset,<br /> + It walks them as its own,<br /> +These dreary and desolate reaches . . .<br /> + But O, that it walked alone!</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span><span class="GutSmall">VII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There’s</span> a +regret<br /> +So grinding, so immitigably sad,<br /> +Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .<br /> +Do you not know it yet?</p> +<p class="poetry">For deeds undone<br /> +Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due,<br /> +Till there seems naught so despicable as you<br /> +In all the grin o’ the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like an old shoe<br /> +The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie<br /> +About the beach of Time, till by and by<br /> +Death, that derides you too—</p> +<p class="poetry">Death, as he goes<br /> +His ragman’s round, espies you, where you stray,<br /> +With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;<br /> +And then—and then, who knows</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>But the kind Grave<br /> +Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,<br /> +In that black bridewell working out his term,<br /> +Hanker and grope and crave?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Poor fool that might—<br /> +That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,<br /> +Think of it, here and thus made over to me<br /> +In the implacable night!’</p> +<p class="poetry">And writhing, fain<br /> +And like a triumphing lover, he shall take<br /> +His fill where no high memory lives to make<br /> +His obscene victory vain.</p> +<h3><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span><span class="GutSmall">VIII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> A. J. H.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Time</span> and the +Earth—<br /> +The old Father and Mother—<br /> +Their teeming accomplished,<br /> +Their purpose fulfilled,<br /> +Close with a smile<br /> +For a moment of kindness,<br /> +Ere for the winter<br /> +They settle to sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Failing yet gracious,<br /> +Slow pacing, soon homing,<br /> +A patriarch that strolls<br /> +Through the tents of his children,<br /> +The Sun, as he journeys<br /> +His round on the lower<br /> +Ascents of the blue,<br /> +Washes the roofs<br /> +<a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>And the +hillsides with clarity;<br /> +Charms the dark pools<br /> +Till they break into pictures;<br /> +Scatters magnificent<br /> +Alms to the beggar trees;<br /> +Touches the mist-folk,<br /> +That crowd to his escort,<br /> +Into translucencies<br /> +Radiant and ravishing:<br /> +As with the visible<br /> +Spirit of Summer<br /> +Gloriously vaporised,<br /> +Visioned in gold!</p> +<p class="poetry">Love, though the fallen leaf<br /> +Mark, and the fleeting light<br /> +And the loud, loitering<br /> +Footfall of darkness<br /> +Sign to the heart<br /> +Of the passage of destiny,<br /> +Here is the ghost<br /> +Of a summer that lived for us,<br /> +Here is a promise<br /> +Of summers to be.</p> +<h3><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span><span class="GutSmall">IX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">As</span> like the +Woman as you can’—<br /> + (<i>Thus the New Adam was beguiled</i>)—<br /> +‘So shall you touch the Perfect Man’—<br /> + (<i>God in the Garden heard and smiled</i>).<br /> +‘Your father perished with his day:<br /> + ‘A clot of passions fierce and blind,<br /> +‘He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:<br /> + ‘Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The Brute that lurks and irks within,<br +/> + ‘How, till you have him gagged and bound,<br +/> +‘Escape the foullest form of Sin?’<br /> + (<i>God in the Garden laughed and frowned</i>).<br +/> +‘So vile, so rank, the bestial mood<br /> + ‘In which the race is bid to be,<br /> +‘It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:<br /> + ‘Live, therefore, you, for Purity!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>‘Take for your mate no gallant croup,<br /> + ‘No girl all grace and natural will:<br /> +‘To work her mission were to stoop,<br /> + ‘Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.<br /> +‘Choose one of whom your grosser make’—<br /> + (<i>God in the Garden laughed +outright</i>)—<br /> +‘The true refining touch may take,<br /> + ‘Till both attain to Life’s last +height.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There, equal, purged of soul and +sense.<br /> + ‘Beneficent, high-thinking, just,<br /> +‘Beyond the appeal of Violence,<br /> + ‘Incapable of common Lust,<br /> +‘In mental Marriage still prevail’—<br /> + (<i>God in the Garden hid His face</i>)—<br /> +‘Till you achieve that Female-Male<br /> + ‘In Which shall culminate the race.’</p> +<h3><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span><span class="GutSmall">X</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Midsummer</span> midnight +skies,<br /> +Midsummer midnight influences and airs,<br /> +The shining, sensitive silver of the sea<br /> +Touched with the strange-hued blazonings of dawn;<br /> +And all so solemnly still I seem to hear<br /> +The breathing of Life and Death,<br /> +The secular Accomplices,<br /> +Renewing the visible miracle of the world.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wistful stars<br /> +Shine like good memories. The young morning wind<br /> +Blows full of unforgotten hours<br /> +As over a region of roses. Life and Death<br /> +Sound on—sound on . . . And the night magical,<br /> +Troubled yet comforting, thrills<br /> +As if the Enchanted Castle at the heart<br /> +Of the wood’s dark wonderment<br /> +Swung wide his valves, and filled the dim sea-banks<br /> +With exquisite visitants:<br /> +<a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>Words +fiery-hearted yet, dreams and desires<br /> +With living looks intolerable, regrets<br /> +Whose voice comes as the voice of an only child<br /> +Heard from the grave: shapes of a Might-Have-Been—<br /> +Beautiful, miserable, distraught—<br /> +The Law no man may baffle denied and slew.</p> +<p class="poetry">The spell-bound ships stand as at gaze<br /> +To let the marvel by. The grey road glooms . . .<br /> +Glimmers . . . goes out . . . and there, O, there where it +fades,<br /> +What grace, what glamour, what wild will,<br /> +Transfigure the shadows? Whose,<br /> +Heart of my heart, Soul of my soul, but yours?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ghosts—ghosts—the sapphirine air<br +/> +Teems with them even to the gleaming ends<br /> +Of the wild day-spring! Ghosts,<br /> +Everywhere—everywhere—till I and you<br /> +At last—dear love, at last!—<br /> +Are in the dreaming, even as Life and Death,<br /> +Twin-ministers of the unoriginal Will.</p> +<h3><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +227</span><span class="GutSmall">XI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gulls</span> in an +aëry morrice<br /> + Gleam and vanish and gleam . . .<br /> +The full sea, sleepily basking,<br /> + Dreams under skies of dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gulls in an aëry morrice<br /> + Circle and swoop and close . . .<br /> +Fuller and ever fuller<br /> + The rose of the morning blows.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gulls, in an aëry morrice<br /> + Frolicking, float and fade . . .<br /> +O, the way of a bird in the sunshine,<br /> + The way of a man with a maid!</p> +<h3><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +228</span><span class="GutSmall">XII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> starlit garden +grey with dew,<br /> +Some chamber flushed with wine and fire,<br /> +What matters where, so I and you<br /> + Are worthy our desire?</p> +<p class="poetry">Behind, a past that scolds and jeers<br /> +For ungirt loins and lamps unlit;<br /> +In front, the unmanageable years,<br /> + The trap upon the Pit;</p> +<p class="poetry">Think on the shame of dreams for deeds,<br /> +The scandal of unnatural strife,<br /> +The slur upon immortal needs,<br /> + The treason done to life:</p> +<p class="poetry">Arise! no more a living lie,<br /> +And with me quicken and control<br /> +Some memory that shall magnify<br /> + The universal Soul.</p> +<h3><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +229</span><span class="GutSmall">XIII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> James McNeill Whistler</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> a stagnant +sky,<br /> +Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,<br /> +The River, jaded and forlorn,<br /> +Welters and wanders wearily—wretchedly—on;<br /> +Yet in and out among the ribs<br /> +Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles<br /> +Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,<br /> +Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,<br /> +Lingers to babble to a broken tune<br /> +(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)<br /> +So melancholy a soliloquy<br /> +It sounds as it might tell<br /> +The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,<br /> +The terror of Time and Change and Death,<br /> +That wastes this floating, transitory world.</p> +<p class="poetry">What of the incantation<br /> +That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore<br /> +<a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>To take +and wear the night<br /> +Like a material majesty?<br /> +That touched the shafts of wavering fire<br /> +About this miserable welter and wash—<br /> +(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)—<br /> +Into long, shining signals from the panes<br /> +Of an enchanted pleasure-house,<br /> +Where life and life might live life lost in life<br /> +For ever and evermore?</p> +<p class="poetry">O Death! O Change! O Time!<br /> +Without you, O, the insuperable eyes<br /> +Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,<br /> +These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!</p> +<h3><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span><span class="GutSmall">XIV</span><br /> +<i>To</i> J. A. C.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fresh</span> from his +fastnesses<br /> +Wholesome and spacious,<br /> +The North Wind, the mad huntsman,<br /> +Halloas on his white hounds<br /> +Over the grey, roaring<br /> +Reaches and ridges,<br /> +The forest of ocean,<br /> +The chace of the world.<br /> +Hark to the peal<br /> +Of the pack in full cry,<br /> +As he thongs them before him,<br /> +Swarming voluminous,<br /> +Weltering, wide-wallowing,<br /> +Till in a ruining<br /> +Chaos of energy,<br /> +<a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>Hurled +on their quarry,<br /> +They crash into foam!</p> +<p class="poetry">Old Indefatigable,<br /> +Time’s right-hand man, the sea<br /> +Laughs as in joy<br /> +From his millions of wrinkles:<br /> +Laughs that his destiny,<br /> +Great with the greatness<br /> +Of triumphing order,<br /> +Shows as a dwarf<br /> +By the strength of his heart<br /> +And the might of his hands.</p> +<p class="poetry">Master of masters,<br /> +O maker of heroes,<br /> +Thunder the brave,<br /> +Irresistible message:—<br /> +‘Life is worth Living<br /> +Through every grain of it,<br /> +From the foundations<br /> +To the last edge<br /> +Of the cornerstone, death.’</p> +<h3><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span><span class="GutSmall">XV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> played and sang +a snatch of song,<br /> + A song that all-too well we knew;<br /> +But whither had flown the ancient wrong;<br /> + And was it really I and you?<br /> +O, since the end of life’s to live<br /> + And pay in pence the common debt,<br /> +What should it cost us to forgive<br /> + Whose daily task is to forget?</p> +<p class="poetry">You babbled in the well-known voice—<br +/> + Not new, not new the words you said.<br /> +You touched me off that famous poise,<br /> + That old effect, of neck and head.<br /> +Dear, was it really you and I?<br /> + In truth the riddle’s ill to read,<br /> +So many are the deaths we die<br /> + Before we can be dead indeed.</p> +<h3><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span><span class="GutSmall">XVI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Space</span> and dread and +the dark—<br /> +Over a livid stretch of sky<br /> +Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train<br /> +Of huge, primeval presences<br /> +Stooping beneath the weight<br /> +Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;<br /> +While in the haunting loneliness<br /> +The far sea waits and wanders with a sound<br /> +As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,<br /> +Passing unseen<br /> +To some immitigable end<br /> +With her grey henchman, Death.</p> +<p class="poetry">What larve, what spectre is this<br /> +Thrilling the wilderness to life<br /> +As with the bodily shape of Fear?<br /> +What but a desperate sense,<br /> +A strong foreboding of those dim<br /> +Interminable continents, forlorn<br /> +<a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>And +many-silenced, in a dusk<br /> +Inviolable utterly, and dead<br /> +As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes<br /> +In hugger-mugger through eternity?</p> +<p class="poetry">Life—life—let there be life!<br /> +Better a thousand times the roaring hours<br /> +When wave and wind,<br /> +Like the Arch-Murderer in flight<br /> +From the Avenger at his heel,<br /> +Storm through the desolate fastnesses<br /> +And wild waste places of the world!</p> +<p class="poetry">Life—give me life until the end,<br /> +That at the very top of being,<br /> +The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,<br /> +Out of the reddest hell of the fight<br /> +I may be snatched and flung<br /> +Into the everlasting lull,<br /> +The immortal, incommunicable dream.</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span><span class="GutSmall">XVII</span><br /> +CARMEN PATIBULARE<br /> +<i>To</i> H. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tree</span>, Old Tree of +the Triple Crook<br /> + And the rope of the Black Election,<br /> +’Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule<br /> + Can never achieve perfection:<br /> +So ‘It’s O, for the time of the new Sublime<br /> + And the better than human way,<br /> +When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own<br /> + And the Wolf shall have his day!’</p> +<p class="poetry">For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam<br /> + And the power of provocation,<br /> +You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit<br /> + Till your fruit is mere stupration:<br /> +<a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>And +‘It’s how should we rise to be pure and wise,<br /> + And how can we choose but fall,<br /> +So long as the Hangman makes us dread,<br /> + And the Noose floats free for all?’</p> +<p class="poetry">So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign<br /> + And the trick there’s no recalling,<br /> +They will haggle and hew till they hack you through<br /> + And at last they lay you sprawling:<br /> +When ‘Hey! for the hour of the race in flower<br /> + And the long good-bye to sin!’<br /> +And for the lack the fires of Hell gone out<br /> + Of the fuel to keep them in!’</p> +<p class="poetry">But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough<br /> + And the ghastly Dreams that tend you,<br /> +Your growth began with the life of Man,<br /> + And only his death can end you.<br /> +They may tug in line at your hempen twine,<br /> + They may flourish with axe and saw;<br /> +But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs<br /> + In the living rock of Law.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork,<br /> + When the spent sun reels and blunders<br /> +<a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 238</span>Down a +welkin lit with the flare of the Pit<br /> + As it seethes in spate and thunders,<br /> +Stern on the glare of the tortured air<br /> + Your lines august shall gloom,<br /> +And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed<br /> + In the ruining roar of Doom.</p> +<h3><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span><span class="GutSmall">XVIII</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">I. M.</span><br /> +MARGARET EMMA HENLEY<br /> +(1888–1894)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> you wake in +your crib,<br /> +You, an inch of experience—<br /> +Vaulted about<br /> +With the wonder of darkness;<br /> +Wailing and striving<br /> +To reach from your feebleness<br /> +Something you feel<br /> +Will be good to and cherish you,<br /> +Something you know<br /> +And can rest upon blindly:<br /> +O, then a hand<br /> +(Your mother’s, your mother’s!)<br /> +By the fall of its fingers<br /> +All knowledge, all power to you,<br /> +Out of the dreary,<br /> +Discouraging strangenesses<br /> +Comes to and masters you,<br /> +<a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>Takes +you, and lovingly<br /> +Woos you and soothes you<br /> +Back, as you cling to it,<br /> +Back to some comforting<br /> +Corner of sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">So you wake in your bed,<br /> +Having lived, having loved;<br /> +But the shadows are there,<br /> +And the world and its kingdoms<br /> +Incredibly faded;<br /> +And you group through the Terror<br /> +Above you and under<br /> +For the light, for the warmth,<br /> +The assurance of life;<br /> +But the blasts are ice-born,<br /> +And your heart is nigh burst<br /> +With the weight of the gloom<br /> +And the stress of your strangled<br /> +And desperate endeavour:<br /> +Sudden a hand—<br /> +Mother, O Mother!—<br /> +God at His best to you,<br /> +Out of the roaring,<br /> +Impossible silences,<br /> +<a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>Falls on +and urges you,<br /> +Mightily, tenderly,<br /> +Forth, as you clutch at it,<br /> +Forth to the infinite<br /> +Peace of the Grave.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>October</i> 1891</p> +<h3><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span><span class="GutSmall">XIX</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">I. M.</span><br /> +R. L. S.<br /> +(1850–1894)</h3> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">Time</span> and Change, +they range and range<br /> + From sunshine round to thunder!—<br /> +They glance and go as the great winds blow,<br /> + And the best of our dreams drive under:<br /> +For Time and Change estrange, estrange—<br /> + And, now they have looked and seen us,<br /> +O, we that were dear, we are all-too near<br /> + With the thick of the world between us.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, Death and Time, they chime and chime<br /> + Like bells at sunset falling!—<br /> +They end the song, they right the wrong,<br /> + They set the old echoes calling:<br /> +For Death and Time bring on the prime<br /> + Of God’s own chosen weather,<br /> +And we lie in the peace of the Great Release<br /> + As once in the grass together.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>February</i> 1891</p> +<h3><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span><span class="GutSmall">XX</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> shadow of +Dawn;<br /> +Stillness and stars and over-mastering dreams<br /> +Of Life and Death and Sleep;<br /> +Heard over gleaming flats, the old, unchanging sound<br /> +Of the old, unchanging Sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">My soul and yours—<br /> +O, hand in hand let us fare forth, two ghosts,<br /> +Into the ghostliness,<br /> +The infinite and abounding solitudes,<br /> +Beyond—O, beyond!—beyond . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Here in the porch<br /> +Upon the multitudinous silences<br /> +Of the kingdoms of the grave,<br /> +We twain are you and I—two ghosts Omnipotence<br /> +Can touch no more . . . no more!</p> +<h3><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span><span class="GutSmall">XXI</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the wind storms +by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves<br /> +Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves,<br /> +Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life<br /> +Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of +strife—<br /> +Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves.</p> +<p class="poetry">But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog +before,<br /> +When the rain-rot spreads and a tame sea mumbles the shore,<br /> +Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong,<br /> +Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire’s old +song—<br /> +O, you envy the blesséd death that can live no more!</p> +<h3><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span><span class="GutSmall">XXII</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Trees</span> and the menace +of night;<br /> +Then a long, lonely, leaden mere<br /> +Backed by a desolate fell,<br /> +As by a spectral battlement; and then,<br /> +Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,<br /> +A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky,<br /> +So beggared, so incredibly bereft<br /> +Of starlight and the song of racing worlds,<br /> +It might have bellied down upon the Void<br /> +Where as in terror Light was beginning to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night<br +/> +(Night and the wretchedness of the sky)<br /> +Is it the hurry of the rain?<br /> +Or the noise of a drive of the Dead,<br /> +Streaming before the irresistible Will<br /> +<a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>Through +the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land<br /> +Between their place and ours?</p> +<p class="poetry">Like the forgetfulness<br /> +Of the work-a-day world made visible,<br /> +A mist falls from the melancholy sky.<br /> +A messenger from some lost and loving soul,<br /> +Hopeless, far wandered, dazed<br /> +Here in the provinces of life,<br /> +A great white moth fades miserably past.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thro’ the trees in the strange dead +night,<br /> +Under the vast dead sky,<br /> +Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead<br /> +Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell,<br /> +And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.</p> +<h3><a name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +247</span><span class="GutSmall">XXIII</span><br /> +<i>To</i> P. A. G.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> they trysted, +here they strayed,<br /> + In the leafage dewy and boon,<br /> +Many a man and many a maid,<br /> + And the morn was merry June.<br /> +‘Death is fleet, Life is sweet,’<br /> + Sang the blackbird in the may;<br /> +And the hour with flying feet,<br /> + While they dreamed, was yesterday.</p> +<p class="poetry">Many a maid and many a man<br /> + Found the leafage close and boon;<br /> +Many a destiny began—<br /> + O, the morn was merry June!<br /> +Dead and gone, dead and gone,<br /> + (Hark the blackbird in the may!),<br /> +Life and Death went hurrying on,<br /> + Cheek on cheek—and where were they?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>Dust on dust engendering dust<br /> + In the leafage fresh and boon,<br /> +Man and maid fulfil their trust—<br /> + Still the morn turns merry June.<br /> +Mother Life, Father Death<br /> + (O, the blackbird in the may!),<br /> +Each the other’s breath for breath,<br /> + Fleet the times of the world away.</p> +<h3><a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +249</span><span class="GutSmall">XXIV</span><br /> +<i>To</i> A. C.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> to the staring +Day,<br /> +For all the importunate questionings he pursues<br /> +In his big, violent voice,<br /> +Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude,<br /> +The Trees—God’s sentinels<br /> +Over His gift of live, life-giving air,<br /> +Yield of their huge, unutterable selves.<br /> +Midsummer-manifold, each one<br /> +Voluminous, a labyrinth of life,<br /> +They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams<br /> +That haunt their leafier privacies,<br /> +Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still<br /> +With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile<br /> +Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade,<br /> +And disappearances of homing birds,<br /> +<a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>And +frolicsome freaks<br /> +Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs.</p> +<p class="poetry">But at the word<br /> +Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night,<br /> +Night of the many secrets, whose effect—<br /> +Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread—<br /> +Themselves alone may fully apprehend,<br /> +They tremble and are changed.<br /> +In each, the uncouth individual soul<br /> +Looms forth and glooms<br /> +Essential, and, their bodily presences<br /> +Touched with inordinate significance,<br /> +Wearing the darkness like the livery<br /> +Of some mysterious and tremendous guild,<br /> +They brood—they menace—they appal;<br /> +Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring<br /> +Wild hands of warning in the face<br /> +Of some inevitable advance of the doom;<br /> +Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing<br /> +As in some monstrous market-place,<br /> +They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime,<br /> +In that old speech their forefathers<br /> +Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard<br /> +<a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>The +troubled voice of Eve<br /> +Naming the wondering folk of Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them +tell<br /> +The tale of their dim life, with all<br /> +Its compost of experience: how the Sun<br /> +Spreads them their daily feast,<br /> +Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine;<br /> +Of the old Moon’s fitful solicitude<br /> +And those mild messages the Stars<br /> +Descend in silver silences and dews;<br /> +Or what the sweet-breathing West,<br /> +Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat,<br /> +Said, and their leafage laughed;<br /> +And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain<br /> +Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the +Year—<br /> +The sting of the stirring sap<br /> +Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring,<br /> +Their summer amplitudes of pomp,<br /> +Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill,<br /> +Embittered housewifery<br /> +Of the lean Winter: all such things,<br /> +And with them all the goodness of the Master,<br /> +<a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>Whose +right hand blesses with increase and life,<br /> +Whose left hand honours with decay and death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus under the constraint of Night<br /> +These gross and simple creatures,<br /> +Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years,<br /> +A servant of the Will!<br /> +And God, the Craftsman, as He walks<br /> +The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer<br /> +In thus accomplishing<br /> +The aims of His miraculous artistry.</p> +<h3><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +253</span><span class="GutSmall">XXV</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> have I done for +you,<br /> + England, my England?<br /> +What is there I would not do,<br /> + England, my own?<br /> +With your glorious eyes austere,<br /> +As the Lord were walking near,<br /> +Whispering terrible things and dear<br /> + As the Song on your bugles +blown,<br /> + + +England—<br /> + Round the world on your bugles +blown!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where shall the watchful Sun,<br /> + England, my England,<br /> +Match the master-work you’ve done,<br /> + England, my own?<br /> +When shall he rejoice agen<br /> +Such a breed of mighty men<br /> +As come forward, one to ten,<br /> + To the Song on your bugles +blown,<br /> + + +England—<br /> + Down the years on your bugles +blown?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span>Ever the faith endures,<br /> + England, my England:—<br /> +‘Take and break us: we are yours,<br /> + ‘England, my own!<br /> +‘Life is good, and joy runs high<br /> +‘Between English earth and sky:<br /> +‘Death is death; but we shall die<br /> + ‘To the Song on your bugles +blown,<br /> + + +‘England—<br /> + ‘To the stars on your bugles +blown!</p> +<p class="poetry">They call you proud and hard,<br /> + England, my England:<br /> +You with worlds to watch and ward,<br /> + England, my own!<br /> +You whose mailed hand keeps the keys<br /> +Of such teeming destinies<br /> +You could know nor dread nor ease<br /> + Were the Song on your bugles +blown,<br /> + + +England,<br /> + Round the Pit on your bugles +blown!</p> +<p class="poetry">Mother of Ships whose might,<br /> + England, my England,<br /> +<a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>Is the +fierce old Sea’s delight,<br /> + England, my own,<br /> +Chosen daughter of the Lord,<br /> +Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,<br /> +There’s the menace of the Word<br /> + In the Song on your bugles +blown,<br /> + + +England—<br /> + Out of heaven on your bugles +blown!</p> +<h3><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span><i>EPILOGUE</i></h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>These</i>, <i>to you now</i>, <i>O</i>, +<i>more than ever now</i>—<br /> +<i>Now that the Ancient Enemy</i><br /> +<i>Has passed</i>, <i>and we</i>, <i>we two that are one</i>, +<i>have seen</i><br /> +<i>A piece of perfect Life</i><br /> +<i>Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death</i><br /> +<i>The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled</i><br /> +<i>In pity and pride</i>,<br /> +<i>Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil</i><br /> +<i>From those home-kingdoms he left desolate</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Poor windlestraws</i><br /> +<i>On the great</i>, <i>sullen</i>, <i>roaring pool of +Time</i><br /> +<i>And Chance and Change</i>, <i>I know</i>!<br /> +<i>But they are yours</i>, <i>as I am</i>, <i>till we +attain</i><br /> +<i>That end for which me make</i>, <i>we two that are one</i>:<br +/> +<i>A little</i>, <i>exquisite Ghost</i><br /> +<i>Between us</i>, <i>smiling with the serenest eyes</i><br /> +<i>Seen in this world</i>, <i>and calling</i>, <i>calling +still</i><br /> +<i>In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties</i><br /> +<i>Of sweetness</i>, <i>thrilling back across the grave</i>,<br +/> +<i>Break the poor heart to hear</i>:—<br /> + + +‘Come, Dadsie, come!<br /> +Mama, how long—how long!’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>July</i> 1897.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1568-h.htm or 1568-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/6/1568 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was donated by Diarmuid Pigott <diarmuid@merriweb.com.au> +with some additional material and proofing by David Price, +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + + +Poems by William Ernest Henley + + + + +Contents: + +Dedication +Advertisement +In Hospital + Preface + Enter Patient + Waiting + Interior + Before + Operation + After + Vigil + Staff-Nurse: Old Style + Lady Probationer + Staff-Nurse: New Style + Clinical + Etching + Casualty + Ave, Caeser! + 'The Chief' + House-Surgeon + Interlude + Children: Private Ward + Srcubber + Visitor + Romance + Pastoral + Music + Suicide + Apparition + Anterotics + Nocturn + Discharged +Envoy +The Song of the Sword +Arabian Nights' Entertainments +Bric-e-Brac + Ballade of the Toyokuni Colour-Print + Ballade of Youth and Age + Ballade of Midsummer Days and Nights + Ballade of Dead Actors + Ballade Made in the Hot Weather + Ballade of Truisms + Double Ballade of Life and Death + Double Ballade of the Nothingness of Things + At Queensferry + Orientale + In Fisherrow + Back-View + Croquis + Attadale, West Highlands + From a Window in Princes Street + In the Dials + The gods are dead + Let us be drunk + When you are old + Beside the idle summer sea + The ways of Death are soothing and serene + We shall surely die + What is to come +Echos + Preface + To my mother + Life is bitter + O, gather me the rose + Out of the night that covers me + I am the Reaper + Praise the generous gods + Fill a glass with golden wine + We'll go no more a-roving + Madam Life's a piece in bloom + The sea is full of wandering foam + Thick is the darkness + To me at my fifth-floor window + Bring her again, O western wind + The wan sun westers, faint and slow + There is a wheel inside my head + While the west is paling + The sands are alive with sunshine + The nightingale has a lyre of gold + Your heart has trembled to my tongue + The surges gushed and sounded + We flash across the level + The West a glimmering lake of light + The skies are strown with stars + The full sea rolls and thunders + In the year that's come and gone + In the placid summer midnight + She sauntered by the swinging seas + Blithe dreams arise to greet us + A child + Kate-A-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams + O, have you blessed, behind the stars + O, Falmouth is a fine town + The ways are green + Life in her creaking shoes + A late lark twitters from the quiet skies + I gave my heart to a woman + Or ever the knightly years were gone + On the way to Kew + The past was goodly once + The spring, my dear + The Spirit of Wine + A Wink from Hesper + Friends. . . old friends + If it should come to be + From the brake the Nightingale + In the waste hour + Crosses and troubles +London Voluntaries + Grave + Andante con Moto + Scherzando + Largo e Mesto + Allegro Maestoso +Rhymes and Rhyhms + Prologue + Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade + We are the Choice of the Will + A desolate shore + It came with the threat of a waning moon + Why, my heart, do we love her so? + One with the ruined sunset + There's a regret + Time and the Earth + As like the Woman as you can + Midsummer midnight skies + Gulls in an aery morrice + Some starlit garden grey with dew + Under a stagnant sky + Fresh from his fastnesses + You played and sang a snatch of song + Space and dread and the dark + Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook + When you wake in your crib + O, Time and Change + The shadow of Dawn + When the wind storms by with a shout + Trees and the menace of night + Here they trysted, here they strayed + Not to the staring Day + What have I done for you + Epilogue + + + +DEDICATION--TO MY WIFE + + + +Take, dear, my little sheaf of songs, +For, old or new, +All that is good in them belongs +Only to you; + +And, singing as when all was young, +They will recall +Those others, lived but left unsung - +The bent of all. +W. E. H +APRIL 1888 +SEPTEMBER 1897. + + + +ADVERTISEMENT + + + +My friend and publisher, Mr. Alfred Nutt, asks me to introduce this +re-issue of old work in a new shape. At his request, then, I have +to say that nearly all the numbers contained in the present volume +are reprinted from 'A Book of Verses' (1888) and 'London +Voluntaries' (1892-3). From the first of these I have removed some +copies of verse which seemed to me scarce worth keeping; and I have +recovered for it certain others from those publications which had +made room for them. I have corrected where I could, added such +dates as I might, and, by re-arrangement and revision, done my best +to give my book, such as it is, its final form. If any be +displeased by the result, I can but submit that my verses are my +own, and that this is how I would have them read. + +The work of revision has reminded me that, small as is this book of +mine, it is all in the matter of verse that I have to show for the +years between 1872 and 1897. A principal reason is that, after +spending the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry, I +found myself (about 1877) so utterly unmarketable that I had to own +myself beaten in art, and to addict myself to journalism for the +next ten years. Came the production by my old friend, Mr. H. B. +Donkin, in his little collection of 'Voluntaries' (1888), compiled +for that East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and +energy and skill, of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to +quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme, my +impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary. They had long since +been rejected by every editor of standing in London--I had well-nigh +said in the world; but as soon as Mr. Nutt had read them, he +entreated me to look for more. I did as I was told; old dusty +sheaves were dragged to light; the work of selection and correction +was begun; I burned much; I found that, after all, the lyrical +instinct had slept--not died; I ventured (in brief) 'A Book of +Verses.' It was received with so much interest that I took heart +once more, and wrote the numbers presently reprinted from 'The +National Observer' in the collection first (1892) called 'The Song +of the Sword' and afterwards (1893), 'London voluntaries.' If I +have said nothing since, it is that I have nothing to say which is +not, as yet, too personal--too personal and too a afflicting--for +utterance. + +For the matter of my book, it is there to speak for itself:- + + +'Here's a sigh to those who love me +And a smile to those who hate.' + + +I refer to it for the simple pleasure of reflecting that it has made +me many friends and some enemies. + +W. E. H. + +Muswell Hill, 4th September 1897. + + + + +IN HOSPITAL + + + + +On ne saurait dire e quel point un homme, +seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel. - + +BALZAC + + + +I--ENTER PATIENT + + + +The morning mists still haunt the stony street; +The northern summer air is shrill and cold; +And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old, +Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet. +Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom +A small, strange child--so aged yet so young! - +Her little arm besplinted and beslung, +Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room. +I limp behind, my confidence all gone. +The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on, +And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail: +A tragic meanness seems so to environ +These corridors and stairs of stone and iron, +Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail. + + + +II--WAITING + + + +A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion), +Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight; +Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware; +Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars. + +Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from, +Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted: +Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach, +While at their ease two dressers do their chores. + +One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar. +A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone. +A poor old tramp explains his poor old ulcers. +Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame. + + + +III--INTERIOR + + + +The gaunt brown walls +Look infinite in their decent meanness. +There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle, +The fulsome fire. + +The atmosphere +Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist. +Dressings and lint on the long, lean table - +Whom are they for? + +The patients yawn, +Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin. +A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles. +It's grim and strange. + +Far footfalls clank. +The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged. +My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . . +O, a gruesome world! + + + +IV--BEFORE + + + +Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife. +A little while, and at a leap I storm +The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform, +The drunken dark, the little death-in-life. +The gods are good to me: I have no wife, +No innocent child, to think of as I near +The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear +Unmans me for my bout of passive strife. +Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick, +And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little: +My hopes are strong, my will is something weak. +Here comes the basket? Thank you. I am ready. +But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle: +You carry Caesar and his fortunes--steady! + + + +V--OPERATION + + + +You are carried in a basket, +Like a carcase from the shambles, +To the theatre, a cockpit +Where they stretch you on a table. + +Then they bid you close your eyelids, +And they mask you with a napkin, +And the anaesthetic reaches +Hot and subtle through your being. + +And you gasp and reel and shudder +In a rushing, swaying rapture, +While the voices at your elbow +Fade--receding--fainter--farther. + +Lights about you shower and tumble, +And your blood seems crystallising - +Edged and vibrant, yet within you +Racked and hurried back and forward. + +Then the lights grow fast and furious, +And you hear a noise of waters, +And you wrestle, blind and dizzy, +In an agony of effort, + +Till a sudden lull accepts you, +And you sound an utter darkness . . . +And awaken . . . with a struggle . . . +On a hushed, attentive audience. + + + +VI--AFTER + + + +Like as a flamelet blanketed in smoke, +So through the anaesthetic shows my life; +So flashes and so fades my thought, at strife +With the strong stupor that I heave and choke +And sicken at, it is so foully sweet. +Faces look strange from space--and disappear. +Far voices, sudden loud, offend my ear - +And hush as sudden. Then my senses fleet: +All were a blank, save for this dull, new pain +That grinds my leg and foot; and brokenly +Time and the place glimpse on to me again; +And, unsurprised, out of uncertainty, +I wake--relapsing--somewhat faint and fain, +To an immense, complacent dreamery. + + + +VII--VIGIL + + + +Lived on one's back, +In the long hours of repose, +Life is a practical nightmare - +Hideous asleep or awake. + +Shoulders and loins +Ache--- -! +Ache, and the mattress, +Run into boulders and hummocks, +Glows like a kiln, while the bedclothes - +Tumbling, importunate, daft - +Ramble and roll, and the gas, +Screwed to its lowermost, +An inevitable atom of light, +Haunts, and a stertorous sleeper +Snores me to hate and despair. + +All the old time +Surges malignant before me; +Old voices, old kisses, old songs +Blossom derisive about me; +While the new days +Pass me in endless procession: +A pageant of shadows +Silently, leeringly wending +On . . . and still on . . . still on! + +Far in the stillness a cat +Languishes loudly. A cinder +Falls, and the shadows +Lurch to the leap of the flame. The next man to me +Turns with a moan; and the snorer, +The drug like a rope at his throat, +Gasps, gurgles, snorts himself free, as the night-nurse, +Noiseless and strange, +Her bull's eye half-lanterned in apron, +(Whispering me, 'Are ye no sleepin' yet?'), +Passes, list-slippered and peering, +Round . . . and is gone. + +Sleep comes at last - +Sleep full of dreams and misgivings - +Broken with brutal and sordid +Voices and sounds that impose on me, +Ere I can wake to it, +The unnatural, intolerable day. + + + +VIII--STAFF-NURSE: OLD STYLE + + + +The greater masters of the commonplace, +REMBRANDT and good SIR WALTER--only these +Could paint her all to you: experienced ease +And antique liveliness and ponderous grace; +The sweet old roses of her sunken face; +The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes; +The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies; +The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace. +These thirty years has she been nursing here, +Some of them under SYME , her hero still. +Much is she worth, and even more is made of her. +Patients and students hold her very dear. +The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill. +They say 'The Chief' himself is half-afraid of her. + + + +IX--LADY-PROBATIONER + + + +Some three, or five, or seven, and thirty years; +A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin; +Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin, +Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears; +A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand, +Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring; +A bashful air, becoming everything; +A well-bred silence always at command. +Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain +Look out of place on her, and I remain +Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery. +Quick, skilful, quiet, soft in speech and touch . . . +'Do you like nursing?' 'Yes, Sir, very much.' +Somehow, I rather think she has a history. + + + +X--STAFF-NURSE: NEW STYLE + + + +Blue-eyed and bright of face but waning fast +Into the sere of virginal decay, +I view her as she enters, day by day, +As a sweet sunset almost overpast. +Kindly and calm, patrician to the last, +Superbly falls her gown of sober gray, +And on her chignon's elegant array +The plainest cap is somehow touched with caste. +She talks BEETHOVEN; frowns disapprobation +At BALZAC'S name, sighs it at 'poor GEORGE SAND'S'; +Knows that she has exceeding pretty hands; +Speaks Latin with a right accentuation; +And gives at need (as one who understands) +Draught, counsel, diagnosis, exhortation. + + + +XI--CLINICAL + + + +Hist? . . . +Through the corridor's echoes, +Louder and nearer +Comes a great shuffling of feet. +Quick, every one of you, +Strighten your quilts, and be decent! +Here's the Professor. + +In he comes first +With the bright look we know, +From the broad, white brows the kind eyes +Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow, +White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse, +Towel on arm and her inkstand +Fretful with quills. +Here in the ruck, anyhow, +Surging along, +Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs - +Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles - +Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves +Round the first bed, where the Chief +(His dressers and clerks at attention), +Bends in inspection already. + +So shows the ring +Seen from behind round a conjurer +Doing his pitch in the street. +High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones, +Round, square, and angular, serry and shove; +While from within a voice, +Gravely and weightily fluent, +Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly +(Look at the stress of the shoulders!) +Out of a quiver of silence, +Over the hiss of the spray, +Comes a low cry, and the sound +Of breath quick intaken through teeth +Clenched in resolve. And the Master +Breaks from the crowd, and goes, +Wiping his hands, +To the next bed, with his pupils +Flocking and whispering behind him. + +Now one can see. +Case Number One +Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes +Stripped up, and showing his foot +(Alas for God's Image!) +Swaddled in wet, white lint +Brilliantly hideous with red. + + + +XII--ETCHING + + + +Two and thirty is the ploughman. +He's a man of gallant inches, +And his hair is close and curly, +And his beard; +But his face is wan and sunken, +And his eyes are large and brilliant, +And his shoulder-blades are sharp, +And his knees. + +He is weak of wits, religious, +Full of sentiment and yearning, +Gentle, faded--with a cough +And a snore. +When his wife (who was a widow, +And is many years his elder) +Fails to write, and that is always, +He desponds. + +Let his melancholy wander, +And he'll tell you pretty stories +Of the women that have wooed him +Long ago; +Or he'll sing of bonnie lasses +Keeping sheep among the heather, +With a crackling, hackling click +In his voice. + + + +XIII--CASUALTY + + + +As with varnish red and glistening +Dripped his hair; his feet looked rigid; +Raised, he settled stiffly sideways: +You could see his hurts were spinal. + +He had fallen from an engine, +And been dragged along the metals. +It was hopeless, and they knew it; +So they covered him, and left him. + +As he lay, by fits half sentient, +Inarticulately moaning, +With his stockinged soles protruded +Stark and awkward from the blankets, + +To his bed there came a woman, +Stood and looked and sighed a little, +And departed without speaking, +As himself a few hours after. + +I was told it was his sweetheart. +They were on the eve of marriage. +She was quiet as a statue, +But her lip was grey and writhen. + + + +XIV--AVE CAESER! + + + +From the winter's grey despair, +From the summer's golden languor, +Death, the lover of Life, +Frees us for ever. + +Inevitable, silent, unseen, +Everywhere always, +Shadow by night and as light in the day, +Signs she at last to her chosen; +And, as she waves them forth, +Sorrow and Joy +Lay by their looks and their voices, +Set down their hopes, and are made +One in the dim Forever. + +Into the winter's grey delight, +Into the summer's golden dream, +Holy and high and impartial, +Death, the mother of Life, +Mingles all men for ever. + + + +XV--'THE CHIEF' + + + +His brow spreads large and placid, and his eye +Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still. +Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill - +His face at once benign and proud and shy. +If envy scout, if ignorance deny, +His faultless patience, his unyielding will, +Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill, +Innumerable gratitudes reply. +His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties, +And seems in all his patients to compel +Such love and faith as failure cannot quell. +We hold him for another Herakles, +Battling with custom, prejudice, disease, +As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell. + + + +XVI--HOUSE-SURGEON + + + +Exceeding tall, but built so well his height +Half-disappears in flow of chest and limb; +Moustache and whisker trooper-like in trim; +Frank-faced, frank-eyed, frank-hearted; always bright +And always punctual--morning, noon, and night; +Bland as a Jesuit, sober as a hymn; +Humorous, and yet without a touch of whim; +Gentle and amiable, yet full of fight. +His piety, though fresh and true in strain, +Has not yet whitewashed up his common mood +To the dead blank of his particular Schism. +Sweet, unaggressive, tolerant, most humane, +Wild artists like his kindly elderhood, +And cultivate his mild Philistinism. + + + +XVII--INTERLUDE + + + +O, the fun, the fun and frolic +That The Wind that Shakes the Barley +Scatters through a penny-whistle +Tickled with artistic fingers! + +Kate the scrubber (forty summers, +Stout but sportive) treads a measure, +Grinning, in herself a ballet, +Fixed as fate upon her audience. + +Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported; +Splinted fingers tap the rhythm; +And a head all helmed with plasters +Wags a measured approbation. + +Of their mattress-life oblivious, +All the patients, brisk and cheerful, +Are encouraging the dancer, +And applauding the musician. + +Dim the gas-lights in the output +Of so many ardent smokers, +Full of shadow lurch the corners, +And the doctor peeps and passes. + +There are, maybe, some suspicions +Of an alcoholic presence . . . +'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . . +New Year comes but once a twelvemonth. + + + +XVIII--CHILDREN: PRIVATE WARD + + + +Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room, +I play the father to a brace of boys, +Ailing but apt for every sort of noise, +Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom. +Roden, the Irishman, is 'sieven past,' +Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face. +Willie's but six, and seems to like the place, +A cheerful little collier to the last. +They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day; +All night they sleep like dormice. See them play +At Operations:- Roden, the Professor, +Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties; +Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes, +Holding the limb and moaning--Case and Dresser. + + + +XVIIII--SCRUBBER + + + +She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face +With flashes of the old fun's animation +There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation +Bred of a past where troubles came apace. +She tells me that her husband, ere he died, +Saw seven of their children pass away, +And never knew the little lass at play +Out on the green, in whom he's deified. +Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, +All simple faith her honest Irish mind, +Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: +Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part, +Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find +No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart. + + + +XX--VISITOR + + + +Her little face is like a walnut shell +With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns +Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; +And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. +Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. +Well might her bonnets have been born on her. +Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother +The subject of a strong religious call? +In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, +All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, +Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, +Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: +A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way, +Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails. + + + +XXI--ROMANCE + + + +'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor, +Set at euchre on his elbow, +'I was on the wharf at Charleston, +Just ashore from off the runner. + +'It was grey and dirty weather, +And I heard a drum go rolling, +Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, +Awful dour-like and defiant. + +'In and out among the cotton, +Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, +Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows - +Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar! + +'Some had shoes, but all had rifles, +Them that wasn't bald was beardless, +And the drum was rolling Dixie, +And they stepped to it like men, sir! + +'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, +On they swung, the drum a-rolling, +Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, +And they meant it too, by thunder!' + + + +XXII--PASTORAL + + + +It's the Spring. +Earth has conceived, and her bosom, +Teeming with summer, is glad. + +Vistas of change and adventure, +Thro' the green land +The grey roads go beckoning and winding, +Peopled with wains, and melodious +With harness-bells jangling: +Jangling and twangling rough rhythms +To the slow march of the stately, great horses +Whistled and shouted along. + +White fleets of cloud, +Argosies heavy with fruitfulness, +Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows. +Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds +Sway the tall poplars. +Pageants of colour and fragrance, +Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless +Walks the mild spirit of May, +Visibly blessing the world. + +O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards! +O, the savour and thrill of the woods, +When their leafage is stirred +By the flight of the Angel of Rain! +Loud lows the steer; in the fallows +Rooks are alert; and the brooks +Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro' the gloamings, +Under the rare, shy stars, +Boy and girl wander, +Dreaming in darkness and dew. + +It's the Spring. +A sprightliness feeble and squalid +Wakes in the ward, and I sicken, +Impotent, winter at heart. + + + +XXIII--MUSIC + + + +Down the quiet eve, +Thro' my window with the sunset +Pipes to me a distant organ +Foolish ditties; + +And, as when you change +Pictures in a magic lantern, +Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling +Fade and vanish, + +And I'm well once more . . . +August flares adust and torrid, +But my heart is full of April +Sap and sweetness. + +In the quiet eve +I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . . +Dreaming, and a distant organ +Pipes me ditties. + +I can see the shop, +I can smell the sprinkled pavement, +Where she serves--her chestnut chignon +Thrills my senses! + +O, the sight and scent, +Wistful eve and perfumed pavement! +In the distance pipes an organ . . . +The sensation + +Comes to me anew, +And my spirit for a moment +Thro' the music breathes the blessed +Airs of London. + + + +XXIV--SUICIDE + + + +Staring corpselike at the ceiling, +See his harsh, unrazored features, +Ghastly brown against the pillow, +And his throat--so strangely bandaged! + +Lack of work and lack of victuals, +A debauch of smuggled whisky, +And his children in the workhouse +Made the world so black a riddle + +That he plunged for a solution; +And, although his knife was edgeless, +He was sinking fast towards one, +When they came, and found, and saved him. + +Stupid now with shame and sorrow, +In the night I hear him sobbing. +But sometimes he talks a little. +He has told me all his troubles. + +In his broad face, tanned and bloodless, +White and wild his eyeballs glisten; +And his smile, occult and tragic, +Yet so slavish, makes you shudder! + + + +XXV--APPARITION + + + +Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, +Neat-footed and weak-fingered: in his face - +Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race, +Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea, +The brown eyes radiant with vivacity - +There shines a brilliant and romantic grace, +A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace +Of passion and impudence and energy. +Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck, +Most vain, most generous, sternly critical, +Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist: +A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck, +Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all, +And something of the Shorter-Catechist. + + + +XXVI--ANTEROTICS + + + +Laughs the happy April morn +Thro' my grimy, little window, +And a shaft of sunshine pushes +Thro' the shadows in the square. + +Dogs are tracing thro' the grass, +Crows are cawing round the chimneys, +In and out among the washing +Goes the West at hide-and-seek. + +Loud and cheerful clangs the bell. +Here the nurses troop to breakfast. +Handsome, ugly, all are women . . . +O, the Spring--the Spring--the Spring! + + + +XXVII--NOCTURN + + + +At the barren heart of midnight, +When the shadow shuts and opens +As the loud flames pulse and flutter, +I can hear a cistern leaking. + +Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm, +Rough, unequal, half-melodious, +Like the measures aped from nature +In the infancy of music; + +Like the buzzing of an insect, +Still, irrational, persistent . . . +I must listen, listen, listen +In a passion of attention; + +Till it taps upon my heartstrings, +And my very life goes dripping, +Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping, +In the drip-drop of the cistern. + + + +XXVIII--DISCHARGED + + + +Carry me out +Into the wind and the sunshine, +Into the beautiful world. + +O, the wonder, the spell of the streets! +The stature and strength of the horses, +The rustle and echo of footfalls, +The flat roar and rattle of wheels! +A swift tram floats huge on us . . . +It's a dream? +The smell of the mud in my nostrils +Blows brave--like a breath of the sea! + +As of old, +Ambulant, undulant drapery, +Vaguery and strangely provocative, +Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder - +Is it?--the gleam of a stocking! +Sudden, a spire +Wedged in the mist! O, the houses, +The long lines of lofty, grey houses, +Cross-hatched with shadow and light! +These are the streets . . . +Each is an avenue leading +Whither I will! + +Free . . . ! +Dizzy, hysterical, faint, +I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me +Into the wonderful world. + +THE OLD INFIRMARY, EDINBURGH, 1873-75 + + + +ENVOY--TO CHARLES BAXTER + + + +Do you remember +That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon! - +When, as the kirks were ringing in, +And the grey city teemed +With Sabbath feelings and aspects, +LEWIS--our LEWIS then, +Now the whole world's--and you, +Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came, +Laden with BALZACS +(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French), +The first of many times +To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay +So long, so many centuries - +Or years is it!--ago? + +Dear CHARLES, since then +We have been friends, LEWIS and you and I, +(How good it sounds, 'LEWIS and you and I!'): +Such friends, I like to think, +That in us three, LEWIS and me and you, +Is something of that gallant dream +Which old DUMAS--the generous, the humane, +The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven! - +Dreamed for a blessing to the race, +The immortal Musketeers. + +Our ATHOS rests--the wise, the kind, +The liberal and august, his fault atoned, +Rests in the crowded yard +There at the west of Princes Street. We three - +You, I, and LEWIS!--still afoot, +Are still together, and our lives, +In chime so long, may keep +(God bless the thought!) +Unjangled till the end. + +W. E. H. + +CHISWICK, March 1888 + + + +THE SONG OF THE SWORD--TO RUDYARD KIPLING + + + +The Sword +Singing - +The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword +Clanging imperious +Forth from Time's battlements +His ancient and triumphing Song. + +In the beginning, +Ere God inspired Himself +Into the clay thing +Thumbed to His image, +The vacant, the naked shell +Soon to be Man: +Thoughtful He pondered it, +Prone there and impotent, +Fragile, inviting +Attack and discomfiture; +Then, with a smile - +As He heard in the Thunder +That laughed over Eden +The voice of the Trumpet, +The iron Beneficence, +Calling his dooms +To the Winds of the world - +Stooping, He drew +On the sand with His finger +A shape for a sign +Of his way to the eyes +That in wonder should waken, +For a proof of His will +To the breaking intelligence. +That was the birth of me: +I am the Sword. + +Bleak and lean, grey and cruel, +Short-hilted, long shafted, +I froze into steel; +And the blood of my elder, +His hand on the hafts of me, +Sprang like a wave +In the wind, as the sense +Of his strength grew to ecstasy; +Glowed like a coal +In the throat of the furnace; +As he knew me and named me +The War-Thing, the Comrade, +Father of honour +And giver of kingship, +The fame-smith, the song-master, +Bringer of women +On fire at his hands +For the pride of fulfilment, +PRIEST (saith the Lord) +OF HIS MARRIAGE WITH VICTORY +Ho! then, the Trumpet, +Handmaid of heroes, +Calling the peers +To the place of espousals! +Ho! then, the splendour +And glare of my ministry, +Clothing the earth +With a livery of lightnings! +Ho! then, the music +Of battles in onset, +And ruining armours, +And God's gift returning +In fury to God! +Thrilling and keen +As the song of the winter stars, +Ho! then, the sound +Of my voice, the implacable +Angel of Destiny! - +I am the Sword. + +Heroes, my children, +Follow, O, follow me! +Follow, exulting +In the great light that breaks +From the sacred Companionship! +Thrust through the fatuous, +Thrust through the fungous brood, +Spawned in my shadow +And gross with my gift! +Thrust through, and hearken +O, hark, to the Trumpet, +The Virgin of Battles, +Calling, still calling you +Into the Presence, +Sons of the Judgment, +Pure wafts of the Will! +Edged to annihilate, +Hilted with government, +Follow, O, follow me, +Till the waste places +All the grey globe over +Ooze, as the honeycomb +Drips, with the sweetness +Distilled of my strength, +And, teeming in peace +Through the wrath of my coming, +They give back in beauty +The dread and the anguish +They had of me visitant! +Follow, O follow, then, +Heroes, my harvesters! +Where the tall grain is ripe +Thrust in your sickles! +Stripped and adust +In a stubble of empire, +Scything and binding +The full sheaves of sovranty: +Thus, O, thus gloriously, +Shall you fulfil yourselves! +Thus, O, thus mightily, +Show yourselves sons of mine - +Yea, and win grace of me: +I am the Sword! + +I am the feast-maker: +Hark, through a noise +Of the screaming of eagles, +Hark how the Trumpet, +The mistress of mistresses, +Calls, silver-throated +And stern, where the tables +Are spread, and the meal +Of the Lord is in hand! +Driving the darkness, +Even as the banners +And spears of the Morning; +Sifting the nations, +The slag from the metal, +The waste and the weak +From the fit and the strong; +Fighting the brute, +The abysmal Fecundity; +Checking the gross, +Multitudinous blunders, +The groping, the purblind +Excesses in service +Of the Womb universal, +The absolute drudge; +Firing the charactry +Carved on the World, +The miraculous gem +In the seal-ring that burns +On the hand of the Master - +Yea! and authority +Flames through the dim, +Unappeasable Grisliness +Prone down the nethermost +Chasms of the Void! - +Clear singing, clean slicing; +Sweet spoken, soft finishing; +Making death beautiful, +Life but a coin +To be staked in the pastime +Whose playing is more +Than the transfer of being; +Arch-anarch, chief builder, +Prince and evangelist, +I am the Will of God: +I am the Sword. + +The Sword +Singing - +The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword +Clanging majestical, +As from the starry-staired +Courts of the primal Supremacy, +His high, irresistible song. + + + +ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS -To Elizabeth Robins Pennell + + + +'O mes cheres Mille et Une Nuits!'--Fantasio. + +Once on a time +There was a little boy: a master-mage +By virtue of a Book +Of magic--O, so magical it filled +His life with visionary pomps +Processional! And Powers +Passed with him where he passed. And Thrones +And Dominations, glaived and plumed and mailed, +Thronged in the criss-cross streets, +The palaces pell-mell with playing-fields, +Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades, +Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul +Pavilioned jealously, and hid +As in the dusk, profound, +Green stillnesses of some enchanted mere. - + +I shut mine eyes . . . And lo! +A flickering snatch of memory that floats +Upon the face of a pool of darkness five +And thirty dead years deep, +Antic in girlish broideries +And skirts and silly shoes with straps +And a broad-ribanded leghorn, he walks +Plain in the shadow of a church +(St. Michael's: in whose brazen call +To curfew his first wails of wrath were whelmed), +Sedate for all his haste +To be at home; and, nestled in his arm, +Inciting still to quiet and solitude, +Boarded in sober drab, +With small, square, agitating cuts +Let in a-top of the double-columned, close, +Quakerlike print, a Book! . . . +What but that blessed brief +Of what is gallantest and best +In all the full-shelved Libraries of Romance? +The Book of rocs, +Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris, +Cream-tarts, and lettered apes, and calendars, +And ghouls, and genies--O, so huge +They might have overed the tall Minster Tower +Hands down, as schoolboys take a post! +In truth, the Book of Camaralzaman, +Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade +The peerless, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour, +Cairo and Serendib and Candahar, +And Caspian, and the dim, terrific bulk - +Ice-ribbed, fiend-visited, isled in spells and storms - +Of Kaf! . . . That centre of miracles, +The sole, unparalleled Arabian Nights! + +Old friends I had a-many--kindly and grim +Familiars, cronies quaint +And goblin! Never a Wood but housed +Some morrice of dainty dapperlings. No Brook +But had his nunnery +Of green-haired, silvry-curving sprites, +To cabin in his grots, and pace +His lilied margents. Every lone Hillside +Might open upon Elf-Land. Every Stalk +That curled about a Bean-stick was of the breed +Of that live ladder by whose delicate rungs +You climbed beyond the clouds, and found +The Farm-House where the Ogre, gorged +And drowsy, from his great oak chair, +Among the flitches and pewters at the fire, +Called for his Faery Harp. And in it flew, +And, perching on the kitchen table, sang +Jocund and jubilant, with a sound +Of those gay, golden-vowered madrigals +The shy thrush at mid-May +Flutes from wet orchards flushed with the triumphing dawn; +Or blackbirds rioting as they listened still, +In old-world woodlands rapt with an old-world spring, +For Pan's own whistle, savage and rich and lewd, +And mocked him call for call! + +I could not pass +The half-door where the cobbler sat in view +Nor figure me the wizen Leprechaun, +In square-cut, faded reds and buckle-shoes, +Bent at his work in the hedge-side, and know +Just how he tapped his brogue, and twitched +His wax-end this and that way, both with wrists +And elbows. In the rich June fields, +Where the ripe clover drew the bees, +And the tall quakers trembled, and the West Wind +Lolled his half-holiday away +Beside me lolling and lounging through my own, +'Twas good to follow the Miller's Youngest Son +On his white horse along the leafy lanes; +For at his stirrup linked and ran, +Not cynical and trapesing, as he loped +From wall to wall above the espaliers, +But in the bravest tops +That market-town, a town of tops, could show: +Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail +A banner flaunted in disdain +Of human stratagems and shifts: +King over All the Catlands, present and past +And future, that moustached +Artificer of fortunes, Puss-in-Boots! +Or Bluebeard's Closet, with its plenishing +Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood, +And wives that hung like fresh-dressed carcases - +Odd-fangled, most a butcher's, part +A faery chamber hazily seen +And hazily figured--on dark afternoons +And windy nights was visiting of the best. +Then, too, the pelt of hoofs +Out in the roaring darkness told +Of Herne the Hunter in his antlered helm +Galloping, as with despatches from the Pit, +Between his hell-born Hounds. +And Rip Van Winkle . . . often I lurked to hear, +Outside the long, low timbered, tarry wall, +The mutter and rumble of the trolling bowls +Down the lean plank, before they fluttered the pins; +For, listening, I could help him play +His wonderful game, +In those blue, booming hills, with Mariners +Refreshed from kegs not coopered in this our world. + +But what were these so near, +So neighbourly fancies to the spell that brought +The run of Ali Baba's Cave +Just for the saying 'Open Sesame,' +With gold to measure, peck by peck, +In round, brown wooden stoups +You borrowed at the chandler's? . . . Or one time +Made you Aladdin's friend at school, +Free of his Garden of Jewels, Ring and Lamp +In perfect trim? . . . Or Ladies, fair +For all the embrowning scars in their white breasts +Went labouring under some dread ordinance, +Which made them whip, and bitterly cry the while, +Strange Curs that cried as they, +Till there was never a Black Bitch of all +Your consorting but might have gone +Spell-driven miserably for crimes +Done in the pride of womanhood and desire . . . +Or at the ghostliest altitudes of night, +While you lay wondering and acold, +Your sense was fearfully purged; and soon +Queen Labe, abominable and dear, +Rose from your side, opened the Box of Doom, +Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw +Like sulphur at the Docks in bulk), +And muttered certain words you could not hear; +And there! a living stream, +The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags +And cresses, glittered and sang +Out of the hearthrug over the nakedness, +Fair-scrubbed and decent, of your bedroom floor! . . . + +I was--how many a time! - +That Second Calendar, Son of a King, +On whom 'twas vehemently enjoined, +Pausing at one mysterious door, +To pry no closer, but content his soul +With his kind Forty. Yet I could not rest +For idleness and ungovernable Fate. +And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame +(That wonder-working word!), +Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans, +And soaring, soaring on +From air to air, came charging to the ground +Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds, +And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled +Flicked at me with his tail, +And left me blinded, miserable, distraught +(Even as I was in deed, +When doctors came, and odious things were done +On my poor tortured eyes +With lancets; or some evil acid stung +And wrung them like hot sand, +And desperately from room to room +Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way), +To get to Bagdad how I might. But there +I met with Merry Ladies. O you three - +Safie, Amine, Zobeide--when my heart +Forgets you all shall be forgot! +And so we supped, we and the rest, +On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates, +Almonds, pistachios, citrons. And Haroun +Laughed out of his lordly beard +On Giaffar and Mesrour (I knew the Three +For all their Mossoul habits). And outside +The Tigris, flowing swift +Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed +With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars; +The vast, blue night +Was murmurous with peris' plumes +And the leathern wings of genies; words of power +Were whispering; and old fishermen, +Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore +Dead loveliness: or a prodigy in scales +Worth in the Caliph's Kitchen pieces of gold: +Or copper vessels, stopped with lead, +Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed, +In durance under potent charactry +Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . . + +Then, as the Book was glassed +In Life as in some olden mirror's quaint, +Bewildering angles, so would Life +Flash light on light back on the Book; and both +Were changed. Once in a house decayed +From better days, harbouring an errant show +(For all its stories of dry-rot +Were filled with gruesome visitants in wax, +Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes), +I wandered; and no living soul +Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared +Upon them staring--staring. Till at last, +Three sets of rafters from the streets, +I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room, +With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene, +Guarding the door: and there, in a bedroom-set, +Behind a fence of faded crimson cords, +With an aspect of frills +And dimities and dishonoured privacy +That made you hanker and hesitate to look, +A Woman with her litter of Babes--all slain, +All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes +Staring--still staring; so that I turned and ran +As for my neck, but in the street +Took breath. The same, it seemed, +And yet not all the same, I was to find, +As I went up! For afterwards, +Whenas I went my round alone - +All day alone--in long, stern, silent streets, +Where I might stretch my hand and take +Whatever I would: still there were Shapes of Stone, +Motionless, lifelike, frightening--for the Wrath +Had smitten them; but they watched, +This by her melons and figs, that by his rings +And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze, +The Painted Eyes insufferable, +Now, of those grisly images; and I +Pursued my best-beloved quest, +Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear. +So the night fell--with never a lamplighter; +And through the Palace of the King +I groped among the echoes, and I felt +That they were there, +Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes, +Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far +A Voice! And in a little while +Two tapers burning! And the Voice, +Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was--whose? +Whose but Zobeide's, +The lady of my heart, like me +A True Believer, and like me +An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . . + +Or, sailing to the Isles +Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall +A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew +Swiftly . . . and grew. Tearing their beards, +The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship, +Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad, +Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman's hand, +And, turning broadside on, +As the most iron would, was haled and sucked +Nearer, and nearer yet; +And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps +Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now +That swallowed sea and sky; and then, +Anchors and nails and bolts +Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang, +A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides +Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay, +A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal +About the waters; and her crew +Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left +To drown. All the long night I swam; +But in the morning, O, the smiling coast +Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike, +Skirted with shelving sands! And a great wave +Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive. +So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes, +And, faring inland, in a desert place +I stumbled on an iron ring - +The fellow of fifty built into the Quays: +When, scenting a trap-door, +I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade +Stuck into wood. And then, +The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs, +Sunk in the naked rock! The cool, clean vault, +So neat with niche on niche it might have been +Our beer-cellar but for the rows +Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist's jars) +Full to the wide, squat throats +With gold-dust, but a-top +A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things +I knew for olives! And far, O, far away, +The Princess of China languished! Far away +Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief +Of Eunuchs and the privilege +Of going out at night +To play--unkenned, majestical, secure - +Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped +Like Tigris shore for shore! Haply a Ghoul +Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon, +A thighbone in his fist, and glared +At supper with a Lady: she who took +Her rice with tweezers grain by grain. +Or you might stumble--there by the iron gates +Of the Pump Room--underneath the limes - +Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers, +Just as the civil Genie laid him down. +Or those red-curtained panes, +Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily +Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes, +Might turn a caravansery's, wherein +You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk, +And that fair Persian, bathed in tears, +You'd not have given away +For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous +You had that dark and disleaved afternoon +Escaped on a roc's claw, +Disguised like Sindbad--but in Christmas beef! +And all the blissful while +The schoolboy satchel at your hip +Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze +Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn +From over Caspian: yea, the Chief Jewellers +Of Tartary and the bazaars, +Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind. - + +Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart +The magian East: thus the child eyes +Spelled out the wizard message by the light +Of the sober, workaday hours +They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass +In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind +In ancient Severn's arm, +Amongst her water-meadows and her docks, +Whose floating populace of ships - +Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines, +Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters--brought +To her very doorsteps and geraniums +The scents of the World's End; the calls +That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride +Like fire on some high errand of the race; +The irresistible appeals +For comradeship that sound +Steadily from the irresistible sea. +Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale, +Telling itself anew +In terms of living, labouring life, +Took on the colours, busked it in the wear +Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance, +The Angel-Playmate, raining down +His golden influences +On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did, +Walked with me arm in arm, +Or left me, as one bediademed with straws +And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart +Who had the gift to seek and feel and find +His fiery-hearted presence everywhere. +Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things, +Sends the same silver dews +Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies +On some poor collier-hamlet--(mound on mound +Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk +Sullenly smoking over a row +Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air +A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings +Of hurtling, tipping trams) - +As on the amorous nightingales +And roses of Shiraz, or the walls and towers +Of Samarcand--the Ineffable--whence you espy +The splendour of Ginnistan's embattled spears, +Like listed lightnings. +Samarcand! +That name of names! That star-vaned belvedere +Builded against the Chambers of the South! +That outpost on the Infinite! +And behold! +Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide +Might overtake you: for one fringe, +One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one +Floats founded vague +In lubberlands delectable--isles of palm +And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas, +The promise of wistful hills - +The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream. + + + + +BRIC-A-BRAC + + + + +'The tune of the time.'--HAMLET, concerning OSRIC + + + +BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT--To W. A. + + + +Was I a Samurai renowned, +Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow? +A histrion angular and profound? +A priest? a porter?--Child, although +I have forgotten clean, I know +That in the shade of Fujisan, +What time the cherry-orchards blow, +I loved you once in old Japan. + +As here you loiter, flowing-gowned +And hugely sashed, with pins a-row +Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned, +Demure, inviting--even so, +When merry maids in Miyako +To feel the sweet o' the year began, +And green gardens to overflow, +I loved you once in old Japan. + +Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round +Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow, +A blue canal the lake's blue bound +Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo! +Touched with the sundown's spirit and glow, +I see you turn, with flirted fan, +Against the plum-tree's bloomy snow . . . +I loved you once in old Japan! + +Envoy + +Dear, 'twas a dozen lives ago; +But that I was a lucky man +The Toyokuni here will show: +I loved you--once--in old Japan. + + + +BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF YOUTH AND AGE--I. M. Thomas Edward Brown +(1829-1896) + + + +Spring at her height on a morn at prime, +Sails that laugh from a flying squall, +Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme - +Youth is the sign of them, one and all. +Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, +An empty flagon, a folded page, +A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball - +These are a type of the world of Age. + +Bells that clash in a gaudy chime, +Swords that clatter in onsets tall, +The words that ring and the fames that climb - +Youth is the sign of them, one and all. +Hymnals old in a dusty stall, +A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage, +The scene of a faded festival - +These are a type of the world of Age. + +Hours that strut as the heirs of time, +Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call, +Songs where the singers their souls sublime - +Youth is the sign of them, one and all. +A staff that rests in a nook of wall, +A reeling battle, a rusted gage, +The chant of a nearing funeral - +These are a type of the world of Age. + +Envoy + +Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl - +Youth is the sign of them, one and all. +A smouldering hearth and a silent stage - +These are a type of the world of Age. + + + +BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS--To W. H. + + + +With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams +The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, +And the winds are one with the clouds and beams - +Midsummer days! Midsummer days! +The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, +While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, +Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise - +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + +The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams, +The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, +The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams - +Midsummer days! Midsummer days! +In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, +All secret shadows and mystic lights, +Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze - +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + +There's a music of bells from the trampling teams, +Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, +The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams - +Midsummer days! Midsummer days! +A soul from the honeysuckle strays, +And the nightingale as from prophet heights +Sings to the Earth of her million Mays - +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + +Envoy + +And it's O, for my dear and the charm that stays - +Midsummer days! Midsummer days! +It's O, for my Love and the dark that plights - +Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS--I. M. Edward John Henley (1861-1898) + + + +Where are the passions they essayed, +And where the tears they made to flow? +Where the wild humours they portrayed +For laughing worlds to see and know? +Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe? +Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall? +And Millamant and Romeo? +Into the night go one and all. + +Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? +The plumes, the armours--friend and foe? +The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, +The mantles glittering to and fro? +The pomp, the pride, the royal show? +The cries of war and festival? +The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? +Into the night go one and all. + +The curtain falls, the play is played: +The Beggar packs beside the Beau; +The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; +The Thunder huddles with the Snow. +Where are the revellers high and low? +The clashing swords? The lover's call? +The dancers gleaming row on row? +Into the night go one and all. + +Envoy + +Prince, in one common overthrow +The Hero tumbles with the Thrall: +As dust that drives, as straws that blow, +Into the night go one and all. + + + +BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER--To C. M. + + + +Fountains that frisk and sprinkle +The moss they overspill; +Pools that the breezes crinkle; +The wheel beside the mill, +With its wet, weedy frill; +Wind-shadows in the wheat; +A water-cart in the street; +The fringe of foam that girds +An islet's ferneries; +A green sky's minor thirds - +To live, I think of these! + +Of ice and glass the tinkle, +Pellucid, silver-shrill; +Peaches without a wrinkle; +Cherries and snow at will, +From china bowls that fill +The senses with a sweet +Incuriousness of heat; +A melon's dripping sherds; +Cream-clotted strawberries; +Dusk dairies set with curds - +To live, I think of these! + +Vale-lily and periwinkle; +Wet stone-crop on the sill; +The look of leaves a-twinkle +With windlets clear and still; +The feel of a forest rill +That wimples fresh and fleet +About one's naked feet; +The muzzles of drinking herds; +Lush flags and bulrushes; +The chirp of rain-bound birds - +To live, I think of these! + +Envoy + +Dark aisles, new packs of cards, +Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, +Dawn dews and starlit seas, +White marbles, whiter words - +To live, I think of these! + + + +BALLADE OF TRUISMS + + + +Gold or silver, every day, +Dies to gray. +There are knots in every skein. +Hours of work and hours of play +Fade away +Into one immense Inane. +Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, +Are as vain +As the foam or as the spray. +Life goes crooning, faint and fain, +One refrain: +'If it could be always May!' + +Though the earth be green and gay, +Though, they say, +Man the cup of heaven may drain; +Though, his little world to sway, +He display +Hoard on hoard of pith and brain: +Autumn brings a mist and rain +That constrain + +Him and his to know decay, +Where undimmed the lights that wane +Would remain, +If it could be always May. + +YEA, alas, must turn to NAY, +Flesh to clay. +Chance and Time are ever twain. +Men may scoff, and men may pray, +But they pay +Every pleasure with a pain. +Life may soar, and Fortune deign +To explain +Where her prizes hide and stay; +But we lack the lusty train +We should gain, +If it could be always May. + +Envoy + +Time, the pedagogue, his cane +Might retain, +But his charges all would stray +Truanting in every lane - +Jack with Jane - +If it could be always May. + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE + + + +Fools may pine, and sots may swill, +Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, +Moralists may scourge and drill, +Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. +Let them whine, or threat, or wail! +Till the touch of Circumstance +Down to darkness sink the scale, +Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. + +What if skies be wan and chill? +What if winds be harsh and stale? +Presently the east will thrill, +And the sad and shrunken sail, +Bellying with a kindly gale, +Bear you sunwards, while your chance +Sends you back the hopeful hail:- +'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.' + +Idle shot or coming bill, +Hapless love or broken bail, +Gulp it (never chew your pill!), +And, if Burgundy should fail, +Try the humbler pot of ale! +Over all is heaven's expanse. +Gold's to find among the shale. +Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. + +Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, +Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, +Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, +Hard Sir AEger dints his mail; +And the while by hill and dale +Tristram's braveries gleam and glance, +And his blithe horn tells its tale:- +'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.' + +Araminta's grand and shrill, +Delia's passionate and frail, +Doris drives an earnest quill, +Athanasia takes the veil: +Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail, +At the heart of all romance +Reading, sings to Strephon's flail:- +'Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.' + +Every Jack must have his Jill +(Even Johnson had his Thrale!): +Forward, couples--with a will! +This, the world, is not a jail. +Hear the music, sprat and whale! +Hands across, retire, advance! +Though the doomsman's on your trail, +Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. + +Envoy + +Boys and girls, at slug and snail +And their kindred look askance. +Pay your footing on the nail: +Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS + + + +The big teetotum twirls, +And epochs wax and wane +As chance subsides or swirls; +But of the loss and gain +The sum is always plain. +Read on the mighty pall, +The weed of funeral +That covers praise and blame, +The -isms and the -anities, +Magnificence and shame:- +'O Vanity of Vanities!' + +The Fates are subtile girls! +They give us chaff for grain. +And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, +Like bolted death, disdain +At all that heart and brain +Conceive, or great or small, +Upon this earthly ball. +Would you be knight and dame? +Or woo the sweet humanities? +Or illustrate a name? +O Vanity of Vanities! + +We sound the sea for pearls, +Or drown them in a drain; +We flute it with the merles, +Or tug and sweat and strain; +We grovel, or we reign; +We saunter, or we brawl; +We answer, or we call; +We search the stars for Fame, +Or sink her subterranities; +The legend's still the same:- +'O Vanity of Vanities!' + +Here at the wine one birls, +There some one clanks a chain. +The flag that this man furls +That man to float is fain. +Pleasure gives place to pain: +These in the kennel crawl, +While others take the wall. +SHE has a glorious aim, +HE lives for the inanities. +What comes of every claim? +O Vanity of Vanities! + +Alike are clods and earls. +For sot, and seer, and swain, +For emperors and for churls, +For antidote and bane, +There is but one refrain: +But one for king and thrall, +For David and for Saul, +For fleet of foot and lame, +For pieties and profanities, +The picture and the frame:- +'O Vanity of Vanities!' + +Life is a smoke that curls - +Curls in a flickering skein, +That winds and whisks and whirls +A figment thin and vain, +Into the vast Inane. +One end for hut and hall! +One end for cell and stall! +Burned in one common flame +Are wisdoms and insanities. +For this alone we came:- +'O Vanity of Vanities!' + +Envoy + +Prince, pride must have a fall. +What is the worth of all +Your state's supreme urbanities? +Bad at the best's the game. +Well might the Sage exclaim:- +'O Vanity of Vanities!' + + + +AT QUEENSFERRY--To W. G. S. + + + +The blackbird sang, the skies were clear and clean +We bowled along a road that curved a spine +Superbly sinuous and serpentine +Thro' silent symphonies of summer green. +Sudden the Forth came on us--sad of mien, +No cloud to colour it, no breeze to line: +A sheet of dark, dull glass, without a sign +Of life or death, two spits of sand between. +Water and sky merged blank in mist together, +The Fort loomed spectral, and the Guardship's spars +Traced vague, black shadows on the shimmery glaze: +We felt the dim, strange years, the grey, strange weather, +The still, strange land, unvexed of sun or stars, +Where Lancelot rides clanking thro' the haze. + + + +ORIENTALE + + + +She's an enchanting little Israelite, +A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed, +A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, +With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, +Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, +Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside +The bamboo hat she cocks with so much pride, +Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight. +And when she passes with the dreadful boys +And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, +My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range +The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise +Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood +A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange! + + + +IN FISHERROW + + + +A hard north-easter fifty winters long +Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck; +Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck; +Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong. +A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng +Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck, +A white vest broidered black, her person deck, +Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong. +Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh, +Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers, +The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye, +Ever and anon imploring you to buy, +As looking down the street she onward lingers, +Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry. + + + +BACK-VIEW--To D. F. + + + +I watched you saunter down the sand: +Serene and large, the golden weather +Flowed radiant round your peacock feather, +And glistered from your jewelled hand. +Your tawny hair, turned strand on strand +And bound with blue ribands together, +Streaked the rough tartan, green like heather, +That round your lissome shoulder spanned. +Your grace was quick my sense to seize: +The quaint looped hat, the twisted tresses, +The close-drawn scarf, and under these +The flowing, flapping draperies - +My thought an outline still caresses, +Enchanting, comic, Japanese! + + + +CROLUIS--To G. W. + + + +The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then, +He groped and fiddled doggedly along, +His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng +The stony peevishness of sightless men. +He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again, +Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song, +So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong, +You hardly could distinguish one in ten. +He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand, +And, grasping wearily his bread-winner, +Stared dim towards the blue immensity, +Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand. +He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir: +His gesture spoke a vast despondency. + + + +ATTADALE WEST HIGHLANDS--To A. J. + + + +A black and glassy float, opaque and still, +The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep, +Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep +The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill; +Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze; +The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke; +The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke, +They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze. +The air was hushed and dreamy. Evermore +A noise of running water whispered near. +A straggling crow called high and thin. A bird +Trilled from the birch-leaves. Round the shingled shore, +Yellow with weed, there wandered, vague and clear, +Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard. + + + +FROM A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET--To M. M. M'B. + + + +Above the Crags that fade and gloom +Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat; +Ridged high against the evening bloom, +The Old Town rises, street on street; +With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, +Like rampired walls the houses lean, +All spired and domed and turreted, +Sheer to the valley's darkling green; +Ranged in mysterious disarray, +The Castle, menacing and austere, +Looms through the lingering last of day; +And in the silver dusk you hear, +Reverberated from crag and scar, +Bold bugles blowing points of war. + + + +IN THE DIALS + + + +To GARRYOWEN upon an organ ground +Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip, +With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip, +As in the tumult of a witches' round. +Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound. +Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip. +The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip. +High from the kennel howls a tortured hound. +The music reels and hurtles, and the night +Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light +Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused +With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags, +Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags +Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused. + + +*** + + +The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? +Living at least in Lempriere undeleted, +The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose, +Are one and all, I like to think, retreated +In some still land of lilacs and the rose. + +Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows +With sacrificial dance and song were greeted. +Once . . . long ago. But now, the story goes, +The gods are dead. + +It must be true. The world, a world of prose, +Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted, +Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze! +Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows +Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:- +'The Gods are Dead!' + + + +To F. W. + + + +Let us be drunk, and for a while forget, +Forget, and, ceasing even from regret, +Live without reason and despite of rhyme, +As in a dream preposterous and sublime, +Where place and hour and means for once are met. + +Where is the use of effort? Love and debt +And disappointment have us in a net. +Let us break out, and taste the morning prime . . . +Let us be drunk. + +In vain our little hour we strut and fret, +And mouth our wretched parts as for a bet: +We cannot please the tragicaster Time. +To gain the crystal sphere, the silver dime, +Where Sympathy sits dimpling on us yet, +Let us be drunk! + + + +*** + + + +When you are old, and I am passed away - +Passed, and your face, your golden face, is gray - +I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine, +Comforting you, a friendly star will shine +Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray. + +So may it be: that so dead Yesterday, +No sad-eyed ghost but generous and gay, +May serve you memories like almighty wine, +When you are old! + +Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway +Of death the past's enormous disarray +Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign, +Live on well pleased: immortal and divine +Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may, +When you are old. + + + +*** + + + +Beside the idle summer sea +And in the vacant summer days, +Light Love came fluting down the ways, +Where you were loitering with me. + +Who has not welcomed, even as we, +That jocund minstrel and his lays +Beside the idle summer sea +And in the vacant summer days? + +We listened, we were fancy-free; +And lo! in terror and amaze +We stood alone--alone at gaze +With an implacable memory +Beside the idle summer sea. + + + +I. M. R. G. C. B. 1878 + + + +The ways of Death are soothing and serene, +And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. +From camp and church, the fireside and the street, +She beckons forth--and strife and song have been. + +A summer night descending cool and green +And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat, +The ways of Death are soothing and serene, +And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. + +O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien +And radiant faces look upon, and greet +This last of all your lovers, and to meet +Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean . . . +The ways of Death are soothing and serene. + + + +*** + + + +We shall surely die: +Must we needs grow old? +Grow old and cold, +And we know not why? + +O, the By-and-By, +And the tale that's told! +We shall surely die: +Must we needs grow old? + +Grow old and sigh, +Grudge and withhold, +Resent and scold? . . . +Not you and I? +We shall surely die! + + + +*** + + + +What is to come we know not. But we know +That what has been was good--was good to show, +Better to hide, and best of all to bear. +We are the masters of the days that were: +We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so. + +Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? +Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe - +Dear, though it spoil and break us!--need we care +What is to come? + +Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, +Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: +We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare +And we can conquer, though we may not share +In the rich quiet of the afterglow +What is to come. + + + + +ECHOES + + + + +Aqui este encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias +Gil Blas AU LECTEUR + + + +I--TO MY MOTHER + + + +Chiming a dream by the way +With ocean's rapture and roar, +I met a maiden to-day +Walking alone on the shore: +Walking in maiden wise, +Modest and kind and fair, +The freshness of spring in her eyes +And the fulness of spring in her hair. + +Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst +Were swift on the floor of the sea, +And a mad wind was romping its worst, +But what was their magic to me? +Or the charm of the midsummer skies? +I only saw she was there, +A dream of the sea in her eyes +And the kiss of the sea in her hair. + +I watched her vanish in space; +She came where I walked no more; +But something had passed of her grace +To the spell of the wave and the shore; +And now, as the glad stars rise, +She comes to me, rosy and rare, +The delight of the wind in her eyes +And the hand of the wind in her hair. + +1872 + + + +II + + + +Life is bitter. All the faces of the years, +Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears. +Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? +In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, +Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . . +Let me sleep. + +Riches won but mock the old, unable years; +Fame's a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; +Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. +In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, +While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . . +Let me sleep. + +1872 + + + +III + + + +O, gather me the rose, the rose, +While yet in flower we find it, +For summer smiles, but summer goes, +And winter waits behind it! + +For with the dream foregone, foregone, +The deed forborne for ever, +The worm, regret, will canker on, +And Time will turn him never. + +So well it were to love, my love, +And cheat of any laughter +The fate beneath us and above, +The dark before and after. + +The myrtle and the rose, the rose, +The sunshine and the swallow, +The dream that comes, the wish that goes, +The memories that follow! + +1874 + + + +IV--I. M. To R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE (1846-1899) + + + +Out of the night that covers me, +Black as the Pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be +For my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance +I have not winced nor cried aloud. +Under the bludgeonings of chance +My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears +Looms but the Horror of the shade, +And yet the menace of the years +Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, +How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate: +I am the captain of my soul. + +1875 + + + +V + + + +I am the Reaper. +All things with heedful hook +Silent I gather. +Pale roses touched with the spring, +Tall corn in summer, +Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms - +Reaping, still reaping - +All things with heedful hook +Timely I gather. + +I am the Sower. +All the unbodied life +Runs through my seed-sheet. +Atom with atom wed, +Each quickening the other, +Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless +Ceaselessly sowing, +Life, incorruptible life, +Flows from my seed-sheet. + +Maker and breaker, +I am the ebb and the flood, +Here and Hereafter. +Sped through the tangle and coil +Of infinite nature, +Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. +Taker and giver, +I am the womb and the grave, +The Now and the Ever. + +1875 + + + +VI + + + +Praise the generous gods for giving +In a world of wrath and strife +With a little time for living, +Unto all the joy of life. + +At whatever source we drink it, +Art or love or faith or wine, +In whatever terms we think it, +It is common and divine. + +Praise the high gods, for in giving +This to man, and this alone, +They have made his chance of living +Shine the equal of their own. + +1875 + + + +VII + + + +Fill a glass with golden wine, +And the while your lips are wet +Set their perfume unto mine, +And forget, +Every kiss we take and give +Leaves us less of life to live. + +Yet again! Your whim and mine +In a happy while have met. +All your sweets to me resign, +Nor regret +That we press with every breath, +Sighed or singing, nearer death. + +1875 + + + +VIII + + + +We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. +November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. +The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. +We'll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. + +We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. +The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. +Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. +We'll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. + +We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. +If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon. +No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, +We'll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear. + +1875 + + + +IX--To W. R. + + + +Madam Life's a piece in bloom +Death goes dogging everywhere: +She's the tenant of the room, +He's the ruffian on the stair. + +You shall see her as a friend, +You shall bilk him once and twice; +But he'll trap you in the end, +And he'll stick you for her price. + +With his kneebones at your chest, +And his knuckles in your throat, +You would reason--plead--protest! +Clutching at her petticoat; + +But she's heard it all before, +Well she knows you've had your fun, +Gingerly she gains the door, +And your little job is done. + +1877 + + + +X + + + +The sea is full of wandering foam, +The sky of driving cloud; +My restless thoughts among them roam . . . +The night is dark and loud. + +Where are the hours that came to me +So beautiful and bright? +A wild wind shakes the wilder sea . . . +O, dark and loud's the night! + +1876 + + + +XI--To W. R. + + + +Thick is the darkness - +Sunward, O, sunward! +Rough is the highway - +Onward, still onward! + +Dawn harbours surely +East of the shadows. +Facing us somewhere +Spread the sweet meadows. + +Upward and forward! +Time will restore us: +Light is above us, +Rest is before us. + +1876 + + + +XII + + + +To me at my fifth-floor window +The chimney-pots in rows +Are sets of pipes pandean +For every wind that blows; + +And the smoke that whirls and eddies +In a thousand times and keys +Is really a visible music +Set to my reveries. + +O monstrous pipes, melodious +With fitful tune and dream, +The clouds are your only audience, +Her thought is your only theme! + +1875 + + + +XIII + + + +Bring her again, O western wind, +Over the western sea: +Gentle and good and fair and kind, +Bring her again to me! + +Not that her fancy holds me dear, +Not that a hope may be: +Only that I may know her near, +Wind of the western sea. + +1875 + + + +XIV + + + +The wan sun westers, faint and slow; +The eastern distance glimmers gray; +An eerie haze comes creeping low +Across the little, lonely bay; +And from the sky-line far away +About the quiet heaven are spread +Mysterious hints of dying day, +Thin, delicate dreams of green and red. + +And weak, reluctant surges lap +And rustle round and down the strand. +No other sound . . . If it should hap, +The ship that sails from fairy-land! +The silken shrouds with spells are manned, +The hull is magically scrolled, +The squat mast lives, and in the sand +The gold prow-griffin claws a hold. + +It steals to seaward silently; +Strange fish-folk follow thro' the gloom; +Great wings flap overhead; I see +The Castle of the Drowsy Doom +Vague thro' the changeless twilight loom, +Enchanted, hushed. And ever there +She slumbers in eternal bloom, +Her cushions hid with golden hair. + +1875 + + + +XV + + + +There is a wheel inside my head +Of wantonness and wine, +An old, cracked fiddle is begging without, +But the wind with scents of the sea is fed, +And the sun seems glad to shine. + +The sun and the wind are akin to you, +As you are akin to June. +But the fiddle! . . . It giggles and twitters about, +And, love and laughter! who gave him the cue? - +He's playing your favourite tune. + +1875 + + + +XVI + + + +While the west is paling +Starshine is begun. +While the dusk is failing +Glimmers up the sun. + +So, till darkness cover +Life's retreating gleam, +Lover follows lover, +Dream succeeds to dream. + +Stoop to my endeavour, +O my love, and be +Only and for ever +Sun and stars to me. + +1876 + + + +XVII + + + +The sands are alive with sunshine, +The bathers lounge and throng, +And out in the bay a bugle +Is lilting a gallant song. + +The clouds go racing eastward, +The blithe wind cannot rest, +And a shard on the shingle flashes +Like the shining soul of a jest; + +While children romp in the surges, +And sweethearts wander free, +And the Firth as with laughter dimples . . . +I would it were deep over me! + +1875 + + + +XVIII--To A. D. + + + +The nightingale has a lyre of gold, +The lark's is a clarion-call, +And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute, +But I love him best of all. + +For his song is all of the joy of life, +And we in the mad, spring weather, +We two have listened till he sang +Our hearts and lips together. + +1876 + + + +XIX + + + +Your heart has trembled to my tongue, +Your hands in mine have lain, +Your thought to me has leaned and clung, +Again and yet again, +My dear, +Again and yet again. + +Now die the dream, or come the wife, +The past is not in vain, +For wholly as it was your life +Can never be again, +My dear, +Can never be again. + +1876 + + + +XX + + + +The surges gushed and sounded, +The blue was the blue of June, +And low above the brightening east +Floated a shred of moon. + +The woods were black and solemn, +The night winds large and free, +And in your thought a blessing seemed +To fall on land and sea. + +1877 + + + +XXI + + + +We flash across the level. +We thunder thro' the bridges. +We bicker down the cuttings. +We sway along the ridges. + +A rush of streaming hedges, +Of jostling lights and shadows, +Of hurtling, hurrying stations, +Of racing woods and meadows. + +We charge the tunnels headlong - +The blackness roars and shatters. +We crash between embankments - +The open spins and scatters. + +We shake off the miles like water, +We might carry a royal ransom; +And I think of her waiting, waiting, +And long for a common hansom. + +1876 + + + +XXII + + + +The West a glimmering lake of light, +A dream of pearly weather, +The first of stars is burning white - +The star we watch together. +Is April dead? The unresting year +Will shape us our September, +And April's work is done, my dear - +Do you not remember? + +O gracious eve! O happy star, +Still-flashing, glowing, sinking! - +Who lives of lovers near or far +So glad as I in thinking? +The gallant world is warm and green, +For May fulfils November. +When lights and leaves and loves have been, +Sweet, will you remember? + +O star benignant and serene, +I take the good to-morrow, +That fills from verge to verge my dream, +With all its joy and sorrow! +The old, sweet spell is unforgot +That turns to June December; +And, tho' the world remembered not, +Love, we would remember. + +1876 + + + +XXIII + + + +The skies are strown with stars, +The streets are fresh with dew +A thin moon drifts to westward, +The night is hushed and cheerful. +My thought is quick with you. + +Near windows gleam and laugh, +And far away a train +Clanks glowing through the stillness: +A great content's in all things, +And life is not in vain. + +1877 + + + +XXIV + + + +The full sea rolls and thunders +In glory and in glee. +O, bury me not in the senseless earth +But in the living sea! + +Ay, bury me where it surges +A thousand miles from shore, +And in its brotherly unrest +I'll range for evermore. + +1876 + + + +XXV + + + +In the year that's come and gone, love, his flying feather +Stooping slowly, gave us heart, and bade us walk together. +In the year that's coming on, though many a troth be broken, +We at least will not forget aught that love hath spoken. + +In the year that's come and gone, dear, we wove a tether +All of gracious words and thoughts, binding two together. +In the year that's coming on with its wealth of roses +We shall weave it stronger, yet, ere the circle closes. + +In the year that's come and gone, in the golden weather, +Sweet, my sweet, we swore to keep the watch of life together. +In the year that's coming on, rich in joy and sorrow, +We shall light our lamp, and wait life's mysterious morrow. + +1877 + + + +XXVI + + + +In the placid summer midnight, +Under the drowsy sky, +I seem to hear in the stillness +The moths go glimmering by. + +One by one from the windows +The lights have all been sped. +Never a blind looks conscious - +The street is asleep in bed! + +But I come where a living casement +Laughs luminous and wide; +I hear the song of a piano +Break in a sparkling tide; + +And I feel, in the waltz that frolics +And warbles swift and clear, +A sudden sense of shelter +And friendliness and cheer . . . + +A sense of tinkling glasses, +Of love and laughter and light - +The piano stops, and the window +Stares blank out into the night. + +The blind goes out, and I wander +To the old, unfriendly sea, +The lonelier for the memory +That walks like a ghost with me. + + + +XXVII + + + +She sauntered by the swinging seas, +A jewel glittered at her ear, +And, teasing her along, the breeze +Brought many a rounded grace more near. + +So passing, one with wave and beam, +She left for memory to caress +A laughing thought, a golden gleam, +A hint of hidden loveliness. + +1876 + + + +XXVIII--To S. C. + + + +Blithe dreams arise to greet us, +And life feels clean and new, +For the old love comes to meet us +In the dawning and the dew. +O'erblown with sunny shadows, +O'ersped with winds at play, +The woodlands and the meadows +Are keeping holiday. +Wild foals are scampering, neighing, +Brave merles their hautboys blow: +Come! let us go a-maying +As in the Long-Ago. + +Here we but peak and dwindle: +The clank of chain and crane, +The whir of crank and spindle +Bewilder heart and brain; +The ends of our endeavour +Are merely wealth and fame, +Yet in the still Forever +We're one and all the same; +Delaying, still delaying, +We watch the fading west: +Come! let us go a-maying, +Nor fear to take the best. + +Yet beautiful and spacious +The wise, old world appears. +Yet frank and fair and gracious +Outlaugh the jocund years. +Our arguments disputing, +The universal Pan +Still wanders fluting--fluting - +Fluting to maid and man. +Our weary well-a-waying +His music cannot still: +Come! let us go a-maying, +And pipe with him our fill. + +When wanton winds are flowing +Among the gladdening glass; +Where hawthorn brakes are blowing, +And meadow perfumes pass; +Where morning's grace is greenest, +And fullest noon's of pride; +Where sunset spreads serenest, +And sacred night's most wide; +Where nests are swaying, swaying, +And spring's fresh voices call, +Come! let us go a-maying, +And bless the God of all! + +1878 + + + +XXIX--To R. L. S. + + + +A child, +Curious and innocent, +Slips from his Nurse, and rejoicing +Loses himself in the Fair. + +Thro' the jostle and din +Wandering, he revels, +Dreaming, desiring, possessing; +Till, of a sudden +Tired and afraid, he beholds +The sordid assemblage +Just as it is; and he runs +With a sob to his Nurse +(Lighting at last on him), +And in her motherly bosom +Cries him to sleep. + +Thus thro' the World, +Seeing and feeling and knowing, +Goes Man: till at last, +Tired of experience, he turns +To the friendly and comforting breast +Of the old nurse, Death. + +1876 + + + +XXX + + + +Kate-a-Whimsies, John-a-Dreams, +Still debating, still delay, +And the world's a ghost that gleams - +Wavers--vanishes away! + +We must live while live we can; +We should love while love we may. +Dread in women, doubt in man . . . +So the Infinite runs away. + +1876 + + + +XXXI + + + +O, have you blessed, behind the stars, +The blue sheen in the skies, +When June the roses round her calls? - +Then do you know the light that falls +From her beloved eyes. + +And have you felt the sense of peace +That morning meadows give? - +Then do you know the spirit of grace, +The angel abiding in her face, +Who makes it good to live. + +She shines before me, hope and dream, +So fair, so still, so wise, +That, winning her, I seem to win +Out of the dust and drive and din +A nook of Paradise. + +1877 + + + +XXXII--To D. H. + + + +O, Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, +And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day; +I wish from my heart I was far away from here, +Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear. +For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be. +Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. +O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree +They're all growing green in the old countrie. + +In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet +With her babe on her arm, as she came down the street; +And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready +For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie. +And it's home, dearie, home . . . + +O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; +And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king: +With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue +He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. +And it's home, dearie, home . . . + +O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, +And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, +For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, +And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie. +For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be. +Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. +O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree +They're all growing green in the old countrie. + +1878 + +NOTE: The burthen and the third stanza are old. + + + +XXXIII + + + +The ways are green with the gladdening sheen +Of the young year's fairest daughter. +O, the shadows that fleet o'er the springing wheat! +O, the magic of running water! +The spirit of spring is in every thing, +The banners of spring are streaming, +We march to a tune from the fifes of June, +And life's a dream worth dreaming. + +It's all very well to sit and spell +At the lesson there's no gainsaying; +But what the deuce are wont and use +When the whole mad world's a-maying? +When the meadow glows, and the orchard snows, +And the air's with love-motes teeming, +When fancies break, and the senses wake, +O, life's a dream worth dreaming! + +What Nature has writ with her lusty wit +Is worded so wisely and kindly +That whoever has dipped in her manuscript +Must up and follow her blindly. +Now the summer prime is her blithest rhyme +In the being and the seeming, +And they that have heard the overword +Know life's a dream worth dreaming. + +1878 + + + +XXXIV--To K. de M. + + + +Love blows as the wind blows, +Love blows into the heart. +- Nile Boat-Song + + +Life in her creaking shoes +Goes, and more formal grows, +A round of calls and cues: +Love blows as the wind blows. +Blows! . . . in the quiet close +As in the roaring mart, +By ways no mortal knows +Love blows into the heart. + +The stars some cadence use, +Forthright the river flows, +In order fall the dews, +Love blows as the wind blows: +Blows! . . . and what reckoning shows +The courses of his chart? +A spirit that comes and goes, +Love blows into the heart. + +1878 + + + +XXXV--I. M.--MARGARITAE SORORI (1886) + + + +A late lark twitters from the quiet skies; +And from the west, +Where the sun, his day's work ended, +Lingers as in content, +There falls on the old, grey city +An influence luminous and serene, +A shining peace. + +The smoke ascends +In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires +Shine, and are changed. In the valley +Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, +Closing his benediction, +Sinks, and the darkening air +Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night - +Night with her train of stars +And her great gift of sleep. + +So be my passing! +My task accomplished and the long day done, +My wages taken, and in my heart +Some late lark singing, +Let me be gathered to the quiet west, +The sundown splendid and serene, +Death. + +1876 + + + +XXXVI + + + +I gave my heart to a woman - +I gave it her, branch and root. +She bruised, she wrung, she tortured, +She cast it under foot. + +Under her feet she cast it, +She trampled it where it fell, +She broke it all to pieces, +And each was a clot of hell. + +There in the rain and the sunshine +They lay and smouldered long; +And each, when again she viewed them, +Had turned to a living song. + + + +XXXVII--To W. A. + + + +Or ever the knightly years were gone +With the old world to the grave, +I was a King in Babylon +And you were a Christian Slave. + +I saw, I took, I cast you by, +I bent and broke your pride. +You loved me well, or I heard them lie, +But your longing was denied. +Surely I knew that by and by +You cursed your gods and died. + +And a myriad suns have set and shone +Since then upon the grave +Decreed by the King in Babylon +To her that had been his Slave. + +The pride I trampled is now my scathe, +For it tramples me again. +The old resentment lasts like death, +For you love, yet you refrain. +I break my heart on your hard unfaith, +And I break my heart in vain. + +Yet not for an hour do I wish undone +The deed beyond the grave, +When I was a King in Babylon +And you were a Virgin Slave. + + + +XXXVIII + + + +On the way to Kew, +By the river old and gray, +Where in the Long Ago +We laughed and loitered so, +I met a ghost to-day, +A ghost that told of you - +A ghost of low replies +And sweet, inscrutable eyes +Coming up from Richmond +As you used to do. + +By the river old and gray, +The enchanted Long Ago +Murmured and smiled anew. +On the way to Kew, +March had the laugh of May, +The bare boughs looked aglow, +And old, immortal words +Sang in my breast like birds, +Coming up from Richmond +As I used with you. + +With the life of Long Ago +Lived my thought of you. +By the river old and gray +Flowing his appointed way +As I watched I knew +What is so good to know - +Not in vain, not in vain, +Shall I look for you again +Coming up from Richmond +On the way to Kew. + + + +XXXIX + + + +The Past was goodly once, and yet, when all is said, +The best of it we know is that it's done and dead. + +Dwindled and faded quite, perished beyond recall, +Nothing is left at last of what one time was all. + +Coming back like a ghost, staring and lingering on, +Never a word it speaks but proves it dead and gone. + +Duty and work and joy--these things it cannot give; +And the Present is life, and life is good to live. + +Let it lie where it fell, far from the living sun, +The Past that, goodly once, is gone and dead and done. + + + +XL + + + +The spring, my dear, +Is no longer spring. +Does the blackbird sing +What he sang last year? +Are the skies the old +Immemorial blue? +Or am I, or are you, +Grown cold? + +Though life be change, +It is hard to bear +When the old sweet air +Sounds forced and strange. +To be out of tune, +Plain You and I . . . +It were better to die, +And soon! + + + +XLVI--To R. A. M. S. + + + +The Spirit of Wine +Sang in my glass, and I listened +With love to his odorous music, +His flushed and magnificent song. + +- 'I am health, I am heart, I am life! +For I give for the asking +The fire of my father, the Sun, +And the strength of my mother, the Earth. +Inspiration in essence, +I am wisdom and wit to the wise, +His visible muse to the poet, +The soul of desire to the lover, +The genius of laughter to all. + +'Come, lean on me, ye that are weary! +Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting! +Haste, ye that lag by the way! +I am Pride, the consoler; +Valour and Hope are my henchmen; +I am the Angel of Rest. + +'I am life, I am wealth, I am fame: +For I captain an army +Of shining and generous dreams; +And mine, too, all mine, are the keys +Of that secret spiritual shrine, +Where, his work-a-day soul put by, +Shut in with his saint of saints - +With his radiant and conquering self - +Man worships, and talks, and is glad. + +'Come, sit with me, ye that are lovely, +Ye that are paid with disdain, +Ye that are chained and would soar! +I am beauty and love; +I am friendship, the comforter; +I am that which forgives and forgets.' - + +The Spirit of Wine +Sang in my heart, and I triumphed +In the savour and scent of his music, +His magnetic and mastering song. + + + +XLII + + + +A wink from Hesper, falling +Fast in the wintry sky, +Comes through the even blue, +Dear, like a word from you . . . +Is it good-bye? + +Across the miles between us +I send you sigh for sigh. +Good-night, sweet friend, good-night: +Till life and all take flight, +Never good-bye. + + + +XLII + + + +Friends . . . old friends . . . +One sees how it ends. +A woman looks +Or a man tells lies, +And the pleasant brooks +And the quiet skies, +Ruined with brawling +And caterwauling, +Enchant no more +As they did before. +And so it ends +With friends. + +Friends . . . old friends . . . +And what if it ends? +Shall we dare to shirk +What we live to learn? +It has done its work, +It has served its turn; +And, forgive and forget +Or hanker and fret, +We can be no more +As we were before. +When it ends, it ends +With friends. + +Friends . . . old friends . . . +So it breaks, so it ends. +There let it rest! +It has fought and won, +And is still the best +That either has done. +Each as he stands +The work of its hands, +Which shall be more +As he was before? . . . +What is it ends +With friends? + + + +XLIV + + + +If it should come to be, +This proof of you and me, +This type and sign +Of hours that smiled and shone, +And yet seemed dead and gone +As old-world wine: + +Of Them Within the Gate +Ask we no richer fate, +No boon above, +For girl child or for boy, +My gift of life and joy, +Your gift of love. + + + +XLV--To W. B. + + + +From the brake the Nightingale +Sings exulting to the Rose; +Though he sees her waxing pale +In her passionate repose, +While she triumphs waxing frail, +Fading even while she glows; +Though he knows +How it goes - +Knows of last year's Nightingale +Dead with last year's Rose. + +Wise the enamoured Nightingale, +Wise the well-beloved Rose! +Love and life shall still prevail, +Nor the silence at the close +Break the magic of the tale +In the telling, though it shows - +Who but knows +How it goes! - +Life a last year's Nightingale, +Love a last year's Rose. + + + +XLVI--MATRI DILECTISSIMAE--I.M. + + + +In the waste hour +Between to-day and yesterday +We watched, while on my arm - +Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone - +Dabbled in sweat the sacred head +Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: +Till the dear face turned dead, +And to a sound of lamentation +The good, heroic soul with all its wealth - +Its sixty years of love and sacrifice, +Suffering and passionate faith--was reabsorbed +In the inexorable Peace, +And life was changed to us for evermore. + +Was nothing left of her but tears +Like blood-drops from the heart? +Nought save remorse +For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, +And charity ignored? Nothing but love, +Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth, +But for this passing +Into the unimaginable abyss +These things had never been? + +Nay, there were we, +Her five strong sons! +To her Death came--the great Deliverer came! - +As equal comes to equal, throne to throne. +She was a mother of men. + +The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, +Bent on his errand of immortal law, +Works his appointed way +To the immemorial sea. +And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:- +That she in us yet works and shines, +Lives and fulfils herself, +Unending as the river and the stars. + +Dearest, live on +In such an immortality +As we thy sons, +Born of thy body and nursed +At those wild, faithful breasts, +Can give--of generous thoughts, +And honourable words, and deeds +That make men half in love with fate! +Live on, O brave and true, +In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine - +Our best and theirs! What is that best but thee - +Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass +Like light along the infinite of space +To the immitigable end? + +Between the river and the stars, +O royal and radiant soul, +Thou dost return, thine influences return +Upon thy children as in life, and death +Turns stingless! What is Death +But Life in act? How should the Unteeming Grave +Be victor over thee, +Mother, a mother of men? + + + +XLVII + + + +Crosses and troubles a-many have proved me. +One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me. +I have worked and dreamed, and I've talked at will. +Of art and drink I have had my fill. +I've comforted here, and I've succoured there. +I've faced my foes, and I've backed my friends. +I've blundered, and sometimes made amends. +I have prayed for light, and I've known despair. +Now I look before, as I look behind, +Come storm, come shine, whatever befall, +With a grateful heart and a constant mind, +For the end I know is the best of all. + +1888-1889 + + + + +LONDON VOLUNTARIES--To Charles Whibley + + + + +I--GRAVE + + + +St. Margaret's bells, +Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles, +Sing in the storied air, +All rosy-and-golden, as with memories +Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas +Disconsolate for that the night is nigh. +O, the low, lingering lights! The large last gleam +(Hark! how those brazen choristers cry and call!) +Touching these solemn ancientries, and there, +The silent River ranging tide-mark high +And the callow, grey-faced Hospital, +With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream! +The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees, +And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky +(Hark! how those plangent comforters call and cry!) +Falls as in August plots late roseleaves fall. +The sober Sabbath stir - +Leisurely voices, desultory feet! - +Comes from the dry, dust-coloured street, +Where in their summer frocks the girls go by, +And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer, +Just as they did an hundred years ago, +Just as an hundred years to come they will:- +When you and I, Dear Love, lie lost and low, +And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil, +Nor any sunset fade serene and slow; +But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die. + + + +II--ANDANTE CON MOTO + + + +Forth from the dust and din, +The crush, the heat, the many-spotted glare, +The odour and sense of life and lust aflare, +The wrangle and jangle of unrests, +Let us take horse, Dear Heart, take horse and win - +As from swart August to the green lap of May - +To quietness and the fresh and fragrant breasts +Of the still, delicious night, not yet aware +In any of her innumerable nests +Of that first sudden plash of dawn, +Clear, sapphirine, luminous, large, +Which tells that soon the flowing springs of day +In deep and ever deeper eddies drawn +Forward and up, in wider and wider way, +Shall float the sands, and brim the shores, +On this our lith of the World, as round it roars +And spins into the outlook of the Sun +(The Lord's first gift, the Lord's especial charge), +With light, with living light, from marge to marge +Until the course He set and staked be run. + +Through street and square, through square and street, +Each with his home-grown quality of dark +And violated silence, loud and fleet, +Waylaid by a merry ghost at every lamp, +The hansom wheels and plunges. Hark, O, hark, +Sweet, how the old mare's bit and chain +Ring back a rough refrain +Upon the marked and cheerful tramp +Of her four shoes! Here is the Park, +And O, the languid midsummer wafts adust, +The tired midsummer blooms! +O, the mysterious distances, the glooms +Romantic, the august +And solemn shapes! At night this City of Trees +Turns to a tryst of vague and strange +And monstrous Majesties, +Let loose from some dim underworld to range +These terrene vistas till their twilight sets: +When, dispossessed of wonderfulness, they stand +Beggared and common, plain to all the land +For stooks of leaves! And lo! the Wizard Hour, +His silent, shining sorcery winged with power! +Still, still the streets, between their carcanets +Of linking gold, are avenues of sleep. +But see how gable ends and parapets +In gradual beauty and significance +Emerge! And did you hear +That little twitter-and-cheep, +Breaking inordinately loud and clear +On this still, spectral, exquisite atmosphere? +'Tis a first nest at matins! And behold +A rakehell cat--how furtive and acold! +A spent witch homing from some infamous dance - +Obscene, quick-trotting, see her tip and fade +Through shadowy railings into a pit of shade! +And now! a little wind and shy, +The smell of ships (that earnest of romance), +A sense of space and water, and thereby +A lamplit bridge ouching the troubled sky, +And look, O, look! a tangle of silver gleams +And dusky lights, our River and all his dreams, +His dreams that never save in our deaths can die. + +What miracle is happening in the air, +Charging the very texture of the gray +With something luminous and rare? +The night goes out like an ill-parcelled fire, +And, as one lights a candle, it is day. +The extinguisher, that perks it like a spire +On the little formal church, is not yet green +Across the water: but the house-tops nigher, +The corner-lines, the chimneys--look how clean, +How new, how naked! See the batch of boats, +Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam! +And those are barges that were goblin floats, +Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream! +And in the piles the water frolics clear, +The ripples into loose rings wander and flee, +And we--we can behold that could but hear +The ancient River singing as he goes, +New-mailed in morning, to the ancient Sea. +The gas burns lank and jaded in its glass: +The old Ruffian soon shall yawn himself awake, +And light his pipe, and shoulder his tools, and take +His hobnailed way to work! + +Let us too pass - +Pass ere the sun leaps and your shadow shows - +Through these long, blindfold rows +Of casements staring blind to right and left, +Each with his gaze turned inward on some piece +Of life in death's own likeness--Life bereft +Of living looks as by the Great Release - +Pass to an exquisite night's more exquisite close! + +Reach upon reach of burial--so they feel, +These colonies of dreams! And as we steal +Homeward together, but for the buxom breeze, +Fitfully frolicking to heel +With news of dawn-drenched woods and tumbling seas, +We might--thus awed, thus lonely that we are - +Be wandering some dispeopled star, +Some world of memories and unbroken graves, +So broods the abounding Silence near and far: +Till even your footfall craves +Forgiveness of the majesty it braves. + + + +III--SCHERZANDO + + + +Down through the ancient Strand +The spirit of October, mild and boon +And sauntering, takes his way +This golden end of afternoon, +As though the corn stood yellow in all the land, +And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon. + +Lo! the round sun, half-down the western slope - +Seen as along an unglazed telescope - +Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day: +Gifting the long, lean, lanky street +And its abounding confluences of being +With aspects generous and bland; +Making a thousand harnesses to shine +As with new ore from some enchanted mine, +And every horse's coat so full of sheen +He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean, +And never a hansom but is worth the feeing; +And every jeweller within the pale +Offers a real Arabian Night for sale; +And even the roar +Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour +Eastward and westward, sounds suffused - +Seems as it were bemused +And blurred, and like the speech +Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach - +With this enchanted lustrousness, +This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress +Brings back to some faded face, beloved before, +A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore +Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech) +Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless +Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more: +Till Clement's, angular and cold and staid, +Gleams forth in glamour's very stuffs arrayed; +And Bride's, her aery, unsubstantial charm +Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone +Grown flushed and warm, +Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown; +And the high majesty of Paul's +Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls - +Calls to his millions to behold and see +How goodly this his London Town can be! + +For earth and sky and air +Are golden everywhere, +And golden with a gold so suave and fine +The looking on it lifts the heart like wine. +Trafalgar Square +(The fountains volleying golden glaze) +Shines like an angel-market. High aloft +Over his couchant Lions, in a haze +Shimmering and bland and soft, +A dust of chrysoprase, +Our Sailor takes the golden gaze +Of the saluting sun, and flames superb, +As once he flamed it on his ocean round. +The dingy dreariness of the picture-place, +Turned very nearly bright, +Takes on a luminous transiency of grace, +And shows no more a scandal to the ground. +The very blind man pottering on the kerb, +Among the posies and the ostrich feathers +And the rude voices touched with all the weathers +Of the long, varying year, +Shares in the universal alms of light. +The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires, +The height and spread of frontage shining sheer, +The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires - +'Tis El Dorado--El Dorado plain, +The Golden City! And when a girl goes by, +Look! as she turns her glancing head, +A call of gold is floated from her ear! +Golden, all golden! In a golden glory, +Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky, +The day, not dies but, seems +Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed +Upon a past of golden song and story +And memories of gold and golden dreams. + + + +IV--LARGO E MESTO + + + +Out of the poisonous East, +Over a continent of blight, +Like a maleficent Influence released +From the most squalid cellarage of hell, +The Wind-Fiend, the abominable - +The Hangman Wind that tortures temper and light - +Comes slouching, sullen and obscene, +Hard on the skirts of the embittered night; +And in a cloud unclean +Of excremental humours, roused to strife +By the operation of some ruinous change, +Wherever his evil mandate run and range, +Into a dire intensity of life, +A craftsman at his bench, he settles down +To the grim job of throttling London Town. + +So, by a jealous lightlessness beset +That might have oppressed the dragons of old time +Crunching and groping in the abysmal slime, +A cave of cut-throat thoughts and villainous dreams, +Hag-rid and crying with cold and dirt and wet, +The afflicted City, prone from mark to mark +In shameful occultation, seems +A nightmare labyrinthine, dim and drifting, +With wavering gulfs and antic heights, and shifting, +Rent in the stuff of a material dark, +Wherein the lamplight, scattered and sick and pale, +Shows like the leper's living blotch of bale: +Uncoiling monstrous into street on street +Paven with perils, teeming with mischance, +Where man and beast go blindfold and in dread, +Working with oaths and threats and faltering feet +Somewhither in the hideousness ahead; +Working through wicked airs and deadly dews +That make the laden robber grin askance +At the good places in his black romance, +And the poor, loitering harlot rather choose +Go pinched and pined to bed +Than lurk and shiver and curse her wretched way +From arch to arch, scouting some threepenny prey. + +Forgot his dawns and far-flushed afterglows, +His green garlands and windy eyots forgot, +The old Father-River flows, +His watchfires cores of menace in the gloom, +As he came oozing from the Pit, and bore, +Sunk in his filthily transfigured sides, +Shoals of dishonoured dead to tumble and rot +In the squalor of the universal shore: +His voices sounding through the gruesome air +As from the Ferry where the Boat of Doom +With her blaspheming cargo reels and rides: +The while his children, the brave ships, +No more adventurous and fair, +Nor tripping it light of heel as home-bound brides, +But infamously enchanted, +Huddle together in the foul eclipse, +Or feel their course by inches desperately, +As through a tangle of alleys murder-haunted, +From sinister reach to reach out--out--to sea. + +And Death the while - +Death with his well-worn, lean, professional smile, +Death in his threadbare working trim - +Comes to your bedside, unannounced and bland, +And with expert, inevitable hand +Feels at your windpipe, fingers you in the lung, +Or flicks the clot well into the labouring heart: +Thus signifying unto old and young, +However hard of mouth or wild of whim, +'Tis time--'tis time by his ancient watch--to part +From books and women and talk and drink and art. +And you go humbly after him +To a mean suburban lodging: on the way +To what or where +Not Death, who is old and very wise, can say: +And you--how should you care +So long as, unreclaimed of hell, +The Wind-Fiend, the insufferable, +Thus vicious and thus patient, sits him down +To the black job of burking London Town? + + + +V--ALLEGRO MAESTOSO + + + +Spring winds that blow +As over leagues of myrtle-blooms and may; +Bevies of spring clouds trooping slow, +Like matrons heavy bosomed and aglow +With the mild and placid pride of increase! Nay, +What makes this insolent and comely stream +Of appetence, this freshet of desire +(Milk from the wild breasts of the wilful Day!), +Down Piccadilly dance and murmur and gleam +In genial wave on wave and gyre on gyre? +Why does that nymph unparalleled splash and churn +The wealth of her enchanted urn +Till, over-billowing all between +Her cheerful margents, grey and living green, +It floats and wanders, glittering and fleeing, +An estuary of the joy of being? +Why should the lovely leafage of the Park +Touch to an ecstasy the act of seeing? +- Sure, sure my paramour, my Bride of Brides, +Lingering and flushed, mysteriously abides +In some dim, eye-proof angle of odorous dark, +Some smiling nook of green-and-golden shade, +In the divine conviction robed and crowned +The globe fulfils his immemorial round +But as the marrying-place of all things made! + +There is no man, this deifying day, +But feels the primal blessing in his blood. +There is no woman but disdains - +The sacred impulse of the May +Brightening like sex made sunshine through her veins - +To vail the ensigns of her womanhood. +None but, rejoicing, flaunts them as she goes, +Bounteous in looks of her delicious best, +On her inviolable quest: +These with their hopes, with their sweet secrets those, +But all desirable and frankly fair, +As each were keeping some most prosperous tryst, +And in the knowledge went imparadised! +For look! a magical influence everywhere, +Look how the liberal and transfiguring air +Washes this inn of memorable meetings, +This centre of ravishments and gracious greetings, +Till, through its jocund loveliness of length +A tidal-race of lust from shore to shore, +A brimming reach of beauty met with strength, +It shines and sounds like some miraculous dream, +Some vision multitudinous and agleam, +Of happiness as it shall be evermore! + +Praise God for giving +Through this His messenger among the days +His word the life He gave is thrice-worth living! +For Pan, the bountiful, imperious Pan - +Not dead, not dead, as impotent dreamers feigned, +But the gay genius of a million Mays +Renewing his beneficent endeavour! - +Still reigns and triumphs, as he hath triumphed and reigned +Since in the dim blue dawn of time +The universal ebb-and-flow began, +To sound his ancient music, and prevails, +By the persuasion of his mighty rhyme, +Here in this radiant and immortal street +Lavishly and omnipotently as ever +In the open hills, the undissembling dales, +The laughing-places of the juvenile earth. +For lo! the wills of man and woman meet, +Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared, +As once in Eden's prodigal bowers befell, +To share his shameless, elemental mirth +In one great act of faith: while deep and strong, +Incomparably nerved and cheered, +The enormous heart of London joys to beat +To the measures of his rough, majestic song; +The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell +That keeps the rolling universe ensphered, +And life, and all for which life lives to long, +Wanton and wondrous and for ever well. + + + + +RHYMES AND RHYTHMS + + + + +PROLOGUE + + + +Something is dead . . . +The grace of sunset solitudes, the march +Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power +Of round on round of shining soldier-stars +Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun - +Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable - +The multitudinous friendliness of the sea, +Possess no more--no more. + +Something is dead . . . +The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks +And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs, +His melancholy close and closer yet +Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring +That made the heart a centre of miracles +Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours +Arise no more--no more. + +Something is dead . . . +'Tis time to creep in close about the fire +And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream +Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice +In the young life that round us leaps and laughs, +A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride +Of God's best gift that to us twain returns, +Dear Heart, no more--no more. + + + +I + + + +Where forlorn sunsets flare and fade +On desolate sea and lonely sand, +Out of the silence and the shade +What is the voice of strange command +Calling you still, as friend calls friend +With love that cannot brook delay, +To rise and follow the ways that wend +Over the hills and far away? + +Hark in the city, street on street +A roaring reach of death and life, +Of vortices that clash and fleet +And ruin in appointed strife, +Hark to it calling, calling clear, +Calling until you cannot stay +From dearer things than your own most dear +Over the hills and far away. + +Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow, +Out of the sight of lamp and star, +It calls you where the good winds blow, +And the unchanging meadows are: +From faded hopes and hopes agleam, +It calls you, calls you night and day +Beyond the dark into the dream +Over the hills and far away + + + +II--To R. F. B. + + + +We are the Choice of the Will: God, when He gave the word +That called us into line, set in our hand a sword; + +Set us a sword to wield none else could lift and draw, +And bade us forth to the sound of the trumpet of the Law. + +East and west and north, wherever the battle grew, +As men to a feast we fared, the work of the Will to do. + +Bent upon vast beginnings, bidding anarchy cease - +(Had we hacked it to the Pit, we had left it a place of peace!) - + +Marching, building, sailing, pillar of cloud or fire, +Sons of the Will, we fought the fight of the Will, our sire. + +Road was never so rough that we left its purpose dark; +Stark was ever the sea, but our ships were yet more stark; + +We tracked the winds of the world to the steps of their very +thrones; +The secret parts of the world were salted with our bones; + +Till now the name of names, England, the name of might, +Flames from the austral fires to the bounds of the boreal night; + +And the call of her morning drum goes in a girdle of sound, +Like the voice of the sun in song, the great globe round and round; + +And the shadow of her flag, when it shouts to the mother-breeze, +Floats from shore to shore of the universal seas; + +And the loneliest death is fair with a memory of her flowers, +And the end of the road to Hell with the sense of her dews and +showers! + +Who says that we shall pass, or the fame of us fade and die, +While the living stars fulfil their round in the living sky? + +For the sire lives in his sons, and they pay their father's debt, +And the Lion has left a whelp wherever his claw was set; + +And the Lion in his whelps, his whelps that none shall brave, +Is but less strong than Time and the great, all-whelming Grave. + + + +III + + + +A desolate shore, +The sinister seduction of the Moon, +The menace of the irreclaimable Sea. + +Flaunting, tawdry and grim, +From cloud to cloud along her beat, +Leering her battered and inveterate leer, +She signals where he prowls in the dark alone, +Her horrible old man, +Mumbling old oaths and warming +His villainous old bones with villainous talk - +The secrets of their grisly housekeeping +Since they went out upon the pad +In the first twilight of self-conscious Time: +Growling, hideous and hoarse, +Tales of unnumbered Ships, +Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance, +In some vile alley of the night +Waylaid and bludgeoned - +Dead. + +Deep cellared in primeval ooze, +Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled, +They lie where the lean water-worm +Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides +Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide, +Thus fouled and desecrate, +The summons of the Trumpet, and the while +These Twain, their murderers, +Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued, +Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft +As in the shining streets, +He as in ambush at some accomplice door. + +The stalwart Ships, +The beautiful and bold adventurers! +Stationed out yonder in the isle, +The tall Policeman, +Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers +About him in the ancient vacancy, +Tells them this way is safety--this way home. + + + +IV + + + +It came with the threat of a waning moon +And the wail of an ebbing tide, +But many a woman has lived for less, +And many a man has died; +For life upon life took hold and passed, +Strong in a fate set free, +Out of the deep into the dark +On for the years to be. + +Between the gloom of a waning moon +And the song of an ebbing tide, +Chance upon chance of love and death +Took wing for the world so wide. +O, leaf out of leaf is the way of the land, +Wave out of wave of the sea +And who shall reckon what lives may live +In the life that we bade to be? + + + +V + + + +Why, my heart, do we love her so? +(Geraldine, Geraldine!) +Why does the great sea ebb and flow? - +Why does the round world spin? +Geraldine, Geraldine, +Bid me my life renew: +What is it worth unless I win, +Love--love and you? + +Why, my heart, when we speak her name +(Geraldine, Geraldine!) +Throbs the word like a flinging flame? - +Why does the Spring begin? +Geraldine, Geraldine, +Bid me indeed to be: +Open your heart, and take us in, +Love--love and me. + + + +VI + + + +One with the ruined sunset, +The strange forsaken sands, +What is it waits, and wanders, +And signs with desparate hands? + +What is it calls in the twilight - +Calls as its chance were vain? +The cry of a gull sent seaward +Or the voice of an ancient pain? + +The red ghost of the sunset, +It walks them as its own, +These dreary and desolate reaches . . . +But O, that it walked alone! + + + +VII + + + +There's a regret +So grinding, so immitigably sad, +Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . . +Do you not know it yet? + +For deeds undone +Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due, +Till there seems naught so despicable as you +In all the grin o' the sun. + +Like an old shoe +The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie +About the beach of Time, till by and by +Death, that derides you too - + +Death, as he goes +His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray, +With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way; +And then--and then, who knows + +But the kind Grave +Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, +In that black bridewell working out his term, +Hanker and grope and crave? + +'Poor fool that might - +That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, +Think of it, here and thus made over to me +In the implacable night!' + +And writhing, fain +And like a triumphing lover, he shall take +His fill where no high memory lives to make +His obscene victory vain. + + + +VIII--To A. J. H. + + + +Time and the Earth - +The old Father and Mother - +Their teeming accomplished, +Their purpose fulfilled, +Close with a smile +For a moment of kindness, +Ere for the winter +They settle to sleep. + +Failing yet gracious, +Slow pacing, soon homing, +A patriarch that strolls +Through the tents of his children, +The Sun, as he journeys +His round on the lower +Ascents of the blue, +Washes the roofs +And the hillsides with clarity; +Charms the dark pools +Till they break into pictures; +Scatters magnificent +Alms to the beggar trees; +Touches the mist-folk, +That crowd to his escort, +Into translucencies +Radiant and ravishing: +As with the visible +Spirit of Summer +Gloriously vaporised, +Visioned in gold! + +Love, though the fallen leaf +Mark, and the fleeting light +And the loud, loitering +Footfall of darkness +Sign to the heart +Of the passage of destiny, +Here is the ghost +Of a summer that lived for us, +Here is a promise +Of summers to be. + + + +IX + + + +'As like the Woman as you can' - +(Thus the New Adam was beguiled) - +'So shall you touch the Perfect Man' - +(God in the Garden heard and smiled). +'Your father perished with his day: +'A clot of passions fierce and blind, +'He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way: +'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind. + +'The Brute that lurks and irks within, +'How, till you have him gagged and bound, +'Escape the foullest form of Sin?' +(God in the Garden laughed and frowned). +'So vile, so rank, the bestial mood +'In which the race is bid to be, +'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood: +'Live, therefore, you, for Purity! + +'Take for your mate no gallant croup, +'No girl all grace and natural will: +'To work her mission were to stoop, +'Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill. +'Choose one of whom your grosser make' - +(God in the Garden laughed outright) - +'The true refining touch may take, +'Till both attain to Life's last height. + +'There, equal, purged of soul and sense. +'Beneficent, high-thinking, just, +'Beyond the appeal of Violence, +'Incapable of common Lust, +'In mental Marriage still prevail' - +(God in the Garden hid His face) - +'Till you achieve that Female-Male +'In Which shall culminate the race.' + + + +X + + + +Midsummer midnight skies, +Midsummer midnight influences and airs, +The shining, sensitive silver of the sea +Touched with the strange-hued blazonings of dawn; +And all so solemnly still I seem to hear +The breathing of Life and Death, +The secular Accomplices, +Renewing the visible miracle of the world. + +The wistful stars +Shine like good memories. The young morning wind +Blows full of unforgotten hours +As over a region of roses. Life and Death +Sound on--sound on . . . And the night magical, +Troubled yet comforting, thrills +As if the Enchanted Castle at the heart +Of the wood's dark wonderment +Swung wide his valves, and filled the dim sea-banks +With exquisite visitants: +Words fiery-hearted yet, dreams and desires +With living looks intolerable, regrets +Whose voice comes as the voice of an only child +Heard from the grave: shapes of a Might-Have-Been - +Beautiful, miserable, distraught - +The Law no man may baffle denied and slew. + +The spell-bound ships stand as at gaze +To let the marvel by. The grey road glooms . . . +Glimmers . . . goes out . . . and there, O, there where it fades, +What grace, what glamour, what wild will, +Transfigure the shadows? Whose, +Heart of my heart, Soul of my soul, but yours? + +Ghosts--ghosts--the sapphirine air +Teems with them even to the gleaming ends +Of the wild day-spring! Ghosts, +Everywhere--everywhere--till I and you +At last--dear love, at last! - +Are in the dreaming, even as Life and Death, +Twin-ministers of the unoriginal Will. + + + +XI + + + +Gulls in an aery morrice +Gleam and vanish and gleam . . . +The full sea, sleepily basking, +Dreams under skies of dream. + +Gulls in an aery morrice +Circle and swoop and close . . . +Fuller and ever fuller +The rose of the morning blows. + +Gulls, in an aery morrice +Frolicking, float and fade . . . +O, the way of a bird in the sunshine, +The way of a man with a maid! + + + +XII + + + +Some starlit garden grey with dew, +Some chamber flushed with wine and fire, +What matters where, so I and you +Are worthy our desire? + +Behind, a past that scolds and jeers +For ungirt loins and lamps unlit; +In front, the unmanageable years, +The trap upon the Pit; + +Think on the shame of dreams for deeds, +The scandal of unnatural strife, +The slur upon immortal needs, +The treason done to life: + +Arise! no more a living lie, +And with me quicken and control +Some memory that shall magnify +The universal Soul. + + + +XIII--To James McNeill Whistler + + + +Under a stagnant sky, +Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom, +The River, jaded and forlorn, +Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on; +Yet in and out among the ribs +Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles +Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls, +Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories, +Lingers to babble to a broken tune +(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!) +So melancholy a soliloquy +It sounds as it might tell +The secret of the unending grief-in-grain, +The terror of Time and Change and Death, +That wastes this floating, transitory world. + +What of the incantation +That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore +To take and wear the night +Like a material majesty? +That touched the shafts of wavering fire +About this miserable welter and wash - +(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!) - +Into long, shining signals from the panes +Of an enchanted pleasure-house, +Where life and life might live life lost in life +For ever and evermore? + +O Death! O Change! O Time! +Without you, O, the insuperable eyes +Of these poor Might-Have-Beens, +These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays! + + + +XIV--To J. A. C. + + + +Fresh from his fastnesses +Wholesome and spacious, +The North Wind, the mad huntsman, +Halloas on his white hounds +Over the grey, roaring +Reaches and ridges, +The forest of ocean, +The chace of the world. +Hark to the peal +Of the pack in full cry, +As he thongs them before him, +Swarming voluminous, +Weltering, wide-wallowing, +Till in a ruining +Chaos of energy, +Hurled on their quarry, +They crash into foam! + +Old Indefatigable, +Time's right-hand man, the sea +Laughs as in joy +From his millions of wrinkles: +Laughs that his destiny, +Great with the greatness +Of triumphing order, +Shows as a dwarf +By the strength of his heart +And the might of his hands. + +Master of masters, +O maker of heroes, +Thunder the brave, +Irresistible message:- +'Life is worth Living +Through every grain of it, +From the foundations +To the last edge +Of the cornerstone, death.' + + + +XV + + + +You played and sang a snatch of song, +A song that all-too well we knew; +But whither had flown the ancient wrong; +And was it really I and you? +O, since the end of life's to live +And pay in pence the common debt, +What should it cost us to forgive +Whose daily task is to forget? + +You babbled in the well-known voice - +Not new, not new the words you said. +You touched me off that famous poise, +That old effect, of neck and head. +Dear, was it really you and I? +In truth the riddle's ill to read, +So many are the deaths we die +Before we can be dead indeed. + + + +XVI + + + +Space and dread and the dark - +Over a livid stretch of sky +Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train +Of huge, primeval presences +Stooping beneath the weight +Of some enormous, rudimentary grief; +While in the haunting loneliness +The far sea waits and wanders with a sound +As of the trailing skirts of Destiny, +Passing unseen +To some immitigable end +With her grey henchman, Death. + +What larve, what spectre is this +Thrilling the wilderness to life +As with the bodily shape of Fear? +What but a desperate sense, +A strong foreboding of those dim +Interminable continents, forlorn +And many-silenced, in a dusk +Inviolable utterly, and dead +As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes +In hugger-mugger through eternity? + +Life--life--let there be life! +Better a thousand times the roaring hours +When wave and wind, +Like the Arch-Murderer in flight +From the Avenger at his heel, +Storm through the desolate fastnesses +And wild waste places of the world! + +Life--give me life until the end, +That at the very top of being, +The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, +Out of the reddest hell of the fight +I may be snatched and flung +Into the everlasting lull, +The immortal, incommunicable dream. + + + +XVII--CARMEN PATIBULARE--To H. S. + + + +Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook +And the rope of the Black Election, +'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule +Can never achieve perfection: +So 'It's O, for the time of the new Sublime +And the better than human way, +When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own +And the Wolf shall have his day!' + +For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam +And the power of provocation, +You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit +Till your fruit is mere stupration: +And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise, +And how can we choose but fall, +So long as the Hangman makes us dread, +And the Noose floats free for all?' + +So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign +And the trick there's no recalling, +They will haggle and hew till they hack you through +And at last they lay you sprawling: +When 'Hey! for the hour of the race in flower +And the long good-bye to sin!' +And for the lack the fires of Hell gone out +Of the fuel to keep them in!' + +But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough +And the ghastly Dreams that tend you, +Your growth began with the life of Man, +And only his death can end you. +They may tug in line at your hempen twine, +They may flourish with axe and saw; +But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs +In the living rock of Law. + +And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork, +When the spent sun reels and blunders +Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit +As it seethes in spate and thunders, +Stern on the glare of the tortured air +Your lines august shall gloom, +And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed +In the ruining roar of Doom. + + + +XVIII--I. M.--MARGARET EMMA HENLEY (1888-1894) + + + +When you wake in your crib, +You, an inch of experience - +Vaulted about +With the wonder of darkness; +Wailing and striving +To reach from your feebleness +Something you feel +Will be good to and cherish you, +Something you know +And can rest upon blindly: +O, then a hand +(Your mother's, your mother's!) +By the fall of its fingers +All knowledge, all power to you, +Out of the dreary, +Discouraging strangenesses +Comes to and masters you, +Takes you, and lovingly +Woos you and soothes you +Back, as you cling to it, +Back to some comforting +Corner of sleep. + +So you wake in your bed, +Having lived, having loved; +But the shadows are there, +And the world and its kingdoms +Incredibly faded; +And you group through the Terror +Above you and under +For the light, for the warmth, +The assurance of life; +But the blasts are ice-born, +And your heart is nigh burst +With the weight of the gloom +And the stress of your strangled +And desperate endeavour: +Sudden a hand - +Mother, O Mother! - +God at His best to you, +Out of the roaring, +Impossible silences, +Falls on and urges you, +Mightily, tenderly, +Forth, as you clutch at it, +Forth to the infinite +Peace of the Grave. + +October 1891 + + + +XIX--I. M.--R. L. S. (1850-1894) + + + +O, Time and Change, they range and range +From sunshine round to thunder! - +They glance and go as the great winds blow, +And the best of our dreams drive under: +For Time and Change estrange, estrange - +And, now they have looked and seen us, +O, we that were dear, we are all-too near +With the thick of the world between us. + +O, Death and Time, they chime and chime +Like bells at sunset falling! - +They end the song, they right the wrong, +They set the old echoes calling: +For Death and Time bring on the prime +Of God's own chosen weather, +And we lie in the peace of the Great Release +As once in the grass together. + +February 1891 + + + +XX + + + +The shadow of Dawn; +Stillness and stars and over-mastering dreams +Of Life and Death and Sleep; +Heard over gleaming flats, the old, unchanging sound +Of the old, unchanging Sea. + +My soul and yours - +O, hand in hand let us fare forth, two ghosts, +Into the ghostliness, +The infinite and abounding solitudes, +Beyond--O, beyond!--beyond . . . + +Here in the porch +Upon the multitudinous silences +Of the kingdoms of the grave, +We twain are you and I--two ghosts Omnipotence +Can touch no more . . . no more! + + + +XXI + + + +When the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves +Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves, +Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life +Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife - +Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves. + +But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before, +When the rain-rot spreads and a tame sea mumbles the shore, +Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong, +Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire's old song - +O, you envy the blessed death that can live no more! + + + +XXII + + + +Trees and the menace of night; +Then a long, lonely, leaden mere +Backed by a desolate fell, +As by a spectral battlement; and then, +Low-brooding, interpenetrating all, +A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky, +So beggared, so incredibly bereft +Of starlight and the song of racing worlds, +It might have bellied down upon the Void +Where as in terror Light was beginning to be. + +Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night +(Night and the wretchedness of the sky) +Is it the hurry of the rain? +Or the noise of a drive of the Dead, +Streaming before the irresistible Will +Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land +Between their place and ours? + +Like the forgetfulness +Of the work-a-day world made visible, +A mist falls from the melancholy sky. +A messenger from some lost and loving soul, +Hopeless, far wandered, dazed +Here in the provinces of life, +A great white moth fades miserably past. + +Thro' the trees in the strange dead night, +Under the vast dead sky, +Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead +Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell, +And the unimagined vastitudes beyond. + + + +XXIII--To P. A. G. + + + +Here they trysted, here they strayed, +In the leafage dewy and boon, +Many a man and many a maid, +And the morn was merry June. +'Death is fleet, Life is sweet,' +Sang the blackbird in the may; +And the hour with flying feet, +While they dreamed, was yesterday. + +Many a maid and many a man +Found the leafage close and boon; +Many a destiny began - +O, the morn was merry June! +Dead and gone, dead and gone, +(Hark the blackbird in the may!), +Life and Death went hurrying on, +Cheek on cheek--and where were they? + +Dust on dust engendering dust +In the leafage fresh and boon, +Man and maid fulfil their trust - +Still the morn turns merry June. +Mother Life, Father Death +(O, the blackbird in the may!), +Each the other's breath for breath, +Fleet the times of the world away. + + + +XXIV--To A. C. + + + +Not to the staring Day, +For all the importunate questionings he pursues +In his big, violent voice, +Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude, +The Trees--God's sentinels +Over His gift of live, life-giving air, +Yield of their huge, unutterable selves. +Midsummer-manifold, each one +Voluminous, a labyrinth of life, +They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams +That haunt their leafier privacies, +Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still +With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile +Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade, +And disappearances of homing birds, +And frolicsome freaks +Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs. + +But at the word +Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night, +Night of the many secrets, whose effect - +Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread - +Themselves alone may fully apprehend, +They tremble and are changed. +In each, the uncouth individual soul +Looms forth and glooms +Essential, and, their bodily presences +Touched with inordinate significance, +Wearing the darkness like the livery +Of some mysterious and tremendous guild, +They brood--they menace--they appal; +Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring +Wild hands of warning in the face +Of some inevitable advance of the doom; +Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing +As in some monstrous market-place, +They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime, +In that old speech their forefathers +Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard +The troubled voice of Eve +Naming the wondering folk of Paradise. + +Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them tell +The tale of their dim life, with all +Its compost of experience: how the Sun +Spreads them their daily feast, +Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine; +Of the old Moon's fitful solicitude +And those mild messages the Stars +Descend in silver silences and dews; +Or what the sweet-breathing West, +Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat, +Said, and their leafage laughed; +And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain +Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the Year - +The sting of the stirring sap +Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring, +Their summer amplitudes of pomp, +Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill, +Embittered housewifery +Of the lean Winter: all such things, +And with them all the goodness of the Master, +Whose right hand blesses with increase and life, +Whose left hand honours with decay and death. + +Thus under the constraint of Night +These gross and simple creatures, +Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years, +A servant of the Will! +And God, the Craftsman, as He walks +The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer +In thus accomplishing +The aims of His miraculous artistry. + + + +XXV + + + +What have I done for you, +England, my England? +What is there I would not do, +England, my own? +With your glorious eyes austere, +As the Lord were walking near, +Whispering terrible things and dear +As the Song on your bugles blown, +England - +Round the world on your bugles blown! + +Where shall the watchful Sun, +England, my England, +Match the master-work you've done, +England, my own? +When shall he rejoice agen +Such a breed of mighty men +As come forward, one to ten, +To the Song on your bugles blown, +England - +Down the years on your bugles blown? + +Ever the faith endures, +England, my England:- +'Take and break us: we are yours, +'England, my own! +'Life is good, and joy runs high +'Between English earth and sky: +'Death is death; but we shall die +'To the Song on your bugles blown, +'England - +'To the stars on your bugles blown! + +They call you proud and hard, +England, my England: +You with worlds to watch and ward, +England, my own! +You whose mailed hand keeps the keys +Of such teeming destinies +You could know nor dread nor ease +Were the Song on your bugles blown, +England, +Round the Pit on your bugles blown! + +Mother of Ships whose might, +England, my England, +Is the fierce old Sea's delight, +England, my own, +Chosen daughter of the Lord, +Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, +There's the menace of the Word +In the Song on your bugles blown, +England - +Out of heaven on your bugles blown! + + + +EPILOGUE + + + +These, to you now, O, more than ever now - +Now that the Ancient Enemy +Has passed, and we, we two that are one, have seen +A piece of perfect Life +Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death +The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled +In pity and pride, +Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil +From those home-kingdoms he left desolate! + +Poor windlestraws +On the great, sullen, roaring pool of Time +And Chance and Change, I know! +But they are yours, as I am, till we attain +That end for which me make, we two that are one: +A little, exquisite Ghost +Between us, smiling with the serenest eyes +Seen in this world, and calling, calling still +In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties +Of sweetness, thrilling back across the grave, +Break the poor heart to hear: - +'Come, Dadsie, come! +Mama, how long--how long!' + +July 1897. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems, by William Ernest Henley + diff --git a/old/pmweh10.zip b/old/pmweh10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..02a470f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pmweh10.zip |
