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diff --git a/17735-8.txt b/17735-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a78e392 --- /dev/null +++ b/17735-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1994 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eyes of Youth, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: Eyes of Youth + A Book of Verse by Padraic Colum, Shane Leslie, A.O. + +Author: Various + +Release Date: February 9, 2006 [EBook #17735] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYES OF YOUTH *** + + + + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe. + + + + +EYES OF YOUTH + + + * * * * * + + A Book of Verse by Padraic Colum--Shane + + Leslie--Viola Meynell--Ruth Lindsay-- + + Hugh Austin--Judith Lytton--Olivia + + Meynell--Maurice Healy--Monica + + Saleeby--Francis Meynell--With + + four early Poems by Francis + + Thompson, & a Foreword by + + Gilbert K. Chesterton. + + + * * * * * + + "He has eyes of youth, + he writes verses" + + _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. + + + * * * * * + + The four early poems of Francis Thompson are here published, for + the first time in book form, by the permission of his Literary + Executor. + + We have also to thank the Editors of _The Station, The Tablet, + The Outlook, The New Age, The Westminster Gazette, The Evening + Standard, The Irish Rosary_ and _The Lamp_, for permission to + re-publish other Verses. + + + * * * * * + +CONTENTS + + +G.K. CHESTERTON + +Foreword + +FRANCIS THOMPSON + +Threatened Tears +Arab Love Song +Buona Notte +The Passion of Mary + +PADRAIC COLUM + +"I shall not die for you" +An Idyll +Christ the Comrade +Arab Songs (I) +Arab Songs (II) + +SHANE LESLIE + +A Dead Friend (J.S. 1905) +Forest Song +The Bee +Outside the Carlton +The Pater of the Cannon +Fleet Street +Nightmare +To a Nobleman becoming Socialist +St. George-in-the-East + +VIOLA MEYNELL + +The Ruin +The Dream +The Wanderer +"Nature is the living mantle of God" +Secret Prayer +The Unheeded +Dream of Death + +THE HON. MRS. LINDSAY + +Mater Salvatoris +To Choose +The Hunters + +HUGH AUSTIN + +The Astronomer's Prayer +The Moon +To Yvonne +The Burial of Scald + +THE HON. MRS. LYTTON + +A Day Remembered +Childhood +Love in Idleness +Love's Counterfeit + +OLIVIA MEYNELL + +A Grief without Christ +The Crowning + +MAURICE HEALY + +In Memoriam +A Ballad of Friendship +In the Midst of Them +Sic Transit + +MONICA SALEEBY + +Retrospect + +FRANCIS MEYNELL + +Any Stone +Lux in Tenebris +Mater Inviolata +Song-burden +Gifts +Wraith +A Dedication + + + * * * * * + + +FOREWORD + + +My office on this occasion is one which I may well carry as lightly as +possible. In our society, I am told, one needs an introduction to a +beautiful woman; but I have never heard of men needing an introduction +to a beautiful song. Prose before poetry is an unmeaning interruption; +for poetry is perhaps the one thing in the world that explains itself. +The only possible prelude for songs is silence; and I shall endeavour +here to imitate the brevity of the silence as well as its stillness. + +This collection contains four new poems by one whom all serious critics +now class with Shelley and Keats and those other great ones cut down +with their work unfinished. Yet I would not speak specially of him, +lest modern critics should run away with their mad notion of a one-man +influence; and call this a "school" of Francis Thompson. Francis +Thompson was not a schoolmaster. He would have said as freely as Whitman +(and with a far more consistent philosophy), "I charge you to leave all +free, as I have left all free." The modern world has this mania about +plagiarism because the modern world cannot comprehend the idea of +communion. It thinks that men must steal ideas; it does not understand +that men may share them. The saints did not imitate each other; not +always even study each other; they studied the Imitation of Christ. +A real religion is that in which any two solitary people might suddenly +say the same thing at any moment. It would therefore be most misleading +to give to this collection an air of having been inspired by its most +famous contributor. The little lyrics of this little book must surely +be counted individual, even by those who may count them mysterious. +A variety verging on quaintness is the very note of the assembled bards. + +Take, for example, Mr. Colum's stern and simple rendering of the bitter +old Irish verses: + + "O woman, shapely as the swan, + On your account I shall not die." + +Like Fitzgerald's Omar and all good translations, it leaves one +wondering whether the original was as good; but to an Englishman the +note is not only unique, but almost hostile. It is the hardness of the +real Irishman which has been so skilfully hidden under the softness of +the stage Irishman. The words are ages old, I believe; they come out of +the ancient Ireland of Cairns and fallen Kings: and yet the words might +have been spoken by one of Bernard Shaw's modern heroes to one of his +modern heroines. The curt, bleak words, the haughty, heathen spirit are +certainly as remote as anything can be from the luxuriant humility of +Francis Thompson. + +If the writers have a real point of union it is in a certain instinct +for contrast between their shape and subject matter. All the poems are +brief in form, and at the same time big in topic. They remind us of the +vivid illuminations of the virile thirteenth century, when artists +crowded cosmic catastrophes into the corner of an initial letter; where +one may find a small picture of the Deluge or of the flaming Cities of +the Plain. One of the specially short poems sees the universe overthrown +and the good angels conquered. Another short poem sees the newsboys in +Fleet Street shouting the news of the end of the world, and the awful +return of God. The writers seem unconsciously to have sought to make a +poem as large as a revelation, while it was nearly as short as a riddle. +And though Francis Thompson himself was rather in the Elizabethan +tradition of amplitude and ingenuity, he could write separate lines that +were separate poems in themselves:-- + + "And thou, what needest with thy tribe's black tents, + Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?" + +A mediaeval illuminator would have jumped out of his sandals in his +eagerness to illustrate that. + +G.K. CHESTERTON. + + + + +FRANCIS THOMPSON + + +_THREATENED TEARS_ + +Do not loose those rains thy wet +Eyes, my Fair, unsurely threat; +Do not, Sweet, do not so; +Thou canst not have a single woe, +But this sad and doubtful weatlier +Overcasts us both together. +In the aspect of those known eyes +My soul's a captain weatherwise. +Ah me! what presages it sees +In those watery Hyades. + + +_ARAB LOVE SONG_ + +The hunchèd camels of the night* +Trouble the bright +And silver waters of the moon. +The Maiden of the Morn will soon +Through Heaven stray and sing, +Star gathering. + +Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, +Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! +And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb. + +Leave thy father, leave thy mother +And thy brother; +Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! +Am I not thy father and thy brother, +And thy mother? + +And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents +Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? + +* The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in the East. + + +_BUONA NOTTE_ + +_Jane Williams, in her last letter to Shelley, wrote: "Why do you +talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going to join +your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? Buona +Notte." This letter was dated July 6th, and Shelley was drowned on +the 8th. The following is his imagined reply from, another world_:-- + +Ariel to Miranda:--hear +This good-night the sea-winds bear; +And let thine unacquainted ear +Take grief for their interpreter. + +Good-night; I have risen so high +Into slumber's rarity, +Not a dream can beat its feather +Through the unsustaining ether. +Let the sea-winds make avouch +How thunder summoned me to couch, +Tempest curtained me about +And turned the sun with his own hand out: +And though I toss upon my bed +My dream is not disquieted; +Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep, +And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep; +And I fell to sleep so suddenly +That my lips are moist yet--could'st thou see +With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee. +Thou can'st not wipe them; for it was Death +Damped my lips that has dried my breath. +A little while--it is not long-- +The salt shall dry on them like the song. + +Now know'st thou, that voice desolate, +Mourning ruined joy's estate, +Reached thee through a closing gate. +"Go'st thou to Plato?" Ah, girl, no! +It is to Pluto that I go. + + +_THE PASSION OF MARY_ + +O Lady Mary, thy bright crown + Is no mere crown of majesty; +For with the reflex of His own + Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee. + +The red rose of this passion tide + Doth take a deeper hue from thee, +In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed, + And in Thy bleeding thoughts, Mary. + +The soldier struck a triple stroke + That smote thy Jesus on the tree; +He broke the Heart of hearts, and broke + The Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee. + +Thy Son went up the Angels' ways, + His passion ended; but, ah me! +Thou found'st the road of further days + A longer way of Calvary. + +On the hard cross of hopes deferred + Thou hung'st in loving agony, +Until the mortal dreaded word, + Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee. + +The Angel Death from this cold tomb + Of life did roll the stone away; +And He thou barest in thy womb + Caught thee at last into the day-- +Before the living throne of Whom + The lights of heaven burning pray. + + + L'ENVOY. + +O thou who dwellest in the day, + Behold, I pace amidst the gloom: +Darkness is ever round my way, + With little space for sunbeam room. + +Yet Christian sadness is divine, + Even as thy patient sadness was: +The salt tears in our life's dark wine + Fell in it from the saving Cross. + +Bitter the bread of our repast; + Yet doth a sweet the bitter leaven: +Our sorrow is the shadow cast + Around it by the light of Heaven. + O Light in light, shine down from Heaven! + + + * * * * * + + +PADRAIC COLUM + + +"_I SHALL NOT DIE FOR YOU_" + +(From the Irish) + +O woman, shapely as the swan, + On your account I shall not die. +The men you've slain--a trivial clan-- + Were less than I. + +I ask me shall I die for these: + For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips? +And shall that delicate swan-shape + Bring me eclipse? + +Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin, + The cheeks are fair, the tresses free; +And yet I shall not suffer death, + God over me. + +Those even brows, that hair like gold, + Those languorous tones, that virgin way; +The flowing limbs, the rounded heel + Slight men betray. + +Thy spirit keen through radiant mien, + Thy shining throat and smiling eye, +Thy little palm, thy side like foam-- + I cannot die. + +O woman, shapely as the swan, + In a cunning house hard-reared was I; +O bosom white, O well-shaped palm, + I shall not die. + + +_AN IDYLL_ + +You stay at last at my bosom, with your beauty + young and rare, +Though your light limbs are as limber as the + foal's that follows the mare, +Brow fair and young and stately where thought + has now begun--Hair +bright as the breast of the eagle when he + strains up to the sun! + +In the space of a broken castle I found you on + a day +When the call of the new-come cuckoo went + with me all the way. +You stood by the loosened stones that were + rough and black with age: +The fawn beloved of the hunter in the panther's + broken cage! + +And we went down together by paths your + childhood knew-- +Remote you went beside me, like the spirit of + the dew; +Hard were the hedge-rows still: sloe-bloom + was their scanty dower-- +You slipped it within your bosom, the bloom + that scarce is flower. + +And now you stay at my bosom with you + beauty young and rare, +Though your light limbs are as limber as the + foal's that follows the mare; +But always I will see you on paths your childhood + knew, +When remote you went beside me like the + spirit of the dew. + + +_CHRIST THE COMRADE_ + +Christ, by thine own darkened hour + Live within my heart and brain! + Let my hands not slip the rein. + +Ah, how long ago it is + Since a comrade rode with me! + Now a moment let me see + +Thyself, lonely in the dark, +Perfect, without wound or mark. + + +_ARAB SONGS (I)_ + +Saadi the Poet stood up and he put forth his + living words. +His songs were the hurtling of spears and + his figures the flashing of swords. +With hearts dilated our tribe saw the creature + of Saadi's mind; +It was like to the horse of a king, a creature + of fire and of wind. + +Umimah my loved one was by me: without + love did these eyes see my fawn, +And if fire there were in her being, for me + its splendour had gone; +When the sun storms up on the tent, he makes + waste the fire of the grass-- +It was thus with my loved one's beauty: the + splendour of song made it pass. + +The desert, the march, and the onset--these + and these only avail, +Hands hard with the handling of spear-shafts, + brows white with the press of the mail! +And as for the kisses of women--these are + honey, the poet sings; +But the honey of kisses, beloved, it is lime + for the spirit's wings. + + +_ARAB SONGS (II)_ + +_The poet reproaches those who have affronted him_. + +Ye know not why God hath joined the horse + fly unto the horse +Nor why the generous steed is yoked with + the poisonous fly: +Lest the steed should sink into ease and lose + his fervour of nerve +God hath appointed him this: a lustful and + venomous bride. + +Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk, + to the sting, +Praying for deadness of nerve, their wounds + the shame of the sun; +They strive, but they strive for this: the fullness + of passionate nerve; +They pant, but they pant for this: the speed + that outstrips the pain. + +Sons of the dust, ye have stung: there is + darkness upon my soul. +Sons of the dust, ye have stung: yea, stung + to the roots of my heart. +But I have said in my breast: the birth + succeeds to the pang, +And sons of the dust, behold, your malice + becomes my song. + + + * * * * * + + +SHANE LESLIE + + +_A DEAD FRIEND_ (_J.S._, 1905) + +I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who + was dead, +And I set my live lips over his, and my heart + by his head. + +I thought of an unrippled love and a passion + unsaid, +And the years he was living by me, my friend + who was dead; + +And the white morning ways that we went, + and how oft we had fed +And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend + who was dead; + +Now never the draught at my lips would thrill + to my head-- +For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my + friend he was dead. + +Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine + and my bread +And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my + friend who is dead. + +Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and + lone to Thy head, +That Thy desolate heart must have need of my + friend who is dead? + +To God then I spake yet again: not Peter + instead +Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my + friend who is dead. + + +_FOREST SONG_ + +All around I heard the whispering larches + Swinging to the low-lipped wind; +God, they piped, is lilting in our arches, + For He loveth leafen kind. + +Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber, + Say confiding to the reed: +God well knoweth us, Who loves to number + Us and all our fairy seed. + +Voices hummed as of a multitude + Crowding from their lowly sod; +'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood, + Crying to the daisies' God. + + +_THE BEE_ + +Away, the old monks said, +Sweet honey-fly, +From lilting overhead +The lullaby +You heard some mother croon +Beneath the harvest moon. +Go, hum it in the hive, +The old monks said, +For we were once alive +Who now are dead. + + +_OUTSIDE THE CARLTON_ + +The death of the grey withered grass + Of man's is a sign, + And his life is as wine +That is spilt from a half-shivered glass. + At a quarter to nine + Went Dives to dine ... +(Man, it is said, is as grass.) + +Riches and plunder had met + To furnish his feast-- + Both succulent beast +And fish from the fisherman's net; + While he tasteth of dishes + And all his soul wishes-- +Nor knoweth his hour hath been set. + +The death of the pale-sodden hay + 'Neath the feet of the kine + Is to man for a sign; +At the striking of ten he was grey, + And they carried him out + Stiff-strangled with gout. +(Man, it is said, is as hay.) + + +_THE PATER OF THE CANNON_ + +Father of the thunder, + Flinger of the flame, +Searing stars asunder, + _Hallowed be Thy Name_! + +By the sweet-sung quiring + Sister bullets hum, +By our fiercest firing, + _May Thy Kingdom come_! + +By Thy strong apostle + Of the Maxim gun, +By his pentecostal + Flame, _Thy Will be done_! + +Give us, Lord, good feeding + To Thy battles sped--Flesh, +white grained and bleeding, + _Give for daily bread_! + + +_FLEET STREET_ + +I never see the newsboys run + Amid the whirling street, + With swift untiring feet, +To cry the latest venture done, +But I expect one day to hear + Them cry the crack of doom + And risings from the tomb, +With great Archangel Michael near; +And see them running from the Fleet + As messengers of God, + With Heaven's tidings shod +About their brave unwearied feet. + + +_NIGHTMARE_ + +I dreamt that the heavens were beggared + And angels went chanting for bread, +And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth, + And Satan anointed his head. +I dreamt they had chalked up a price + On the sun and the stars at God's feet, +And the Devil had bought up the Church, + And put out the Pope in the street. + + +_TO A NOBLEMAN BECOMING SOCIALIST_ + +I do remember thee so blest and filled + With all life offered thee, +Yet unsurprised I learn that thou hast willed + To share or lose her fee. + +It seems a very great and stalwart thing + To toss defence away, +To tear the golden feathers from thy wing + And lie with shards of clay. + +To some far vision's light thine eyes are set + That mock life's treasure trove, +And see the changing woof not woven yet + As God would have it wove. + +The red thou flauntest bravely, friend, for me + Hast lost alarming power; +For who but guilty men will quake their knee, + And who but robbers cower? + +For many hallowed things are symbolled red, + Live fire and cleansing war, +And the bright sealing Blood that Christ once shed, + And Martyrs yet must pour. + +O friend, choose one of these ourselves to link; + For how could friendship be +If from the foaming cup thou hast to drink + The dregs come not to me? + +Dividing much, thou makest little thine + Except the gain of loss; +Yet haply Christ's true peer hath better sign + Than coronet--the Cross. + + +_ST. GEORGE-IN-THE-EAST_ + +'Mid the quiet splendour of a pennoned crowd, + Gently proud, +Moved in armour, silvered in celestial forge, + Great Saint George, +Stands he in the crimson-woven air of fight + Speared with light-- +Hell is harried by the holy anger poured + From his sword. + +Where the sweated toilers of the river slum + Shiver dumb, +Passed to-day a poorly clad and poorly shod + Knight of God; +Where the human eddy smears with shame and rags + Paving flags, +Hell shall weakly wail beneath the words he cries + Piteous-wise. + + + * * * * * + + +VIOLA MEYNELL + + +_THE RUIN_ + +I led thy thoughts, having them for my own, + To where my God His head to thee did bend. +I bore thee in my bosom to His throne. + O, the blest labour, and the treasured end! + +Now like a ruined aqueduct I go + Unburdened; thou by more fleet ways hast been +With Him. Since thou thine own swift road dost know, + Thou canst not brook such slow and devious mean. + + +_THE DREAM_ + +I slept, and thought a letter came from you-- + You did not love me any more, it said. +What breathless grief!--my love not true, not true ... + I was afraid of people, and afraid +Of things inanimate--the wind that blew, + The clock, the wooden chair; and so I strayed +From home, but could not stray from grief, I knew. + And then at dawn I woke, and wept, and prayed, +And knew my blessed love was still the same;-- + And yet I sit and moan upon the bed +For that dream-creature's loss. For when I came + (I came, perhaps, to comfort her) she fled. +I would be with her where she wanders now, +Fleeing the earth, with pain upon her brow. + + +_THE WANDERER_ + +All night my thoughts have rested in God's fold; + They lay beside me here upon the bed. +At dawn I woke: the air beat sad and cold. + I told them o'er--Ah, God, one thought had fled. + +Into what dark, deep chasm this wayward one + Has sunk, I scarcely know; I will not chide. +O Shepherd, leave me! Seek this lamb alone. + The ninety-nine are here. They will abide. + + +"_NATURE IS THE LIVING MANTLE OF GOD_"--_GOETHE_ + +O for the time when some impetuous breeze +Will catch Thy garment, and, like autumn trees, +Toss it and rend it till Thou standest free, +And end Thy long secluded reverie! + +Still now its beauty folds Thee, and--as she +Who kissed Thy garment and had health from Thee-- +I feel the sun, or hear some bird in bliss, +And Thou hast then my sudden, humble kiss. + + +_SECRET PRAYER_ + +Since that with lips which moved in one we prayed, + So that God ceased to hear us speak apart, +What law irrevocable have we made? + How shall He hear a solitary heart + +When He did need that we, to have His ear, + Should go aside and pray together there +With urgent breath? Ah, now I pause and fear-- + How shall uprise my lonely, separate prayer? + + +_THE UNHEEDED_ + +Upon one hand your kisses chanced to rest: +I smiled upon the other hand and said +"Poor thing," when you had gone: and then in quest +Of pity rose a clamour from the dead-- +Some way of mine, some word, some look, some jest +Complained they too went all uncoveted ... +That night I took these troubles to my breast, +And played that you and I, my own, were wed; +Those troubles were our child, with eyes of fear,-- +A wailing babe, whom I, his mother dear, +Must soothe to quiet rest and calm relief, +And urge his eyes to sleeping by and by. +"O hush," I said, and wept to see such grief; +"Hush, hush, your father must not hear you cry." + + +_DREAM OF DEATH_ + +In sleep my idle thoughts were sadly led + By wild dark ways: it strangely seemed that I +Must join the number of the silent dead, + And with my young and fearful heart must die. + +But ah, what drew my bitter moans and sighs, + And pierced my sleeping spirit, was that she +Who with the saddest tears would close these eyes + And with maternal passion mourn for me, + +She on some pleasure-errand stayed away. + Ah, bitter, bitter thought! Ah, lonely death +To seek me in the night! And not till day + Had come and soothed my fear, and calmed my breath, + +And in the sun my new life I could kiss, + And look with prayer and hope to future years, +Did I discern God's mercy still in this-- + That I was spared the anguish of her tears. + + + * * * * * + + +RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY + + +_MATER SALVATORIS_ + +Ah, wilt thou turn aside and see +The little Child on Mary's knee? +Enter the stable bleak and cold, +Grope through the straw and myrrh and gold; +Seek in the darkness near and far-- +Lift up the lantern and the Star. +Rough shepherds came to love and greet, +There knelt three kings at Mary's feet. +Ah! draw thee nigh the holy place-- +He sleepeth well in her embrace, +The little Saviour of thy race-- +Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face. + +But wilt thou come in years to be? +She held Him dead across her knee. +Stretch Him aloft on planks of wood; +Offer Him gall for tears and blood. +Blazon thy hatred far and near: +Lift up the hammer and the spear. +Red thorns about his head were wound-- +There lay three nails upon the ground. +Yea I Heed the Lover of thy race-- +He lieth dead in her embrace. +Ah! scourge thy soul with its disgrace: +Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face. + + +_TO CHOOSE_ + +Thou canst choose the eastern Circle for thy part, + And within its sacred precincts thou shalt rest; + Thou shalt fold pale, slender hands upon thy breast, +Thou shalt fasten silent eyes upon thy heart. +If there steal within the languor of thine ark + The thunder of the waters of the earth, + The human, simple cries of pain and mirth, +The wails of little children in the dark, +Thou shalt contemplate thy Circle's radiant gleam, + Thou shalt gather self and God more closely still: + Let the Piteous and the Foolish moan at will, +So thou shelter in the sweetness of thy dream. + +Thou canst bear a bloodstained Cross upon thy breast, + Thou shalt stand upon the common, human sod, + Thou shalt lift unswerving eyes unto thy God, +Thou shalt stretch torn, rugged hands to east and west +Thou shalt call to every throne and every cell-- + Thou shalt gather all the answers of the Earth, + Thou shalt wring repose from weariness and dearth, +Thou shalt fathom the profundity of Hell-- +But thy height shall touch the height of God above, + And thy breadth shall span the breadth of pole to pole, + And thy depth shall sound the depth of every soul, +And thy heart the deep Gethsemane of Love. + + +_THE HUNTERS_ + +"_The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about +seeking whom he may detour_" + +The Lion, he prowleth far and near, + Nor swerves for pain or rue; +He heeded nought of sloth nor fear, + He prowleth--prowleth through +The silent glade and the weary street, + In the empty dark and the full noon heat; +And a little Lamb with aching Feet-- + He prowleth too. + +The Lion croucheth alert, apart-- + With patience doth he woo; +He waiteth long by the shuttered heart, + And the Lamb--He waiteth too. +Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill, + Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue, +The Lion followeth the fainting will-- + And the Lamb--He followeth too. + +From the thickets dim of the hidden way + Where the debts of Hell accrue, +The Lion leapeth upon his prey: + But the Lamb--He leapeth too. +Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn, + Mark Devil and God as goals, +In the panting love of a famished Lamb, + Gone mad with the need of souls. + +The Lion, he strayeth near and far; + What heights hath he left untrod? +He crawleth nigh to the purest star, + On the trail of the saints of God. +And throughout the darkness of things unclean, + In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood, +There prowleth ever with yearning mien-- + A lamb as white as Blood! + + + * * * * * + + +HUGH AUSTIN + + +_THE ASTRONOMERS PRAYER_ + +Night. O Thou God! who rulest Heaven and earth, + The terraced atmospheres, the bounded seas; +Who knowest equally both death and birth, + Frail human men, strong divine mysteries, +Whose unencumbered thought sways all the spheres, + In all their turning, snake-like, perfect ways; +Now that the season of my labour nears, + Grant me an insight to Thy larger days! + +To Thee all things create and unborn yield, + Being of Thee, the secret of their souls-- +The traversed elements, the azure field + Whereo'er eternal each huge star-world rolls. +There is no tiny insect but does know + Itself within Thy Presence visual: +From us too swiftly years and seasons go, + To Thee all change is a thing gradual. + +E'en as at nightfall, when the lights come in, + The moth attracted woos and meets her death, +So do I seek Thy light to wander in, + Though fearfully and with half-bated breath. +So do I seek all knowledge of Thy stars, + Which move in and without my vision's reach; +Maybe yet burning with internal wars, + Or shaking as this world with human speech. + +Stars which perhaps ten thousand years ago + Waned and grew cold at Thy almighty word +Waft their light hitherward. I do not know-- + Thy recreating voice I have not heard. +Maybe, e'en at this hour Thine accents shake + Some chaos into order, into life; +Perchance some great creation now doth break + Into new form beneath Thy wisdom's knife. + +Ah, Lord! The night appals me. Give me strength + Within myself to search this planet's dome: +O Supreme Architect, give me at length + Some clearer knowledge of Thy spaceless home! +My spirit seethes within me; in the sky + Thy constellations shine; for me begin +My labours until night-time passes by-- + And before dawn I must or fail or win. + + +_THE MOON_ + +Cirqued with dim stars and delicate moonflowers, +Silent she moves among the silent hours-- +Watching the spheres that glow with golden heat + Under her feet. + +Then, when the sunrise tints the east with light, +She fades to westward, with the dreamy night +And all her starry train--in faint disguise + Of twilight skies. + + +_TO YVONNE_ + +Such things have been, Yvonne; but you and I, + Can we touch lips again across the years? +Re-order what is past? Forget--or try + Not to remember what through mists of tears +Is still too memorable? Dare we two + Start both our lives again, as we were young +And happy, in such love as falls to few? + Nay, for our violins are all unstrung. + +Yet it is well that memory should hold + Some few pale rose-leaves plucked in bygone days, +That still are sweet, despite those pains untold + Which throng the marges of life's winding ways. +Yea, these will stay when nearer things are gone; + I shall keep mine. Will you keep yours, Yvonne? + + +_THE BURIAL OF SCALD_ + +A long, low wail of harps across the snow, + Falling and rising with the whistling wind; +A shifting glare of lights that come and go, + As if men searched for what they could not find. +And then the music thrilled out loud and well + Over the waste and barren dunes of sand-- +Solemn and stately as a passing bell + Heard dimly in some weary twilight land. + +Then slipped the moon behind a dusky cloud, + And each bright star its silver visage hid; +Mystery 'gan the darkness to enshroud; + Across the sky a blood-red message slid. + +Sudden the ship blazed up, the dark was light; + Lo! Scald is dead! his pyre was lit to-night. + + + * * * * * + + +JUDITH LYTTON + + +_A DAY REMEMBERED_ + +Oh, Love, what fate is ours? No summer morning + Shall give us joy, no sunrise bring relief; +No end--no end is there unto our sorrow, + No measure to our grief. + +You looked at me, and all your living beauty + Swept to my heart in flame a moment's space, +A sudden mist of tears in darkness veiling + The glory of your face. + +You spoke: I seemed to hear the wild doves cooing-- + The rain upon the hills, sweet falling rain; +And all my soul was filled with joy and anguish, + In ecstasy of pain. + +I saw as in a mist celestial visions + Beyond the bitter seas whence hope has fled, +Heard the wind blow among the trees in summer, + But knew not what you said. + +It matters not what words the lips have spoken + When heart shall speak to heart, for love can hear +Unspoken words, and see as in reflection + His own thoughts mirrored there. + +You came to me, the sun arose in splendour; + I saw the roses spread their petals sweet, +And thought that all the world must see in wonder + The wings upon our feet. + +You touched me, and a wave of passionate longing + Flooded my soul until it swooned away, +And knew no more the sunlight from the shadow-- + If it were night or day. + +We wandered in the shadow of the woodland, + Mute while we looked into each other's eyes, +And saw as in still pools of darkened water + The wonder of the skies. + +No word we spoke. We knew that love had silenced + All that we wished to speak yet left unsaid; +The bees were humming in the wild-rose blossoms + Which clustered overhead. + +And all that summer day we were together, + Alone with love, yet with a sword between-- +The flaming sword that stands between us ever, + And all that might have been. + +Mist gathered white at evening in the valleys, + And slowly grew the dusk from gold to grey, +While rain-clouds gathered on the low horizon + Dark at the close of day. + +And softly rose a wind from out the darkness, + With scent of flower and fern and herb and tree, +And in its breath there came a sound of thunder, + Storm-laden from the sea. + +And thus we reached the wicket of the garden; + The wood was full of sound, the sound of wings; +The scent of lavender brought back remembrance + Of long-forgotten things. + +Though heaven and earth and sky should be forgotten, + Yet of that hour my soul should bear the trace: +For night fell fast, and in the deepening shadow + You turned and kissed my face. + + +_CHILDHOOD_ + +A stranger come I to the festival +Thou holdest in the regions of romance, +Where dragons lurk and elfin spirits dance, +And pearls lie hid within each rose petal. +What magic changes in life's crystal ball +Shall thus transform earth's dullness at thy glance! +Ride then the wind, a feather for thy lance, +A pool thy sea, thy heaven a waterfall. +So shall thy soul to fairy worlds belong, +Where dust is gold and dew-drops turn to wine; +Remember still the visions that are thine +When sorrow shall disperse that phantom throng; +And dream once more that thou hast found divine +Love in a flower, and kingdoms in a song. + + +_LOVE IN IDLENESS_ + +To look at thee, and see the sunlight move +The shadow of the leaves upon thy face, +Lighting the glory of thy youth and grace +With golden rays wind-stirred from trees above; +To listen to the rustling of the grove, +The warblers in the reeds which interlace +The waters of the pool, and dream a space, +Forgetful of the hours ... this then is love! +Thy passion and thy strength, thy gentleness, +All these are mine. Who then shall dispossess +My soul of paradise? In truth I learn +More than the world can teach. Oblivion waits, +And distance parts, and Death annihilates: +But now thy love is all my love's concern. + + +_LOVE'S COUNTERFEIT_ + +By what false spell of what enchanter's wand +Should thy gross fibre be with love allied? +Unhappy youth, thou callest to thy side +An unknown shade from some far spirit land; +Thou canst not guess, nor shalt thou understand, +The waters that thy soul from his divide. +In place of Love, what alien spirits glide +About thy sleep to answer thy command? +What blasphemy is this? Thou hast no spell +To call that heaven-born spirit from the deep, +Or move the stars. What cometh in his place? +This monstrous fraud which thou hast raised from hell, +Whose arms about thee in the darkness creep? +Light not thy torch, lest thou shouldst see +his face. + + + * * * * * + + +OLIVIA MEYNELL + + +_A GRIEF WITHOUT CHRIST_ + +I sought Him in the trees, and Him I found +In every colour, and in every sound. + +I sought Him in the sky, and He was there, +A living God, breathing the living air. + +I sought Him in my soul--oh, passionate loss! +All that I found was a forsaken Cross. + + +_THE CROWNING_ + +Whenas we wandered in the summer hours, +My kind love crowned me with a crown of flowers. + +Softly they touched my forehead and my hair; +Gay, sunny, yellow, and sweet-breathed they were-- + +Soft flowers and tender hands, gay sun, soft skies; +And sweeter, tenderer yet, his loving eyes. + +Ah! but it should have been with thorns he crowned me, +Who follow Christ, while cold skies blackened round me. + +Dear love, I will accept from you cold frown, +Sharp words, hard touch, as symbols of His crown. + + + * * * * * + + +MAURICE HEALY + + +_IN MEMORIAM_ + +"Lord, teach us how to pray," they said; +And Jesus raised His weary head, +Bowed by the sorrows of the way, +And taught His children how to pray. + +"Lord, teach me how to pray," I cried; +And Jesus sent you to my side +To make your own the soul I wear +And mould it purer into prayer. + +And since your love first lit the way +I find that I have learned to pray; +For, that my soul may benefit, +I pray that you may pray for it. + + +_A BALLAD OF FRIENDSHIP_ + +_for two most dear Children_ + +Soured and dimmed and chilled with senility + Hobbled the year to its uttermost day; +I gave the best of a slender ability, + Seeking to make a short afternoon gay. +You were both claimed ere the sky was grey + Over the tips of the western towers; +Yet, as you went, you had time to say, + "This is no stranger: we name him ours!" + +Slaves and serfs have woes in abundancy-- + Clashing of manacle, whistling of thong, +Tales of terror and tears to redundancy; + What is the score of my slavery's wrong? +Surely where pleasures so freely throng + Some sad fiend of unhappiness lowers; +Or is the refrain of Good Fortune's song, + "This is no stranger: we name him ours"? + +When you enfranchised me into your mystery, + Lovingly stealing the sorrows I had, +Wisdom came with you; the old sad history + Glowed; and I knew in my heart why the sad +And outcast Lord grew suddenly glad + As the children thronged to crown Him with flowers, +When their cry was voiced by some tiny lad, + "This is no Stranger: we name Him ours!" + + L'ENVOI. + +So do I thank you; and if some day + You in your gained Paradisal bowers +Hear me knocking, be bold to pray, + "This is no stranger: we claim him ours!" + + +_IN THE MIDST OF THEM_ + + "_Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, + Look on me, a little child. + Pity my simplicity + And suffer me to come to Thee_." + +Now prevails a creed which tells +Us to seek no miracles. +Reason by discovered lore +Reigns where Faith was found before. +God, Who set our world aspin, +Now is weary of its din; +He, Who for our fathers' sake +Conjured lightning and earthquake, +Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death, +Deems we are not worth the Breath +That blessed the trusting prophet's rod +When Moses called upon his God. +How dare _we_ expect Him give +Miracles to help us live? + +Yet I build on Him Who saith, +"Move the mountains with your faith"-- +Doubt the lips that falter, wan, +"The age of miracles is gone!" +I have learned to read the grim +Testimony unto Him +Printed with starvation's hand +On every hove! through the land; +I have swung the crazy door +To find huddled on a floor +Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout +To keep the eager winter out, +Some six or seven of our kind +Shivering beneath the wind, +Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed, +Crouched round one who just had died, +Hopeless that the dawn would bring +Friendly aid and comforting. + +And after prayer for the parted soul, +They have thanked the slender dole, +And spoken of hope of days to come, +And have forgotten their martyrdom. +The anguished grief of motherhood +Has firmly whispered "God is good +And can in His Eternity +Repay this present loss"; till I +Have almost turned my head to see +If Christ has not come in with me! + + _Gentle Jesus, mild and meek, + These the simple words I speak + Are the faith Thou gavest me; + Suffer me to come to Thee!_ + + +_SIC TRANSIT_ + +They camped in the meadow at sunrise, + And their crests gleamed bright in the sun, +And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knew + Their fate e'er the day was done. +They lay in the meadow at sunset, + As the sky in anger blushed red; +For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn-- + The host was a host of dead. + +Let the gardener but pass his scythe o'er the grass-- + And the life of a daisy is sped! + + + * * * * * + + +MONICA SALEEBY + + +_RETROSPECT_ + +You loved the child of fifteen years. + I knew not this vast thing. +Your great heart shrank beneath your fears; + You left me wondering. + +Now fourteen years have passed us by; + Our souls meet once again; +And, meeting, I have asked you why + Our ways apart have lain? + +And now your answer comes at last:-- + "I loved you in that day." +Oh, strange reply! Oh, tender past! + Oh, long love locked away! + +And now, yes, I have climbed Love's hill; +My heart is bound, yet free. +And is there not some young child still +For you to love in me? + +You have the right to love her yet, + For he who loves me grown +Knew not the child you'll ne'er forget; + I give her for your own. + +Oh, keep her young within your breast, + Allow her to survive; +For love of you _I'll_ do my best + To keep your child alive. + + + * * * * * + + +FRANCIS MEYNELL + + +_ANY STONE_ + +A myriad years God toiled to mould + A nerveless stone to His intent-- +From peace to war, from heat to cold, + It triumphed against the Omnipotent: +God strove until His strength grew old, + Then cried "Thy help, My firmament!" + +The stars in succour gave their light, + The aiding moon her ocean-sway; +At dawn and dusk the hosts of night + Watched round the battle-fires of day ... +To set the dust He loved aright + God called His winds to that array, + +And all the burden of the world, + And all the tears from all men's eyes, +Drought, dew, and every flower unfurled, + The priest, the fire, the sacrifice, +The pillared cloud, His thunder hurled-- + Victor, He held as nought the price! + +Thus loved, thus wrought, God deemed the stone +Fit bed for beasts to lie upon. + + * * * * * + +O God of Gods, make short my days + Of blind approach to her and Thee; +Life-long upon Thy rugged ways + Her heart has danced: she calls to me. +Hast Thou forgotten me alone, + O Watcher where the wild beast lies?-- +Mould to Thy will this other stone + --A stone, yet precious in her eyes. + + +_LUX IN TENEBRIS_ + +Spirit of smiles and tears, you came to me in the night, +The golden moon aglow in your hair, and the spear-driven light +Of an army of stars in your eyes, weary with truant sleep. +O little skilled in self, who thought you came to weep! + +Out of the darkness, light; flame in the virgin dew! +Love came unto her own, and knew him not, who knew. +O understood! O known! O apprehended bliss! +O self unskilled in self! O taught of my one kiss! + + +_MATER INVIOLATA_ + +A maiden's love most nuptial is, +Innocent of his nuptial kiss; +And only after marriage call +Her lips, her passion, virginal! + +For when she dreams, who is beloved, +The ancient miracle stands proved-- +Virginity's much Motherhood! +For O, the unborn babes she keeps, +The unthought glory, lips unwooed!-- +And O, the quickening of her sleeps +Whose dreams, dreamed over, do repeat +The echoes of Love's falling feet! +For his, her young inviolate mouth +Longs with the longing of long drouth: +And, lacking substance for such feast, +She clasps a dream-baby to breast, +And kisses, where her head has place, +The dream-lips of her love's dream-face! + +On the decked bridal bed of Night +She knows the Moon shows maiden light-- +The Sun's kiss urged in marriage-rite! +So, when her very night shall come, +Virginal, in her virgin home +When stars show unfamiliar faces, +Laughing for love in their high places-- +When her essential lips are dumb +In a thronged panic of embraces-- +Her maiden heart, her spousal breast, +Shall throb, surrendered and possessed, +Throb, passion-sweet and ungainsaid-- +"Now at the last am I a Maid!" + + +_SONG-BURDEN_ + +I do confess I have no art +To tell the tale of my own heart. + +Of lips and tears, of hearts and eyes, +I rhyme my rhymes and fear my fears; +And if of these I make you wise, +These pictured hearts, these lips, these tears, +There is nought to do; I have played my part. + +And I, a captain of much guile, +Within your ranks dissensions preach +Till all are jealous, each of each-- +Your eyes, lips, heart, a tear, a smile! + +So, when you turn your eyes away +From mirrored eyes, and when you stay +Love-hearing with reluctant hand, +Straight then your heart-throbs will betray +That you have read, and understand! + +And should your maiden heart uprise +Against fain ears and full-fain eyes, +Upon your lips, that cannot err, +I set my kiss-interpreter! + +Or hold you steadfast as allies +Your heart, hand, lips, your smiles, your all, +Your faithful eyes are traitrous eyes-- +Out-steals a tear to your downfall! + +Your heart, your eyes, the lips of you +--Hesitant and full-fain your eyes!-- +Make all my song; have I sung true? +Make all my song; are you song-wise? + + +_GIFTS_ + +My given gifts have been, ah me! +Sorrow, and superfluity. + +You needed primal force, and this +Was all my giving--emphasis. + +For your mute voice more mute I made, +And at your singing proffered song; +You trembled, and I was afraid-- +Were pierced, I fell on the same blade-- +Triumphed, and then my arm was strong. +For peace I builded on your peace, +And on your weakness mine up-piled; +Of too fond hope I made increase, +And at your smilings, as a child, +Ignorant of their cost, I smiled. + +Always I fear at sight of fears, +And always weep at weeping eyes; +O my Belovéd, take my tears, +Take my sighs! + +And these, and these, alas! shall be +Sorrow, and superfluity. + + +_WRAITH_ + +Mine was not equal of her trust-- + As whose, my friend, as whose should be?-And +now, a panic dream of dust, + She comes to haunt the heart of me; + +She comes to haunt my heart for this, + And lo, a glory of my sighs! +For still her phantom lips I kiss, + Who cannot meet her phantom eyes. + + +_A DEDICATION_ + +I took the universe for theme, + And all young eyes, and all old stars; +A thousand angels of my dream + I sang, and a thousand of love's wars. + +Blind then my eyes, that now can see +The narrowness of infinity! + +For these my songs sing but her eyes, + And all my song one star apart, +One angel's dream-soliloquies, + One conquered, one triumphant, heart. + +Yea, one is all, and all is one; +My songs, O love, are sung, and I have done. + + + * * * * * + + +_By_ The Hon. Mrs. Lindsay + THE HERMIT OF DREAMS. + 3s. 6d. net. + +_By_ Viola Meynell + MARTHA VINE: A Love Story of + Simple Life. 6s. + +_By_ Padraic Colum + WILD EARTH, 1s. net. + +_By_ Shane Leslie + SONGS OF ORIEL. 1s. net. + LOUGH DEARG. 1s. net. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Eyes of Youth, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYES OF YOUTH *** + +***** This file should be named 17735-8.txt or 17735-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/7/3/17735/ + +Produced by Marc D'Hooghe. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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