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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:18:00 -0700 |
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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/1924-0.txt b/1924-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abbe4d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/1924-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2913 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Many Voices, by E. Nesbit + + +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: Many Voices + Poems + + +Author: E. Nesbit + + + +Release Date: April 18, 2013 [eBook #1924] +[This file was first posted on February 24, 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY VOICES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1922 Hutchinson and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + _Many Voices_ + + + _POEMS: By E. NESBIT_ + + _Author of_ “_The Incredible Honeymoon_,” _etc._ + + * * * * * + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + * * * * * + + _LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO._ + _:: PATERNOSTER ROW ::_ + + To + my dear + Daughter in law + and + Daughter in love, + GERTRUDE BLAND + I, E. Nesbit, + dedicate + this book + + * * * * * + +_Jesson St. Mary’s_, + _Romney_, 1922. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +THE RETURN 9 +FOR DOLLY 12 +QUESTIONS 13 +THE DAISIES 14 +THE TOUCHSTONE 16 +THE DECEMBER ROSE 17 +THE FIRE 18 +SONG 21 +A PARTING 22 +THE GIFT OF LIFE 23 +INCOMPATIBILITIES 24 +THE STOLEN GOD 25 +WINTER 28 +SEA-SHELLS 29 +HOPE 30 +THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN 31 +THE SKYLARK 32 +SATURDAY SONG 33 +THE CHAMPION 35 +THE GARDEN REFUSED 37 +THESE LITTLE ONES 38 +THE DESPOT 39 +THE MAGIC RING 40 +PHILOSOPHY 41 +THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME 42 +MAGIC 43 +WINDFLOWERS 44 +AS IT IS 45 +BEFORE WINTER 46 +THE VAULT 47 +SURRENDER 49 +VALUES 50 +IN THE PEOPLE’S PARK 51 +WEDDING DAY 52 +THE LAST DEFEAT 53 +MAY DAY 54 +GRETNA GREEN 55 +THE ETERNAL 57 +THE POINT OF VIEW: I 58 +THE POINT OF VIEW: II 59 +MARY OF MAGDALA 60 +THE HOME-COMING 62 +AGE TO YOUTH 63 +IN AGE 64 +WHITE MAGIC 65 +FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I. 66 +FROM THE PORTUGUESE. II. 68 +THE NEST 70 +THE OLD MAGIC 71 +FAITH 72 +THE DEATH OF AGNES 73 +IN TROUBLE 74 +GRATITUDE 76 +AT THE LAST 77 +FEAR 78 +THE DAY OF JUDGMENT 79 +A FAREWELL 80 +IN HOSPITAL 81 +PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR 82 +AT PARTING 83 +INVOCATION 84 +TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR 85 +THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS 86 +SPRING IN WAR-TIME 87 +THE MOTHER’S PRAYER 88 +“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT” 91 + + + + +THE RETURN + + + THE grass was gray with the moonlit dew, + The stones were white as I came through; + I came down the path by the thirteen yews, + Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews. + And when I came to the high lych-gate + I waited awhile where the corpses wait; + Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay + Like the fallen ghost of the light of day. + + The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight, + The owls’ spread wings were quiet and white, + The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh, + And all about were the rustling shy + Little live creatures that love the night— + Little wild creatures timid and free. + I passed, and they were not afraid of me. + + It was over the meadow and down the lane + The way to come to my house again: + Through the wood where the lovers talk, + And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk. + I wore the clothes that we all must wear, + And no one saw me walking there, + No one saw my pale feet pass + By my garden path to my garden grass. + My garden was hung with the veil of spring— + Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming; + It lay in the moon’s cold sheet of light + In garlands and silence, wondrous and white + As a dead bride decked for her burying. + + Then I saw the face of my house + Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs: + I leaned my face to the window bright + To feel if the heart of my house beat right. + The firelight hung it with fitful gold; + It was warm as the house of the dead is cold. + I saw the settles, the candles tall, + The black-faced presses against the wall, + Polished beechwood and shining brass, + The gleam of china, the glitter of glass, + All the little things that were home to me— + Everything as it used to be. + + Then I said, “The fire of life still burns, + And I have returned whence none returns: + I will warm my hands where the fire is lit, + I will warm my heart in the heart of it!” + So I called aloud to the one within: + “Open, open, and let me in! + Let me in to the fire and the light— + It is very cold out here in the night!” + There was never a stir or an answering breath— + Only a silence as deep as death. + + Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried. + No one heard me, and none replied. + The golden silence lay warm and deep, + And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep; + And there was no one to hear or see— + To comfort me, to have pity on me. + + But deep in the silence something stirred— + Something that had not seen or heard— + And two drew near to the window-pane, + Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again, + And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread + Over the garlanded garden bed; + And—“How ghostly the moonlight is!” she said. + + Back through the garden, the wood, the lane, + I came to mine own place again. + I wore the garments we all must wear, + And no one saw me walking there. + No one heard my thin feet pass + Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass, + Along the path where the moonlight hews + Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews. + + In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep + It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep: + But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew, + And I cannot sleep as I used to do. + + + + +FOR DOLLY +WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS + + + YOU see the fairies dancing in the fountain, + Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray; + You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain, + Make gold and silver and diamonds every day; + You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams, + Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair; + You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams, + Rise from the bonfire’s blue and liquid air. + + All the enchantment, all the magic there is + Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true. + Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies; + Every flower that blows is a miracle for you. + Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you. + Millions of magics beseech your little looks; + Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you. + Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books? + + Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer, + Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky, + Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer, + Tired hands will lay the folded magic by. + Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes, + Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . . + Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses, + Leave her her kingdom—she will not keep it long! + + + + +QUESTIONS + + + WHAT do the roses do, mother, + Now that the summer’s done? + They lie in the bed that is hung with red + And dream about the sun. + + What do the lilies do, mother, + Now that there’s no more June? + Each one lies down in her white nightgown + And dreams about the moon. + + What can I dream of, mother, + With the moon and the sun away? + Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn, + And a lily that lives a day! + + + + +THE DAISIES + + + IN the great green park with the wooden palings— + The wooden palings so hard to climb, + There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet, + And green things growing all the time; + And out in the open the daisies grow, + Pretty and proud in their proper places, + Millions of white-frilled daisy faces, + Millions and millions—not one or two. + And they call to the bluebells down in the wood: + “Are you out—are you in? We have been so good + All the school-time winter through, + But now it’s playtime, + The gay time, the May time; + We are out and at play. Where are you?” + + In the gritty garden inside the railings, + The spiky railings all painted green, + There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia + With never a happy weed between. + There’s a neat little grass plot, bald in places, + And very dusty to touch; + A respectable man comes once a week + To keep the garden weeded and swept, + To keep it as we don’t want it kept. + He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine, + And we think he cuts it too much. + But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty, + The daisies play about. + They are so brave as well as so pretty, + You cannot keep them out. + I love them, I want to let them grow, + But that respectable man says no. + He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine + Like the French Revolution guillotine. + He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces, + The dear little white-frilled daisy faces; + Says things must be kept in their proper places + He has no frill round his ugly face— + I wish I could find his proper place! + + + + +THE TOUCHSTONE + + + THERE was a garden, very strange and fair + With all the roses summer never brings. + The snowy blossom of immortal Springs + Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there. + There were new heavens, and the earth was new, + And still I told my heart the dream was true. + + But when the sun stood still, and Time went out + Like a blown candle—when she came to me + Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree, + Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt, + And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near, + She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear. + + “It is no dream,” she said. “What dream had stayed + So long? It is the blessed isle that lies + Between the tides of twin eternities. + It is our island; do not be afraid!” + Then, then at last my heart was well deceived; + I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed. + + Her real presence sanctified my faith, + Her very voice my restless fears beguiled, + And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled, + But when she said “I love you!” it was Death. + That, that at least could neither be nor seem— + Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream! + + + + +THE DECEMBER ROSE + + + HERE’S a rose that blows for Chloe, + Fair as ever a rose in June was, + Now the garden’s silent, snowy, + Where the burning summer noon was. + + In your garden’s summer glory + One poor corner, shelved and shady, + Told no rosy, radiant story, + Grew no rose to grace its lady. + + What shuts sun out shuts out snow too; + From his nook your secret lover + Shows what slighted roses grow to + When the rose you chose is over. + + + + +THE FIRE + + + I WAS picking raspberries, my head was in the canes, + And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains. + Says he, “You take it easy! That ain’t the way to do! + I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too. + So won’t you name the day?” + But I said, “That I will not.” + And I pushed him away, + Out among the raspberries all on a summer day. + And I says, “You ask in winter, if your love’s so hot, + For it’s summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full,” says I, + “With the fair by and by, + And the village dance and all; + And the turkey poults is small, + And so’s the ducks and chicks, + And the hay not yet in ricks, + And the flower-show’ll be presently and hop-picking’s to come, + And the fruiting and the harvest home, + And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done. + Can’t you leave a girl alone? + Your love’s too hot for me! + Can’t you leave a girl be + Till the evenings do draw in, + Till the leaves be getting thin, + Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea? + That’s the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!” + + . . . . . + + And he took it as I said it, an’ not as it was meant. + And he went. + + . . . . . + + The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and + brown, + And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down, + And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit, + And he’d never come anigh again, and all my life was sick. + And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit + With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick. + For father, he lay dead + With the candles at his head, + And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall; + And I’d sent them all away, + Though they’d offered for to stay. + I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all. + Then I heard him. I’d a-known it for his footstep just as plain + If he’d brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane. + And I hadn’t drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane; + And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide. + Says I, “You come inside; + For it’s cold outside for you, + And it’s cold here too; + And I haven’t no more pride— + It’s too cold for that,” I cried. + + . . . . . + + Then I saw in his face + The fear of death, and desire. + And oh, I took and kissed him again and again, + And I clipped him close and all, + In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place, + With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall; + And “_You_ warm my heart,” I told him, “if there’s any fire in men!” + And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then. + And I warmed my heart at the fire. + + + + +SONG + + + NOW the Spring is waking, + Very shy as yet, + Busy mending, making + Grass and violet. + Frowsy Winter’s over: + See the budding lane! + Go and meet your lover: + Spring is here again! + + Every day is longer + Than the day before; + Lambs are whiter, stronger, + Birds sing more and more; + Woods are less than shady, + Griefs are more than vain— + Go and kiss your lady: + Spring is here again! + + + + +A PARTING + + + SO good-bye! + This is where we end it, you and I. + Life’s to live, you know, and death’s to die; + So good-bye! + + I was yours + For the love in life that loves while life endures, + For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures + I was yours. + + You were mine + For the moment that a garland takes to twine, + For the human hour that sorcery shews divine + You were mine. + + All is over. + You and I no more are love and lover; + Nought’s to seek now, gain, attain, discover. + All is over. + + + + +THE GIFT OF LIFE + + + LIFE is a night all dark and wild, + Yet still stars shine: + This moment is a star, my child— + Your star and mine. + + Life is a desert dry and drear, + Undewed, unblest; + This hour is an oasis, dear; + Here let us rest. + + Life is a sea of windy spray, + Cold, fierce and free: + An isle enchanted is to-day + For you and me. + + Forget night, sea, and desert: take + The gift supreme, + And, of life’s brief relenting, make + A deathless dream. + + + + +INCOMPATIBILITIES + + + IF you loved me I could trust you to your fancy’s furthest bound + While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round, + To the utmost of the meshes of the devil’s strongest net . . . + If you loved me, if you loved me—but you do not love me yet! + + I love you—and I cannot trust you further than the door! + But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more + And more—until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men— + I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you then! + + + + +THE STOLEN GOD +LAZARUS TO DIVES + + + WE do not clamour for vengeance, + We do not whine for fear; + We have cried in the outer darkness + Where was no man to hear. + We cried to man and he heard not; + Yet we thought God heard us pray; + But our God, who loved and was sorry— + Our God is taken away. + + Ours were the stream and the pasture, + Forest and fen were ours; + Ours were the wild wood-creatures, + The wild sweet berries and flowers. + You have taken our heirlooms from us, + And hardly you let us save + Enough of our woods for a cradle, + Enough of our earth for a grave. + + You took the wood and the cornland, + Where still we tilled and felled; + You took the mine and quarry, + And all you took you held. + The limbs of our weanling children + You crushed in your mills of power; + And you made our bearing women toil + To the very bearing hour. + + You have taken our clean quick longings, + Our joy in lover and wife, + Our hope of the sunset quiet + At the evening end of life; + You have taken the land that bore us, + Its soil and stone and sod; + You have taken our faith in each other— + And now you have taken our God. + + When our God came down from Heaven + He came among men, a Man, + Eating and drinking and working + As common people can; + And the common people received Him + While the rich men turned away. + But what have we to do with a God + To whom the rich men pray? + + He hangs, a dead God, on your altars, + Who lived a Man among men, + You have taken away our Lord + And we cannot find Him again. + You have not left us a handful + Of even the earth He trod . . . + You have made Him a rich man’s idol + Who came as a poor man’s God. + + He promised the poor His heaven, + He loved and lived with the poor; + He said that the rich man’s shadow + Should never darken His door: + But bishops and priests lie softly, + Drink full and are fully fed + In the Name of the Lord, who had not + Where to lay His head. + + This is the God you have stolen, + As you steal all else—in His name. + You have taken the ease and the honour, + Left us the toil and the shame. + You have chosen the seat of Dives, + We lie where Lazarus lay; + But, by God, we will not yield you our God, + You shall not take Him away. + + All else we had you have taken; + All else, but not this, not this. + The God of Heaven is ours, is ours, + And the poor are His, are His. + Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer! + For both He cannot be. + And if He is ours—O you rich men, + Then whose, in God’s name, are ye? + + + + +WINTER + + + HOLD your hands to the blaze; + Winter is here + With the short cold days, + Bleak, keen and drear. + Was there ever a day + With hawthorn along the way + Where you wandered in mild mid-May + With your dear? + + That was when you were young + And the world was gold; + Now all the songs are sung, + The tales all told. + You shiver now by the fire + Where the last red sparks expire; + Dead are delight and desire: + You are old. + + + + +SEA-SHELLS + + + I GATHERED shells upon the sand, + Each shell a little perfect thing, + So frail, yet potent to withstand + The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting. + Through storms no ship could dare to brave + The little shells float lightly, save + All that they might have lost of fine + Shape and soft colour crystalline. + + Yet I amid the world’s wild surge + Doubt if my soul can face the strife, + The waves of circumstance that urge + That slight ship on the rocks of life. + O soul, be brave, for He who saves + The frail shell in the giant waves, + Will bring thy puny bark to land + Safe in the hollow of His hand. + + + + +HOPE + + + O THRUSH, is it true? + Your song tells + Of a world born anew, + Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue + With hyacinth bells; + Of primroses deep + In the moss of the lane, + Of a Princess asleep + And dear magic to do. + Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true? + Will Spring come again? + + Will Spring come again? + Now at last + With soft shine and rain + Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain? + Will Winter be past? + In the brown of the copse + Will white wind-flowers star through + Where the last oak-leaf drops? + Will the daisies come too, + And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again? + O thrush, is it true? + + + + +THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN + + + I REACH my hand to thee! + Stoop; take my hand in thine; + Lead me where I would be, + Father divine. + I do not even know + The way I want to go, + The way that leads to rest: + But, Thou who knowest me, + Lead where I cannot see, + Thou knowest best. + + Toys, worthless, yet desired, + Drew me afar to roam. + Father, I am so tired; + I am come home. + The love I held so cheap + I see, so dear, so deep, + So almost understood. + Life is so cold and wild, + I am thy little child— + I _will_ be good. + + + + +THE SKYLARK + + + “. . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is the + skylark come.”—ROBERT À FIELD, in the _New Age_. + + “IT is the skylark come.” For shame! + Robert-à-Cockney is thy name: + Robert-à-Field would surely know + That skylarks, bless them, never go! + + . . . . . + + Love of my life, bear witness here + How we have heard them all the year; + How to the skylark’s song are set + The days we never can forget. + At Rustington, do you remember? + We heard the skylarks in December; + In January above the snow + They sang to us by Hurstmonceux + Once in the keenest airs of March + We heard them near the Marble Arch; + Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air; + May found them singing everywhere; + And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune + Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June. + One unforgotten day at Rye + They sang a love-song in July; + In August, hard by Lewes town, + They sang of joy ’twixt sky and down; + And in September’s golden spell + We heard them singing on Scaw Fell. + October’s leaves were brown and sere, + But skylarks sang by Teston Weir; + And in November, at Mount’s Bay, + They sang upon our wedding day! + + . . . . . + + Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth, + Go east and west and south and north; + You’ll always find the furze in flower, + Find every hour the lovers’ hour, + And, by my faith in love and rhyme, + The skylark singing all the time! + + + + +SATURDAY SONG + + + THEY talk about gardens of roses, + And moonlight over the sea, + And mountains and snow + And sunsetty glow, + But I know what is best for me. + The prettiest sight I know, + Worth all your roses and snow, + Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night, + When the barrows are set in a row. + + I’ve heard of bazaars in India + All glitter and spices and smells, + But they don’t compare + With the naphtha flare + And the herrings the coster sells; + And the oranges piled like gold, + The cucumbers lean and cold, + And the red and white block-trimmings + And the strawberries fresh and ripe, + And the peas and beans, + And the sprouts and greens, + And the ’taters and trotters and tripe. + + And the shops where they sell the chairs, + The mangles and tables and bedding, + And the lovers go by in pairs, + And look—and think of the wedding. + And your girl has her arm in yours, + And you whisper and make her blush. + Oh! the snap in her eyes—and her smiles and her sighs + As she fancies the purple plush! + + And you haven’t a penny to spend, + But you dream that you’ve pounds and pounds; + And arm in arm with your only friend + You make your Saturday rounds: + And you see the cradle bright + With ribbon—lace—pink and white; + And she stops her laugh + And you drop your chaff + In the light of the Saturday night. + And the world is new + For her and you— + A little bit of all-right. + + + + +THE CHAMPION + + + YOUNG and a conqueror, once on a day, + Wild white Winter rode out this way; + With his sword of ice and his banner of snow + Vanquished the Summer and laid her low. + + Winter was young then, young and strong; + Now he is old, he has reigned too long. + He shall be routed, he shall be slain; + Summer shall come to her own again! + + See the champion of Summer wake + Little armies in field and brake: + “Cruel and cold has King Winter been; + Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!” + + First the aconite dots the mould + With little round cannon-balls of gold; + Then, to help in the winter’s rout, + Regiments of crocuses march out. + + See the swords of the flag-leaves shine; + See the shield of the celandine, + And daffodil lances green and keen, + To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen. + + Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings + Banners that mock at defeated kings; + And wherever the green of the new grass peers, + See the array of victorious spears. + + Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound + Over the garden’s battle-ground, + And lovely ladies crowd out to see + The long procession of victory. + + Little daisies with snowy frills, + Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils, + Primrose and cowslip, friends well met + With white wood-sorrel and violet. + + Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold; + Thousands of buttercups licked with gold; + Budding hedges and woods and trees— + Spring brings freedom and life to these. + + Then the triumphant Spring shall ride + Over the happy countryside; + Deep in the woods the birds shall sing: + “The King is dead—long live the King!” + + But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight; + He will ride on through the meadows bright + Till at Summer’s feet he shall light him down + And lay at her feet the royal crown. + + She will lean down where the roses twine + Between the may-trees’ silver shine, + And look in the eyes of the dying knight + Who led his army and won her fight. + + She will stoop to his lips and say, + “Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!” + While he smiles and sighs her arms between + And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen. + + + + +THE GARDEN REFUSED + + + THERE is a garden made for our delight, + Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. + I know it, but I do not know the way. + We slip and tumble in the doubtful night, + Where everything is difficult and new, + And clouds our breath has made obscure the day. + + The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive, + Still doing work that yet is never done; + The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice; + The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, + The black injustice that puts out the sun: + These are our portion, since they are our choice. + + Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose, + The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there; + There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet. + O roses, that for us shall not unclose! + O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear! + O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet! + + + + +THESE LITTLE ONES + + + “WHAT of the garden I gave?” + God said to me; + “Hast thou been diligent to foster and save + The life of flower and tree? + How have the roses thriven, + The lilies I have given, + The pretty scented miracles that Spring + And Summer come to bring? + + “My garden is fair and dear,” + I said to God; + “From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear. + Green-trimmed its sod. + The rose is red and bright, + The lily a live delight; + I have not lost a flower of all the flowers + That blessed my hours.” + + “What of the child I gave?” + God said to me; + “The little, little one I died to save + And gave in trust to thee? + How have the flowers grown + That in its soul were sown, + The lovely living miracles of youth + And hope and joy and truth?” + + “The child’s face is all white,” + I said to God; + “It cries for cold and hunger in the night: + Its little feet have trod + The pavement muddy and cold. + It has no flowers to hold, + And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.” + “Thou fool!” God said. + + + + +THE DESPOT + + + THE garden mould was damp and chill; + Winter had had his brutal will + Since over all the year’s content + His devastating legions went. + + The Spring’s bright banners came: there woke + Millions of little growing folk + Who thrilled to know the winter done, + Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun. + + Not so the elect; reserved, and slow + To trust a stranger-sun and grow, + They hesitated, cowered and hid, + Waiting to see what others did. + + Yet even they, a little, grew, + Put out prim leaves to day and dew, + And lifted level formal heads + In their appointed garden beds. + + The gardener came: he coldly loved + The flowers that lived as he approved, + That duly, decorously grew + As he, the despot, meant them to. + + He saw the wildlings flower more brave + And bright than any cultured slave; + Yet, since he had not set them there, + He hated them for being fair. + + So he uprooted, one by one, + The free things that had loved the sun, + The happy, eager, fruitful seeds + Who had not known that they were weeds. + + + + +THE MAGIC RING + + + YOUR touch on my hand is fire, + Your lips on my lips are flowers. + My darling, my one desire, + Dear crown of my days and hours. + Dear crown of each hour and day + Since ever my life began. + Ah! leave me—ah! go away— + We two are woman and man. + + To lie in your arms and see + The stars melt into the sun; + Till there is no you and me, + Since you and I are one. + To loose my soul to your breath, + To bare my heart to your life— + It is death, it is death, it is death! + I am not your wife. + + The hours will come and will go, + But never again such an hour + When the tides immortal flow + And life is a flood, a flower . . . + Wait for the ring; it is strong, + It has a magic of might + To make all that was splendid and wrong + Sordid and right. + + + + +PHILOSOPHY + + + THE sulky sage scarce condescends to see + This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves; + To him ’tis all illusion—only he + Is real amid the visions he perceives. + + No sage am I, and yet, by Love’s decree, + To me the world’s a masque of shadows too, + And I a shadow also—since to me + The only real thing in life is—you. + + + + +THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME + + + BEFORE your feet, + My love, my sweet, + Behold! your slave bows down; + And in his hands + From other lands + Brings you another crown. + + For in far climes, + In bygone times, + Myself was royal too: + Oh, I have been + A king, my queen, + Who am a slave for you! + + + + +MAGIC + + + WHAT was the spell she wove for me? + Life was a common useful thing, + An eligible building site + To hold a house to shelter me. + There were no woodlands whispering; + No unimagined dreams at night + About that house had folded wing, + Disordering my life for me. + + I was so safe until she came + With starry secrets in her eyes, + And on her lips the word of power. + —Like to the moon of May she came, + That makes men mad who were born wise— + Within her hand the only flower + Man ever plucked from Paradise; + So to my half-built house she came. + + She turned my useful plot of land + Into a garden wild and fair, + Where stars in garlands hung like flowers: + A moonlit, lonely, lovely land. + Dim groves and glimmering fountains there + Embraced a secret bower of bowers, + And in its rose-ringed heart we were + Alone in that enchanted land. + + What was the spell I wove for her, + Her mad dear magic to undo? + The red rose dies, the white rose dies, + The garden spits me forth with her + On the old suburban road I knew. + My house is gone, and by my side + A stranger stands with angry eyes + And lips that swear I ruined her. + + + + +WINDFLOWERS + + + WHEN I was little and good + I walked in the dappled wood + Where light white windflowers grew, + And hyacinths heavy and blue. + + The windflowers fluttered light, + Like butterflies white and bright; + The bluebells tremulous stood + Deep in the heart of the wood. + + I gathered the white and the blue, + The wild wet woodland through, + With hands too silly and small + To clasp and carry them all. + + Some dropped from my hands and died + By the home-road’s grassy side; + And those that my fond hands pressed + Died even before the rest. + + + + +AS IT IS + + + IF you and I + Had wings to fly— + Great wings like seagulls’ wings— + How would we soar + Above the roar + Of loud unneeded things! + + We two would rise + Through changing skies + To blue unclouded space, + And undismayed + And unafraid + Meet the sun face to face. + + But wings we know not; + The feathers grow not + To carry us so high; + And low in the gloom + Of a little room + We weep and say good-bye. + + + + +BEFORE WINTER + + + THE wind is crying in the night, + Like a lost child; + The waves break wonderful and white + And wild. + The drenched sea-poppies swoon along + The drenched sea-wall, + And there’s an end of summer and of song— + An end of all. + + The fingers of the tortured boughs + Gripped by the blast + Clutch at the windows of your house + Closed fast. + And the lost child of love, despair, + Cries in the night, + Remembering how once those windows were + Open and bright. + + + + +THE VAULT +AFTER SEDGMOOR + + + YOU need not call at the Inn; + I have ordered my bed: + Fair linen sheets therein + And a tester of lead. + No musty fusty scents + Such as inn chambers keep, + But tapestried with content + And hung with sleep. + + My Inn door bears no bar + Set up against fear. + The guests have journeyed far, + They are glad to be here. + Where the damp arch curves up grey, + Long, long shall we lie; + Good King’s men all are they, + A King’s man I. + + Old Giles, in his stone asleep, + Fought at Poictiers. + Piers Ralph and Roger keep + The spoil of their fighting years. + I shall lie with my folk at last + In a quiet bed; + I shall dream of the sword held fast + In a round-capped head. + + Good tale of men all told + My Inn affords; + And their hands peace shall hold + That once held swords. + And we who rode and ran + On many a loyal quest + Shall find the goal of man— + A bed, and rest. + + We shall not stand to the toast + Of Love or King; + We be all too tired to boast + About anything. + We be dumb that did jest and sing; + We rest who laboured and warred . . . + Shout once, shout once for the King. + Shout once for the sword! + + + + +SURRENDER + + + OH, the nights were dark and cold, + When my love was gone. + And life was hard to hold + When my love was gone. + I was wise, I never gave + What they teach a girl to save, + But I wished myself his slave + When my love was gone. + + I was all alone at night + When my love came home. + Oh, what thought of wrong or right + When my love came home? + I flung the door back wide + And I pulled my love inside; + There was no more shame or pride + When my love came home. + + + + +VALUES + + + DID you deceive me? Did I trust + A heart of fire to a heart of dust? + What matter? Since once the world was fair, + And you gave me the rose of the world to wear. + + That was the time to live for! Flowers, + Sunshine and starshine and magic hours, + Summer about me, Heaven above, + And all seemed immortal, even Love. + + Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth + The pains of death and the pains of birth; + And the thorns may be sharper than death—who knows?— + That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose. + + + + +IN THE PEOPLE’S PARK + + + MANY’S the time I’ve found your face + Fresh as a bunch of flowers in May, + Waiting for me at our own old place + At the end of the working day. + Many’s the time I’ve held your hand + On the shady seat in the People’s Park, + And blessed the blaring row of the band + And kissed you there in the dark. + + Many’s the time you promised true, + Swore it with kisses, swore it with tears: + “I’ll marry no one without it’s you— + If we have to wait for years.” + And now it’s another chap in the Park + That holds your hand like I used to do; + And I kiss another girl in the dark, + And try to fancy it’s you! + + + + +WEDDING DAY + + + THE enchanted hour, + The magic bower, + Where, crowned with roses, + Love love discloses. + + “Kiss me, my lover; + Doubting is over, + Over is waiting; + Love lights our mating!” + + “But roses wither, + Chill winds blow hither, + One thing all say, dear, + Love lives a day, dear!” + + “Heed those old stories? + New glowing glories + Blot out those lies, love! + Look in my eyes, love! + + “Ah, but the world knows— + Naught of the true rose; + Back the world slips, love! + Give me your lips, love! + + “Even were their lies true, + Yet were you wise to + Swear, at Love’s portal, + The god’s immortal.” + + + + +THE LAST DEFEAT + + + ACROSS the field of day + In sudden blazon lay + The pallid bar of gold + Borne on the shield of day. + Night had endured so long, + And now the Day grew strong + With lance of light to hold + The Night at bay. + + So on my life’s dull night + The splendour of your light + Traversed the dusky shield + And shone forth golden bright. + Your colours I have worn + Through all the fight forlorn, + And these, with life, I yield, + To-night, to Night. + + + + +MAY DAY + + + “WILL you go a-maying, a-maying, a-maying, + Come and be my Queen of May and pluck the may with me? + The fields are full of daisy buds and new lambs playing, + The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossom’s on the tree.” + + “If I go with you, if I go a-maying, + To be your Queen and wear my crown this May-day bright, + Hand in hand straying, it must be only playing, + And playtime ends at sunset, and then good-night. + + “For I have heard of maidens who laughed and went a-maying, + Went out queens and lost their crowns and came back slaves. + I will be no young man’s slave, submitting and obeying, + Bearing chains as those did, even to their graves.” + + “If you come a-maying, a-straying, a-playing, + We will pluck the little flowers, enough for you and me; + And when the day dies, end our one day’s playing, + Give a kiss and take a kiss and go home free.” + + + + +GRETNA GREEN + + + LAST night when I kissed you, + My soul caught alight; + And oh! how I missed you + The rest of the night— + Till Love in derision + Smote sleep with his wings, + And gave me in vision + Impossible things. + + A night that was clouded, + Long windows asleep; + Dark avenues crowded + With secrets to keep. + A terrace, a lover, + A foot on the stair; + The waiting was over, + The lady was there. + + What a flight, what a night! + The hoofs splashed and pounded. + Dark fainted in light + And the first bird-notes sounded. + You slept on my shoulder, + Shy night hid your face; + But dawn, bolder, colder, + Beheld our embrace. + + Your lips of vermilion, + Your ravishing shape, + The flogging postillion, + The village agape, + The rattle and thunder + Of postchaise a-speed . . . + My woman, my wonder, + My ultimate need! + + We two matched for mating + Came, handclasped, at last, + Where the blacksmith was waiting + To fetter us fast . . . + At the touch of the fetter + The dream snapped and fell— + And I woke to your letter + That bade me farewell. + + + + +THE ETERNAL + + + YOUR dear desired grace, + Your hands, your lips of red, + The wonder of your perfect face + Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed, + When you are dead. + + Your beautiful hair + Dust in the dust will lie— + But not the light I worship there, + The gold the sunshine crowns you by— + This will not die. + + Your beautiful eyes + Will be closed up with clay; + But all the magic they comprise, + The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies + Pass not away. + + All I desire and see + Will be a carrion thing; + But all that you have been to me + Is, and can never cease to be. + O Grave! where is thy victory? + Where, Death, thy sting? + + + + +THE POINT OF VIEW: I. + + +I + + + THERE was never winter, summer only: roses, + Pink and white and red, + Shining down the warm rich garden closes; + Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow, + Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette, + Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread; + Good gold sun that kissed me when we met, + Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow. + In the hay-field, scented, grey, + Loving life and love, I lay; + By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep; + Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream. + + II + + Summer never was, was always winter only; + Cold and ice and frost + Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely, + In a world of strangers, in the welter + Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet, + Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost + In a bitter unfamiliar street, + I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter, + Crouched and fought in vain for breath, + Cursed the cold and wished for death; + Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep; + Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream. + + + + +THE POINT OF VIEW: II. + + +I + + + IN the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, + Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way; + Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears: + “It is night, it is night, it has never been day; + Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight; + It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night. + Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, + For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.” + + + +II + + + Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie + In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, + You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear: + “It is day, it is day, it has never been night! + Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves; + It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, + Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer + Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.” + + + + +MARY OF MAGDALA + + + MARY of Magdala came to bed; + There were no soft curtains round her head; + She had no mother to hold of worth + The little baby she brought to birth. + + Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed: + “O God, I am very much afraid; + For out of my body, by sin defiled, + Thou biddest me make a little child. + + “O God, I have turned my face from Thee + To that which the angels may not see; + How can I make, from my deep disgrace, + A child whose angel shall see Thy face? + + “O God, I have sinned, and I know well + That the pains I bear are the pains of hell; + But the thought of the child that sin has given + Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven.” + + Mary of Magdala held her breath + In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death, + And through her heart, like the mortal knife, + Went the pang of joy and the pang of life. + + “We two are two alone,” said she, + “And we are two who should be three; + Now who will clothe my baby fair + In the little garments that babies wear?” + + There came two angels with quiet wings + And hands that were full of baby things; + And the new-born child was bathed and dressed + And laid again on his mother’s breast. + + “Now who will sign on his brow the mark + To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark? + Who will my baby’s sponsor be?” + “I, the Lord God, who died for thee.” + + “Now who will comfort him if he cry; + And who will suckle him by and bye? + For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry, + And I think that my time has come to die.” + + “I will dandle thy son as a mother may; + And his lips shall lie where my own Son’s lay. + Come, dear little one, come to me; + The Mother of God shall suckle thee.” + + Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed; + “I never deserved a child,” she cried. + “Dear God, I am ready to go to hell, + Since with my little one all is well.” + + Then the Son of Mary did o’er her lean. + “Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean. + Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done, + And My Mother shall give thee back thy son.” + + Frozen grass for a bearing bed, + A halo of frost round a woman’s head, + And pious folks who looked and said: + “A drab and her brat that are better dead.” + + + + + + THE HOME-COMING + + + THIS was our house. To this we came + Lighted by love with torch aflame, + And in this chamber, door locked fast, + I held you to my heart at last. + + This was our house. In this we knew + The worst that Time and Fate can do. + You left the room bare, wide the door; + You did not love me any more. + + Where once the kind warm curtain hung + The spider’s ghostly cloth is flung; + The beetle and the woodlouse creep + Where once I loved your lovely sleep. + + Yet so the vanished spell endures, + That this, our house, still, still is yours. + Here, spite of all these years apart, + I still can hold you to my heart! + + + + +AGE TO YOUTH + + + SUNRISE is in your eyes, and in your heart + The hope and bright desire of morn and May. + My eyes are full of shadow, and my part + Of life is yesterday. + + Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sit + And see your life unfolding like a scroll, + Rich with illuminated blazon, fit + For your arm-bearing soul. + + My soul bears arms too, but the scroll’s rolled tight, + Yet the one strip of faded brightness shown + Proclaims that when ’twas splendid in the light + Its blazon matched your own. + + + + +IN AGE + + + THE wine of life was rough and new, + But sweet beyond belief, + And wrong was false, and right was true— + The rose was in the leaf. + + In that good sunlight well we knew + The hues of wrong and right; + We slept among the roses through + The long enchanted night. + + Now to our eyes, made dim with years, + Right intertwines with wrong. + How can we hear, with these tired ears, + The old, the magic song? + + But this we know—wine once was red, + Roses were red and dear; + Once in our ears the truths were said + That now the young men hear! + + + + +WHITE MAGIC + + + THIS is the room to which she came, + And Spring itself came with her; + She stirred the fire of life to flame, + She called all music hither. + Her glance upon the lean white walls + Hung them with cloth of splendour, + And still the rose she dropped recalls + The graces that attend her. + + The same poor room, so dull and bare + Before, in consecration, + She breathed upon its common air + The true transfiguration . . .? + This room the same to which she came + For one immortal minute?— + How can it ever be the same + Since she has once been in it! + + + + +FROM THE PORTUGUESE + + +I + + + WHEN I lived in the village of youth + There were lilies in all the orchards, + Flowers in the orange-gardens + For brides to wear in their hair. + It was always sunshine and summer, + Roses at every lattice, + Dreams in the eyes of maidens, + Love in the eyes of men. + + When I lived in the village of youth + The doors, all the doors, stood open; + We went in and out of them laughing, + Laughing and calling each other + To shew each other our fairings, + The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, + The new rose, the new lover. + + Now I live in the town of age + Where are no orchards, no gardens. + Here, too, all the doors stand open, + But no one goes in or goes out. + We sit alone by the hearthstone + Where memories lie like ashes + Upon a hearth that is cold; + + And they from the village of youth + Run by our doorsteps laughing, + Calling, to shew each other + The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, + The new rose, the new lover. + + Once we had all these things— + We kept them from the old people, + And now the young people have them + And will not shew them to us— + To us who are old and have nothing + But the white, still, heaped-up ashes + On the hearth where the fire went out + A very long time ago. + + + +II + + + I HAD a mistress; I loved her. + She left me with memories bitter, + Corroding, eating my heart + As the acid eats into the steel + Etching the portrait triumphant. + Intolerable, indelible, + Never to be effaced. + + A wife was mine to my heart, + Beautiful flower of my garden, + Lily I worshipped by day, + Scented rose of my nights. + Now the night wind sighing + Blows white rose petals only + Over the bed where she sleeps + Dreamless alone. + + I had a son; I loved him. + Mother of God, bear witness + How all my manhood loved him + As thy womanhood loved thy Son! + When he was grown to his manhood + He crucified my heart, + And even as it hung bleeding + He laughed with his bold companions, + Mocked and turned away + With laughter into the night. + + Those three I loved and lost; + But there was one who loved me + With all the fire of her heart. + Mine was the sacred altar + Where she burnt her life for my worship. + She was my slave, my servant; + Mine all she had, all she was, + All she could suffer, could be. + That was the love of my life, + I did not say, “She loves me”; + I was so used to her love + I never asked its name, + Till, feeling the wind blow cold + Where all the doors were left open, + And seeing a fireless hearth + And the garden deserted and weed-grown + That once was full of flowers for me, + I said, “What has changed? What is it + That has made all the clocks stop?” + Thus I asked and they answered: + “It is thy mother who is dead.” + + And now I am alone. + My son, too, some day will stand + Here, where I stand and weep. + He too will weep, knowing too late + The love that wrapped round his life. + Dear God spare him this: + Let him never know how I loved him, + For he was always weak. + He could not endure as I can. + Mother, my dear, ask God + To grant me this, for my son! + + + + +THE NEST + + + THAT was the skylark we heard + Singing so high, + The little quivering bird + We saw, and the sky. + The earth was drenched with sun, + The sky was drenched with song; + We lay in the grass and listened, + Long and long and long. + + I said, “What a spell it is + Has made her rise + To pour out her world of bliss + In that world of skies!” + You said, “What a spell must pass + Between sky and plain, + Since she finds in this world of grass + Her nest again!” + + + + +THE OLD MAGIC + + + GRAY is the sea, and the skies are gray; + They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday; + And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream + Like tortured souls in an evil dream. + + There is white on the wings of the sea and sky, + And white are the gulls’ wings wheeling by, + And white, like snow, is the pall that lies + Where love weeps over his memories. + + For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought + Of good unfound and of wrong unsought; + Yet from God’s good magic there ever springs + The resurrection of holy things. + + See—the gold and blue of our yesterday + In the eyes and the hair of a child at play; + And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled + Is woven anew in the laugh of the child. + + + + +FAITH + + + A WALL + Gray and tall, + And a sky of gray, + And a twilight cold; + And that is all + That my eyes behold. + But I know that unseen, + Beyond the wall, + On a lawn of green + White blossoms fall + In the waning light; + And beyond the lawn + Curtains are drawn + From windows bright. + And within she moves with her gracious hands + And the heart that loves and that understands, + Waiting to succour poor souls in need, + And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed. + + I know it all, though I cannot see; + But the tired-out tramp, + Dirty and ill, + In the evening’s damp, + In the Spring’s clean chill, + Knows not that there + Is the heart to care + For such as I and for such as he. + He slouches along, and sees alone + The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone. + + Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey + In all Thy world that is now so green, + I will bethink me of this spring day + And the house of welcome, known yet unseen; + The wall that conceals + And the faith that reveals. + + + + +THE DEATH OF AGNES + + + NOW that the sunlight dies in my eyes, + And the moonlight grows in my hair, + I who was never very wise, + Never was very fair, + Virgin and martyr all my life, + What has life left to give + Me—who was never mother nor wife, + Never got leave to live? + + Nothing of life could I clasp or claim, + Nothing could steal or save. + So when you come to carve my name, + Give me life in my grave. + To keep me warm when I sleep alone + A lie is little to give; + Call me “Magdalen” on my stone, + Though I died and did not live. + + + + +IN TROUBLE + + + IT’S all for nothing: I’ve lost him now. + I suppose it had to be; + But oh, I never thought it of him, + Nor he never thought it of me. + And all for a kiss on your evening out, + And a field where the grass was down . . . + And he ’as gone to God-knows-where, + And I may go on the town. + + The worst of all was the thing he said + The night that he went away; + He said he’d ’a married me right enough + If I hadn’t ’a been so gay. + Me—gay! When I’d cried, and I’d asked him not, + But he said he loved me so; + An’ whatever he wanted seemed right to me . . . + An’ how was a girl to know? + + Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep sound, + An’ it might be the best to do; + But when he made me a light-o’-love + He made me a mother too. + I’ve had enough sin to last my time, + If ’twas sin as I got it by, + But it ain’t no sin to stand by his kid + And work for it till I die. + + But oh! the long days and the death-long nights + When I feel it move and turn, + And cry alone in my single bed + And count what a girl can earn + To buy the baby the bits of things + _He_ ought to ha’ bought, by rights; + And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . . + And if he sleeps sound o’ nights. + + + + +GRATITUDE + + + I FOUND a starving cat in the street: + It cried for food and a place by the fire. + I carried it home, and I strove to meet + The claims of its desire. + + And since its desire was a little fish, + A little hay and a little milk, + I gave it cream in a silver dish + And a basket lined with silk. + + And when we came to the grateful pause + When it should have fawned on the hand that fed, + It turned to a devil all teeth and claws, + Scratched me and bit me and fled. + + To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay + With a purr had been an easy task: + But its hate and my blood were required to pay + For the gifts that it did not ask. + + + + +AT THE LAST + + + WHERE are you—you whose loving breath + Alone can stay my soul from death? + The world’s so wide, I seek it through, + Yet—dare I dream to win to you? + Perhaps your dear desirèd feet + Pass me in this grey muddy street. + Your face, it may be, has its shrine + In that dull house that’s next to mine. + But I believe, O Life, O Fate, + That when I call on Death and wait + One moment at the unclosing gate + I shall turn back for one last gaze + Along the trampled, sordid ways, + And in the sunset see at last, + Just as the barred gate holds me fast, + Your face, your face, too late. + + + + +FEAR + + + IF you were here, + Hopes, dreams, ambitions, faith would disappear, + Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch your hand, + Forgetting all that now I understand. + For you confuse my life with memories + Of unrememberable ecstasies + Which were, and are not, and can never be; . . . + Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me. + + + + +THE DAY OF JUDGMENT + + + WHEN the bearing and doing are over, + And no more is to do or bear, + God will see us and judge us + The kind of men we were; + And our sins, so ugly and heavy, + We shall drag them into His sight, + And throw them down at the foot of the throne, + Foul on the steps of light. + + We shall not be shamed or frightened, + Though the angels are all at hand, + For He will look at our burden, + And He will understand. + He will turn to the little angels, + Agog to hear and obey, + And point to the festering sin-loads + With, “Take that rubbish away!” + + Then the steps will be cleared of the burdens + That we threw down at His feet; + And we shall be washed in the tears of Christ, + And our tears bathe His feet. + And the harvest of all our sinning + That moment’s shame will reap— + When we look in the eyes that love us + And know we have made them weep. + + + + +A FAREWELL + + + GOOD-BYE, good-bye; it is not hard to part! + You have my heart—the heart that leaps to hear + Your name called by an echo in a dream; + You have my soul that, like an untroubled stream, + Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near— + Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart. + + What more could Life give if we gave her leave + To give, and Life should give us leave to take? + Only each other’s arms, each other’s eyes, + Each other’s lips, the clinging secrecies + That are but as the written words to make + Records of what the heart and soul achieve. + + This, only this we yield, my love, my friend, + To Fate’s implacable eyes and withering breath. + We still are yours and mine, though, by Time’s theft, + My arms are empty and your arms bereft. + It is not hard to part—not harder than Death; + And each of us must face Death in the end! + + + + +IN HOSPITAL + + + UNDER the shadow of a hawthorn brake, + Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood, + Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake + And hidden violets smell of solitude; + Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing + Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring, + I should have said, “I love you,” and your eyes + Have said, “I, too . . . ” The gods saw otherwise. + + For this is winter, and the London streets + Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray + Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets + Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away. + And in the broken, trampled foreign wood + Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood, + And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star, + Under the shadow of the wings of war. + +1916. + + + + +PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR + + + NOW Death is near, and very near, + In this wild whirl of horror and fear, + When round the vessel of our State + Roll the great mountain waves of hate. + God! We have but one prayer to-day— + O Father, teach us how to pray. + + For prayer is strong, and very strong; + But we have turned from Thee so long + To follow gods that have no power + Save in the safe and sordid hour, + That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . . + O Father, teach us how to pray. + + We have done ill, and very ill, + Set up our will against Thy will. + That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed, + We stole our brothers’ daily bread. + Lord, we are sorry we went astray— + O Father, teach us how to pray. + + Now in this hour of desperate strife + For England’s life, her very life, + Teach us to pray that life may be + A new life, beautiful to Thee, + And in Thy hands that life to lay. + O Father, teach us how to pray. + +1915. + + + + +AT PARTING + + + GO, since you must, but, Dearest, know + That, Honour having bid you go, + Your honour, if your life be spent, + Shall have a costly monument. + + This heart, that fire and roses is + Beneath the magic of your kiss, + Shall turn to marble if you die + And be your deathless effigy. + +1914. + + + + +INVOCATION + + + THE Spirit of Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air, + The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by day, + The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware, + Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, far away. + + God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side of my love, + Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, O Lord, + Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above, + Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable sword. + + Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my dear in his fight, + That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff in the blast, + And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right. + Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor at last. + + But if—ah, dear God, give me strength to withhold nothing now!— + If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid design, + Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his brow . + . . + Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall _I_ not give mine? + +1914. + + + + +TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR + + + ONCE I made for you songs, + Rondels, triolets, sonnets; + Verse that my love deemed due, + Verse that your love found fair. + Now the wide wings of war + Hang, like a hawk’s, over England, + Shadowing meadows and groves; + And the birds and the lovers are mute. + + Yet there’s a thing to say + Before I go into battle, + Not now a poet’s word + But a man’s word to his mate: + Dear, if I come back never, + Be it your pride that we gave + The hope of our hearts, each other, + For the sake of the Hope of the World. + +1915. + + + + +THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS + + + LAST year the fields were all glad and gay + With silver daisies and silver may; + There were kingcups gold by the river’s edge + And primrose stars under every hedge. + + This year the fields are trampled and brown, + The hedges are broken and beaten down, + And where the primroses used to grow + Are little black crosses set in a row. + + And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams, + The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes, + The tree of life with its fruit and bud, + Are trampled down in the mud and the blood. + + The changing seasons will bring again + The magic of Spring to our wood and plain: + Though the Spring be so green as never was seen + The crosses will still be black in the green. + + The God of battles shall judge the foe + Who trampled our country and laid her low . . . + God! hold our hands on the reckoning day, + Lest all we owe them we should repay. + +1915. + + + + +SPRING IN WAR-TIME + + + NOW the sprinkled blackthorn snow + Lies along the lovers’ lane + Where last year we used to go— + Where we shall not go again. + + In the hedge the buds are new, + By our wood the violets peer— + Just like last year’s violets, too, + But they have no scent this year. + + Every bird has heart to sing + Of its nest, warmed by its breast; + We had heart to sing last spring, + But we never built our nest. + + Presently red roses blown + Will make all the garden gay . . . + Not yet have the daisies grown + On your clay. + +1916. + + + + +THE MOTHER’S PRAYER + + + THIS was my little son + Who leapt and laughed on my knee: + Body we made with love, + Soul made with love by Thee. + This was the mystery + In which I worshipped Thy grace; + This was the sign to me— + The unveiling of Thy face . . . + This, that lies under Thy skies + Naked as on that day + When the floor of heaven gave way + And the glory of God shone through, + When the world was made new + And Thy word was made flesh for me . . . + He lies there, bare to Thy skies, + O Lord God, see! + + Body that was in mine + A secret, sacred spell, + Little hands I have kissed + Trampled by beasts in Hell . . . + Growing beauty and grace . . . + Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . . + Broken, battered, shattered . . . + Body that grew like a blossom! + All that was promised me + On my life’s royal day. + Every promise broken— + Only a ghost, and clay! + + O God, I kneel at Thy feet; + I lay my hands in Thine: + Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, + And shall _I_ not give mine? + Only—O God, have pity! + All my defences are down: + God, I accept the Cross, + Let _him_ have the Crown! + + By all that my love has borne, + By all that all mothers bear, + By the infinite patient anguish, + By the never-ceasing prayer, + By the thoughts that cut like a living knife, + By the tears that are never dry, + Take what he died to win You— + God, take Your victory! + + We have watched on till the light burned low, + And watched the dawn awake; + We have lived hardly and hardly fared + For our sons’ sake. + All that was good in Thy earth, + All that taught us of Heaven, + All that we had in the world + We have given. + We pray with empty hands + And hearts that are stiff with pain. + O God! O God! O God! + Let the sacrifice not be vain. + This is his blood, Lord, see! + His blood that was shed for Thee; + Thy banner is dyed in that red tide + Lord, take Thy victory! + + God! give Thine angels power + To fight as he fought, + To scatter the hosts of evil, + To bring their boastings to naught— + Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . . + Michael, who wields Thy sword . . . + Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them, + Put forth Thy strength, O Lord. + See, Lord, this is his body, + Broken for Thee, for Thee . . . + My son, my little son, + Who leapt and laughed on my knee. + + + + +“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ” + + + IF Jesus came to London, + Came to London to-day, + He would not go to the West End, + He would come down our way; + He’d talk with the children dancing + To the organ out in the street, + And say he was their big Brother, + And give them something to eat. + + He wouldn’t go to the mansions + Where the charitable live; + He’d come to the tenement houses + Where we ain’t got nothing to give. + He’d come so kind and so homely, + And treat us to beer and bread, + And tell us how we ought to behave; + And we’d try to mind what He said. + + In the warm bright West End churches + They sing and preach and pray, + They call us “Beloved brethren,” + But they do not act that way. + And when He came to the church door + He’d call out loud and free, + “You stop that preaching and praying + And show what you’ve done for Me.” + + Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given + To the poor both blankets and tracts, + And we’ve tried to make them sober, + And we’ve tried to teach them facts. + But they will sneak round to the drink-shop, + And pawn the blankets for beer, + And we find them very ungrateful, + But still we persevere.” + + Then He would say, “I told you + The time I was here before, + That you were all of you brothers, + All you that I suffered for. + I won’t go into your churches, + I’ll stop in the sun outside. + You bring out the men your brothers, + The men for whom I died!” + + Out of our beastly lodgings, + From arches and doorways about, + They’d have to do as He told them, + They’d have to call us out. + Millions and millions and millions, + Thick and crawling like flies, + We should creep out to the sunshine + And not be afraid of His eyes. + + He’d see what God’s image looks like + When men have dealt with the same, + Wrinkled with work that is never done, + Swollen and dirty with shame. + He’d see on the children’s forehead + The branded gutter-sign + That marks the girls to be harlots, + That dooms the boys to be swine. + + Then He’d say, “What’s the good of churches + When these have nowhere to sleep? + And how can I hear you praying + When they are cursing so deep? + I gave My Blood and My Body + That they might have bread and wine, + And you have taken your share and theirs + Of these good gifts of mine!” + + Then some of the rich would be sorry, + And all would be very scared, + And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!” + And He’d say, “You never cared!” + And some would be sick and shameful + Because they’d know that they knew, + And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord. + Now tell us what to do!” + + I think He’d be sitting, likely, + For someone ’ud bring Him a chair, + With a common kid cuddled up on His knee + And the common sun on His hair; + And they’d be standing before Him, + And He’d say, “You know that you knew. + Why haven’t you worked for your brothers + The same as I worked for you? + + “For since you’re all of you brothers + It’s clear as God’s blessed sun + That each must work for the others, + Not thousands work for one. + And the ones that have lived bone-idle + If they want Me to hear them pray, + Let them go and work for their livings + The only honest way! + + “I’ve got nothing new to tell you, + You know what I always said— + But you’ve built their bones into churches + And stolen their wine and bread; + You with My Name on your foreheads, + Liar, and traitor, and knave, + You have lived by the death of your brothers, + These whom I died to save!” + + I wish He would come and say it; + Perhaps they’d believe it then, + And work like men for their livings + And let us work like men. + Brothers? They don’t believe it, + The lie on their lips is red. + They’ll never believe till He comes again, + Or till we rise from the dead! + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + _Printed by the Anchor Press_, _Ltd._, _Tiptree_, _Essex_, _England_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY VOICES*** + + +******* This file should be named 1924-0.txt or 1924-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/2/1924 + + + +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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Nesbit</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Many Voices, by E. Nesbit + + +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: Many Voices + Poems + + +Author: E. Nesbit + + + +Release Date: April 18, 2013 [eBook #1924] +[This file was first posted on February 24, 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY VOICES*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1922 Hutchinson and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1><i>Many Voices</i></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>POEMS: By E. +NESBIT</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Author of</i> “<i>The +Incredible Honeymoon</i>,” <i>etc.</i></p> + +<div class="gapshortdoubleline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> + +<div class="gapshortdoubleline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>LONDON: HUTCHINSON & +CO.</i><br /> +<i>:: PATERNOSTER ROW ::</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span>To<br /> +my dear<br /> +Daughter in law<br /> +and<br /> +Daughter in love,<br /> +GERTRUDE BLAND<br /> +I, E. Nesbit,<br /> +dedicate<br /> +this book</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><i>Jesson St. Mary’s</i>,<br /> + <i>Romney</i>, 1922.</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE RETURN</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>FOR DOLLY</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>QUESTIONS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE DAISIES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE TOUCHSTONE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE DECEMBER ROSE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE FIRE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>SONG</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A PARTING</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE GIFT OF LIFE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>INCOMPATIBILITIES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE STOLEN GOD</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>WINTER</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>SEA-SHELLS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>HOPE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE SKYLARK</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>SATURDAY SONG</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE CHAMPION</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE GARDEN REFUSED</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THESE LITTLE ONES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE DESPOT</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE MAGIC RING</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>PHILOSOPHY</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>MAGIC</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>WINDFLOWERS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>AS IT IS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>BEFORE WINTER</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE VAULT</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>SURRENDER</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>VALUES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>IN THE PEOPLE’S PARK</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>WEDDING DAY</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE LAST DEFEAT</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>MAY DAY</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>GRETNA GREEN</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE ETERNAL</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE POINT OF VIEW: I</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE POINT OF VIEW: II</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>MARY OF MAGDALA</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE HOME-COMING</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>AGE TO YOUTH</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>IN AGE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>WHITE MAGIC</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I.</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>FROM THE PORTUGUESE. II.</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE NEST</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE OLD MAGIC</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>FAITH</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE DEATH OF AGNES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>IN TROUBLE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>GRATITUDE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>AT THE LAST</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>FEAR</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE DAY OF JUDGMENT</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A FAREWELL</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>IN HOSPITAL</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>AT PARTING</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>INVOCATION</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>SPRING IN WAR-TIME</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>THE MOTHER’S PRAYER</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>THE +RETURN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> grass was gray +with the moonlit dew,<br /> +The stones were white as I came through;<br /> +I came down the path by the thirteen yews,<br /> +Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.<br /> +And when I came to the high lych-gate<br /> +I waited awhile where the corpses wait;<br /> +Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay<br /> +Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.</p> +<p class="poetry">The bats shrieked high in their zigzag +flight,<br /> +The owls’ spread wings were quiet and white,<br /> +The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,<br /> +And all about were the rustling shy<br /> +Little live creatures that love the night—<br /> +Little wild creatures timid and free.<br /> +I passed, and they were not afraid of me.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was over the meadow and down the lane<br /> +The way to come to my house again:<br /> +Through the wood where the lovers talk,<br /> +And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.<br /> +I wore the clothes that we all must wear,<br /> +And no one saw me walking there,<br /> +No one saw my pale feet pass<br /> +By my garden path to my garden grass.<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>My garden +was hung with the veil of spring—<br /> +Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;<br /> +It lay in the moon’s cold sheet of light<br /> +In garlands and silence, wondrous and white<br /> +As a dead bride decked for her burying.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I saw the face of my house<br /> +Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:<br /> +I leaned my face to the window bright<br /> +To feel if the heart of my house beat right.<br /> +The firelight hung it with fitful gold;<br /> +It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.<br /> +I saw the settles, the candles tall,<br /> +The black-faced presses against the wall,<br /> +Polished beechwood and shining brass,<br /> +The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,<br /> +All the little things that were home to me—<br /> +Everything as it used to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I said, “The fire of life still +burns,<br /> +And I have returned whence none returns:<br /> +I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,<br /> +I will warm my heart in the heart of it!”<br /> +So I called aloud to the one within:<br /> +“Open, open, and let me in!<br /> +Let me in to the fire and the light—<br /> +It is very cold out here in the night!”<br /> +There was never a stir or an answering breath—<br /> +Only a silence as deep as death.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I beat on the window, and called, and +cried.<br /> +No one heard me, and none replied.<br /> +The golden silence lay warm and deep,<br /> +And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;<br /> +And there was no one to hear or see—<br /> +To comfort me, to have pity on me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>But deep in the silence something stirred—<br /> +Something that had not seen or heard—<br /> +And two drew near to the window-pane,<br /> +Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,<br /> +And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread<br /> +Over the garlanded garden bed;<br /> +And—“How ghostly the moonlight is!” she +said.</p> +<p class="poetry">Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,<br +/> +I came to mine own place again.<br /> +I wore the garments we all must wear,<br /> +And no one saw me walking there.<br /> +No one heard my thin feet pass<br /> +Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,<br /> +Along the path where the moonlight hews<br /> +Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep<br +/> +It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:<br /> +But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,<br /> +And I cannot sleep as I used to do.</p> +<h2><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>FOR +DOLLY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> see the fairies +dancing in the fountain,<br /> + Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray;<br /> +You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain,<br /> + Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;<br /> +You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,<br /> + Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;<br +/> +You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams,<br /> + Rise from the bonfire’s blue and liquid +air.</p> +<p class="poetry">All the enchantment, all the magic there is<br +/> + Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and +true.<br /> +Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies;<br /> + Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.<br /> +Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.<br +/> + Millions of magics beseech your little looks;<br /> +Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for +you.<br /> + Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes +with books?</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow +dimmer,<br /> + Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky,<br /> +Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer,<br /> + Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.<br /> +Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,<br /> + Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong +. . .<br /> +Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses,<br /> + Leave her her kingdom—she will not keep it +long!</p> +<h2><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>QUESTIONS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> do the roses +do, mother,<br /> + Now that the summer’s done?<br /> +They lie in the bed that is hung with red<br /> + And dream about the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">What do the lilies do, mother,<br /> + Now that there’s no more June?<br /> +Each one lies down in her white nightgown<br /> + And dreams about the moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">What can I dream of, mother,<br /> + With the moon and the sun away?<br /> +Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,<br /> + And a lily that lives a day!</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>THE +DAISIES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the great green +park with the wooden palings—<br /> +The wooden palings so hard to climb,<br /> +There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,<br /> +And green things growing all the time;<br /> +And out in the open the daisies grow,<br /> +Pretty and proud in their proper places,<br /> +Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,<br /> +Millions and millions—not one or two.<br /> +And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:<br /> +“Are you out—are you in? We have been so +good<br /> +All the school-time winter through,<br /> +But now it’s playtime,<br /> +The gay time, the May time;<br /> +We are out and at play. Where are you?”</p> +<p class="poetry">In the gritty garden inside the railings,<br /> +The spiky railings all painted green,<br /> +There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia<br /> +With never a happy weed between.<br /> +There’s a neat little grass plot, bald in places,<br /> +And very dusty to touch;<br /> +A respectable man comes once a week<br /> +To keep the garden weeded and swept,<br /> +To keep it as we don’t want it kept.<br /> +He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,<br /> +And we think he cuts it too much.<br /> +But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,<br /> +The daisies play about.<br /> +They are so brave as well as so pretty,<br /> +You cannot keep them out.<br /> +<a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>I love +them, I want to let them grow,<br /> +But that respectable man says no.<br /> +He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine<br /> +Like the French Revolution guillotine.<br /> +He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,<br /> +The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;<br /> +Says things must be kept in their proper places<br /> +He has no frill round his ugly face—<br /> +I wish I could find his proper place!</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>THE +TOUCHSTONE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a garden, +very strange and fair<br /> + With all the roses summer never brings.<br /> + The snowy blossom of immortal Springs<br /> +Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there.<br /> + There were new heavens, and the earth was new,<br /> + And still I told my heart the dream was true.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the sun stood still, and Time went +out<br /> + Like a blown candle—when she came to me<br /> + Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree,<br /> +Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt,<br /> + And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near,<br /> + She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is no dream,” she said. +“What dream had stayed<br /> + So long? It is the blessed isle that lies<br +/> + Between the tides of twin eternities.<br /> +It is our island; do not be afraid!”<br /> + Then, then at last my heart was well deceived;<br /> + I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her real presence sanctified my faith,<br /> + Her very voice my restless fears beguiled,<br /> + And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled,<br +/> +But when she said “I love you!” it was Death.<br /> + That, that at least could neither be nor +seem—<br /> + Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!</p> +<h2><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>THE +DECEMBER ROSE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here’s</span> a rose +that blows for Chloe,<br /> + Fair as ever a rose in June was,<br /> +Now the garden’s silent, snowy,<br /> + Where the burning summer noon was.</p> +<p class="poetry">In your garden’s summer glory<br /> + One poor corner, shelved and shady,<br /> +Told no rosy, radiant story,<br /> + Grew no rose to grace its lady.</p> +<p class="poetry">What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;<br /> + From his nook your secret lover<br /> +Shows what slighted roses grow to<br /> + When the rose you chose is over.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>THE +FIRE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> picking +raspberries, my head was in the canes,<br /> +And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his +pains.<br /> +Says he, “You take it easy! That ain’t the way +to do!<br /> +I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too.<br +/> +So won’t you name the day?”<br /> +But I said, “That I will not.”<br /> +And I pushed him away,<br /> +Out among the raspberries all on a summer day.<br /> +And I says, “You ask in winter, if your love’s so +hot,<br /> +For it’s summer now, and sunny, and my hands is +full,” says I,<br /> +“With the fair by and by,<br /> +And the village dance and all;<br /> +And the turkey poults is small,<br /> +And so’s the ducks and chicks,<br /> +And the hay not yet in ricks,<br /> +And the flower-show’ll be presently and hop-picking’s +to come,<br /> +And the fruiting and the harvest home,<br /> +And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done.<br /> +Can’t you leave a girl alone?<br /> +Your love’s too hot for me!<br /> +Can’t you leave a girl be<br /> +Till the evenings do draw in,<br /> +Till the leaves be getting thin,<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Till the +fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?<br /> +That’s the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting +me!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">And he took it as I said it, an’ not as +it was meant.<br /> +And he went.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the +hops were dry and brown,<br /> +And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,<br +/> +And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit,<br /> +And he’d never come anigh again, and all my life was +sick.<br /> +And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit<br /> +With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick.<br /> +For father, he lay dead<br /> +With the candles at his head,<br /> +And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall;<br +/> +And I’d sent them all away,<br /> +Though they’d offered for to stay.<br /> +I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all.<br /> +Then I heard him. I’d a-known it for his footstep +just as plain<br /> +If he’d brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen +lane.<br /> +And I hadn’t drawed the curtains, and I see him through the +pane;<br /> +And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide.<br +/> +Says I, “You come inside;<br /> +For it’s cold outside for you,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>And +it’s cold here too;<br /> +And I haven’t no more pride—<br /> +It’s too cold for that,” I cried.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I saw in his face<br /> +The fear of death, and desire.<br /> +And oh, I took and kissed him again and again,<br /> +And I clipped him close and all,<br /> +In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place,<br /> +With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall;<br +/> +And “<i>You</i> warm my heart,” I told him, “if +there’s any fire in men!”<br /> +And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then.<br /> +And I warmed my heart at the fire.</p> +<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the Spring is +waking,<br /> + Very shy as yet,<br /> +Busy mending, making<br /> + Grass and violet.<br /> +Frowsy Winter’s over:<br /> + See the budding lane!<br /> +Go and meet your lover:<br /> + Spring is here again!</p> +<p class="poetry">Every day is longer<br /> + Than the day before;<br /> +Lambs are whiter, stronger,<br /> + Birds sing more and more;<br /> +Woods are less than shady,<br /> + Griefs are more than vain—<br /> +Go and kiss your lady:<br /> + Spring is here again!</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>A +PARTING</h2> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">So</span> good-bye!<br /> +This is where we end it, you and I.<br /> +Life’s to live, you know, and death’s to die;<br /> + So good-bye!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> I +was yours<br /> +For the love in life that loves while life endures,<br /> +For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures<br /> + I was yours.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> You +were mine<br /> +For the moment that a garland takes to twine,<br /> +For the human hour that sorcery shews divine<br /> + You were +mine.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> All +is over.<br /> +You and I no more are love and lover;<br /> +Nought’s to seek now, gain, attain, discover.<br /> + All is over.</p> +<h2><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>THE +GIFT OF LIFE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span> is a night all +dark and wild,<br /> + Yet still stars shine:<br /> +This moment is a star, my child—<br /> + Your star and mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Life is a desert dry and drear,<br /> + Undewed, unblest;<br /> +This hour is an oasis, dear;<br /> + Here let us rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Life is a sea of windy spray,<br /> + Cold, fierce and free:<br /> +An isle enchanted is to-day<br /> + For you and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Forget night, sea, and desert: take<br /> + The gift supreme,<br /> +And, of life’s brief relenting, make<br /> + A deathless dream.</p> +<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>INCOMPATIBILITIES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> you loved me I +could trust you to your fancy’s furthest bound<br /> +While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went +round,<br /> +To the utmost of the meshes of the devil’s strongest net . +. .<br /> +If you loved me, if you loved me—but you do not love me +yet!</p> +<p class="poetry">I love you—and I cannot trust you further +than the door!<br /> +But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me +more<br /> +And more—until I trust you, dear, as women do trust +men—<br /> +I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you +then!</p> +<h2><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>THE +STOLEN GOD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LAZARUS TO DIVES</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> do not clamour +for vengeance,<br /> + We do not whine for fear;<br /> +We have cried in the outer darkness<br /> + Where was no man to hear.<br /> +We cried to man and he heard not;<br /> + Yet we thought God heard us pray;<br /> +But our God, who loved and was sorry—<br /> + Our God is taken away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ours were the stream and the pasture,<br /> + Forest and fen were ours;<br /> +Ours were the wild wood-creatures,<br /> + The wild sweet berries and flowers.<br /> +You have taken our heirlooms from us,<br /> + And hardly you let us save<br /> +Enough of our woods for a cradle,<br /> + Enough of our earth for a grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">You took the wood and the cornland,<br /> + Where still we tilled and felled;<br /> +You took the mine and quarry,<br /> + And all you took you held.<br /> +The limbs of our weanling children<br /> + You crushed in your mills of power;<br /> +And you made our bearing women toil<br /> + To the very bearing hour.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>You have taken our clean quick longings,<br /> + Our joy in lover and wife,<br /> +Our hope of the sunset quiet<br /> + At the evening end of life;<br /> +You have taken the land that bore us,<br /> + Its soil and stone and sod;<br /> +You have taken our faith in each other—<br /> + And now you have taken our God.</p> +<p class="poetry">When our God came down from Heaven<br /> + He came among men, a Man,<br /> +Eating and drinking and working<br /> + As common people can;<br /> +And the common people received Him<br /> + While the rich men turned away.<br /> +But what have we to do with a God<br /> + To whom the rich men pray?</p> +<p class="poetry">He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,<br /> + Who lived a Man among men,<br /> +You have taken away our Lord<br /> + And we cannot find Him again.<br /> +You have not left us a handful<br /> + Of even the earth He trod . . .<br /> +You have made Him a rich man’s idol<br /> + Who came as a poor man’s God.</p> +<p class="poetry">He promised the poor His heaven,<br /> + He loved and lived with the poor;<br /> +He said that the rich man’s shadow<br /> + Should never darken His door:<br /> +But bishops and priests lie softly,<br /> + Drink full and are fully fed<br /> +In the Name of the Lord, who had not<br /> + Where to lay His head.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>This is the God you have stolen,<br /> + As you steal all else—in His name.<br /> +You have taken the ease and the honour,<br /> + Left us the toil and the shame.<br /> +You have chosen the seat of Dives,<br /> + We lie where Lazarus lay;<br /> +But, by God, we will not yield you our God,<br /> + You shall not take Him away.</p> +<p class="poetry">All else we had you have taken;<br /> + All else, but not this, not this.<br /> +The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,<br /> + And the poor are His, are His.<br /> +Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer!<br /> + For both He cannot be.<br /> +And if He is ours—O you rich men,<br /> + Then whose, in God’s name, are ye?</p> +<h2><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>WINTER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hold</span> your hands to +the blaze;<br /> + Winter is here<br /> +With the short cold days,<br /> + Bleak, keen and drear.<br /> +Was there ever a day<br /> +With hawthorn along the way<br /> +Where you wandered in mild mid-May<br /> + With your dear?</p> +<p class="poetry">That was when you were young<br /> + And the world was gold;<br /> +Now all the songs are sung,<br /> + The tales all told.<br /> +You shiver now by the fire<br /> +Where the last red sparks expire;<br /> +Dead are delight and desire:<br /> + You are old.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>SEA-SHELLS</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">gathered</span> shells +upon the sand,<br /> + Each shell a little perfect thing,<br /> +So frail, yet potent to withstand<br /> + The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting.<br /> +Through storms no ship could dare to brave<br /> +The little shells float lightly, save<br /> +All that they might have lost of fine<br /> +Shape and soft colour crystalline.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet I amid the world’s wild surge<br /> + Doubt if my soul can face the strife,<br /> +The waves of circumstance that urge<br /> + That slight ship on the rocks of life.<br /> +O soul, be brave, for He who saves<br /> +The frail shell in the giant waves,<br /> +Will bring thy puny bark to land<br /> +Safe in the hollow of His hand.</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>HOPE</h2> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">thrush</span>, is it +true?<br /> + Your song tells<br /> +Of a world born anew,<br /> +Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue<br /> + With hyacinth bells;<br /> +Of primroses deep<br /> + In the moss of the lane,<br /> +Of a Princess asleep<br /> +And dear magic to do.<br /> +Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true?<br /> + Will Spring come again?</p> +<p class="poetry">Will Spring come again?<br /> + Now at last<br /> +With soft shine and rain<br /> +Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?<br /> + Will Winter be past?<br /> +In the brown of the copse<br /> + Will white wind-flowers star through<br /> +Where the last oak-leaf drops?<br /> + Will the daisies come too,<br /> +And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?<br /> + O thrush, is it true?</p> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>THE +PRODIGAL’S RETURN</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">reach</span> my hand to +thee!<br /> + Stoop; take my hand in thine;<br /> +Lead me where I would be,<br /> + Father divine.<br /> +I do not even know<br /> +The way I want to go,<br /> + The way that leads to rest:<br /> +But, Thou who knowest me,<br /> +Lead where I cannot see,<br /> + Thou knowest best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Toys, worthless, yet desired,<br /> + Drew me afar to roam.<br /> +Father, I am so tired;<br /> + I am come home.<br /> +The love I held so cheap<br /> +I see, so dear, so deep,<br /> + So almost understood.<br /> +Life is so cold and wild,<br /> +I am thy little child—<br /> + I <i>will</i> be good.</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>THE +SKYLARK</h2> +<blockquote><p>“. . . a dripping shower of notes from the +softening blue. It is the skylark come.”—<span +class="smcap">Robert à Field</span>, in the <i>New +Age</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">It</span> is the +skylark come.” For shame!<br /> +Robert-à-Cockney is thy name:<br /> +Robert-à-Field would surely know<br /> +That skylarks, bless them, never go!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Love of my life, bear witness here<br /> +How we have heard them all the year;<br /> +How to the skylark’s song are set<br /> +The days we never can forget.<br /> +At Rustington, do you remember?<br /> +We heard the skylarks in December;<br /> +In January above the snow<br /> +They sang to us by Hurstmonceux<br /> +Once in the keenest airs of March<br /> +We heard them near the Marble Arch;<br /> +Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;<br /> +May found them singing everywhere;<br /> +And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune<br /> +Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.<br /> +One unforgotten day at Rye<br /> +They sang a love-song in July;<br /> +In August, hard by Lewes town,<br /> +They sang of joy ’twixt sky and down;<br /> +And in September’s golden spell<br /> +We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.<br /> +October’s leaves were brown and sere,<br /> +But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;<br /> +And in November, at Mount’s Bay,<br /> +They sang upon our wedding day!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth,<br /> +Go east and west and south and north;<br /> +You’ll always find the furze in flower,<br /> +Find every hour the lovers’ hour,<br /> +And, by my faith in love and rhyme,<br /> +The skylark singing all the time!</p> +<h2><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>SATURDAY SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> talk about +gardens of roses,<br /> + And moonlight over the sea,<br /> +And mountains and snow<br /> +And sunsetty glow,<br /> + But I know what is best for me.<br /> +The prettiest sight I know,<br /> + Worth all your roses and snow,<br /> +Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,<br /> + When the barrows are set in a row.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve heard of bazaars in India<br /> + All glitter and spices and smells,<br /> +But they don’t compare<br /> +With the naphtha flare<br /> + And the herrings the coster sells;<br /> +And the oranges piled like gold,<br /> +The cucumbers lean and cold,<br /> +And the red and white block-trimmings<br /> + And the strawberries fresh and ripe,<br /> +And the peas and beans,<br /> +And the sprouts and greens,<br /> + And the ’taters and trotters and tripe.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the shops where they sell the chairs,<br /> + The mangles and tables and bedding,<br /> +And the lovers go by in pairs,<br /> + And look—and think of the wedding.<br /> +And your girl has her arm in yours,<br /> + And you whisper and make her blush.<br /> +Oh! the snap in her eyes—and her smiles and her sighs<br /> + As she fancies the purple plush!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>And you haven’t a penny to spend,<br /> + But you dream that you’ve pounds and +pounds;<br /> +And arm in arm with your only friend<br /> + You make your Saturday rounds:<br /> +And you see the cradle bright<br /> + With ribbon—lace—pink and white;<br /> +And she stops her laugh<br /> +And you drop your chaff<br /> + In the light of the Saturday night.<br /> +And the world is new<br /> +For her and you—<br /> + A little bit of all-right.</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>THE +CHAMPION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Young</span> and a +conqueror, once on a day,<br /> +Wild white Winter rode out this way;<br /> +With his sword of ice and his banner of snow<br /> +Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.</p> +<p class="poetry">Winter was young then, young and strong;<br /> +Now he is old, he has reigned too long.<br /> +He shall be routed, he shall be slain;<br /> +Summer shall come to her own again!</p> +<p class="poetry">See the champion of Summer wake<br /> +Little armies in field and brake:<br /> +“Cruel and cold has King Winter been;<br /> +Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!”</p> +<p class="poetry">First the aconite dots the mould<br /> +With little round cannon-balls of gold;<br /> +Then, to help in the winter’s rout,<br /> +Regiments of crocuses march out.</p> +<p class="poetry">See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;<br /> +See the shield of the celandine,<br /> +And daffodil lances green and keen,<br /> +To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings<br /> +Banners that mock at defeated kings;<br /> +And wherever the green of the new grass peers,<br /> +See the array of victorious spears.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound<br /> +Over the garden’s battle-ground,<br /> +And lovely ladies crowd out to see<br /> +The long procession of victory.</p> +<p class="poetry">Little daisies with snowy frills,<br /> +Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,<br /> +Primrose and cowslip, friends well met<br /> +With white wood-sorrel and violet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;<br /> +Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;<br /> +Budding hedges and woods and trees—<br /> +Spring brings freedom and life to these.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the triumphant Spring shall ride<br /> +Over the happy countryside;<br /> +Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:<br /> +“The King is dead—long live the King!”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Spring is no king, but a faithful +knight;<br /> +He will ride on through the meadows bright<br /> +Till at Summer’s feet he shall light him down<br /> +And lay at her feet the royal crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will lean down where the roses twine<br /> +Between the may-trees’ silver shine,<br /> +And look in the eyes of the dying knight<br /> +Who led his army and won her fight.</p> +<p class="poetry">She will stoop to his lips and say,<br /> +“Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!”<br /> +While he smiles and sighs her arms between<br /> +And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>THE +GARDEN REFUSED</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a garden +made for our delight,<br /> + Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.<br +/> + I know it, but I do not know the +way.<br /> +We slip and tumble in the doubtful night,<br /> + Where everything is difficult and new,<br /> + And clouds our breath has made +obscure the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">The blank unhappy towns, where sick men +strive,<br /> + Still doing work that yet is never done;<br /> + The hymns to Gold that drown their +desperate voice;<br /> +The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive,<br /> + The black injustice that puts out the sun:<br /> + These are our portion, since they +are our choice.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet there the garden blows with rose on +rose,<br /> + The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;<br /> + There the immortal lilies, +heavenly sweet.<br /> +O roses, that for us shall not unclose!<br /> + O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!<br /> + O dewy lawns untrodden by our +feet!</p> +<h2><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>THESE +LITTLE ONES</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> of the +garden I gave?”<br /> + God said to me;<br /> +“Hast thou been diligent to foster and save<br /> + The life of flower and tree?<br /> +How have the roses thriven,<br /> +The lilies I have given,<br /> +The pretty scented miracles that Spring<br /> +And Summer come to bring?</p> +<p class="poetry">“My garden is fair and dear,”<br /> + I said to God;<br /> +“From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.<br /> + Green-trimmed its sod.<br /> +The rose is red and bright,<br /> +The lily a live delight;<br /> +I have not lost a flower of all the flowers<br /> +That blessed my hours.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What of the child I gave?”<br /> + God said to me;<br /> +“The little, little one I died to save<br /> + And gave in trust to thee?<br /> +How have the flowers grown<br /> +That in its soul were sown,<br /> +The lovely living miracles of youth<br /> +And hope and joy and truth?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The child’s face is all +white,”<br /> + I said to God;<br /> +“It cries for cold and hunger in the night:<br /> + Its little feet have trod<br /> +The pavement muddy and cold.<br /> +It has no flowers to hold,<br /> +And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.”<br /> +“Thou fool!” God said.</p> +<h2><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>THE +DESPOT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> garden mould was +damp and chill;<br /> +Winter had had his brutal will<br /> +Since over all the year’s content<br /> +His devastating legions went.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Spring’s bright banners came: there +woke<br /> +Millions of little growing folk<br /> +Who thrilled to know the winter done,<br /> +Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not so the elect; reserved, and slow<br /> +To trust a stranger-sun and grow,<br /> +They hesitated, cowered and hid,<br /> +Waiting to see what others did.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet even they, a little, grew,<br /> +Put out prim leaves to day and dew,<br /> +And lifted level formal heads<br /> +In their appointed garden beds.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gardener came: he coldly loved<br /> +The flowers that lived as he approved,<br /> +That duly, decorously grew<br /> +As he, the despot, meant them to.</p> +<p class="poetry">He saw the wildlings flower more brave<br /> +And bright than any cultured slave;<br /> +Yet, since he had not set them there,<br /> +He hated them for being fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">So he uprooted, one by one,<br /> +The free things that had loved the sun,<br /> +The happy, eager, fruitful seeds<br /> +Who had not known that they were weeds.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>THE +MAGIC RING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Your</span> touch on my +hand is fire,<br /> + Your lips on my lips are flowers.<br /> +My darling, my one desire,<br /> + Dear crown of my days and hours.<br /> +Dear crown of each hour and day<br /> + Since ever my life began.<br /> +Ah! leave me—ah! go away—<br /> + We two are woman and man.</p> +<p class="poetry">To lie in your arms and see<br /> + The stars melt into the sun;<br /> +Till there is no you and me,<br /> + Since you and I are one.<br /> +To loose my soul to your breath,<br /> + To bare my heart to your life—<br /> +It is death, it is death, it is death!<br /> + I am not your wife.</p> +<p class="poetry">The hours will come and will go,<br /> + But never again such an hour<br /> +When the tides immortal flow<br /> + And life is a flood, a flower . . .<br /> +Wait for the ring; it is strong,<br /> + It has a magic of might<br /> +To make all that was splendid and wrong<br /> + Sordid and right.</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>PHILOSOPHY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sulky sage +scarce condescends to see<br /> + This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves;<br /> +To him ’tis all illusion—only he<br /> + Is real amid the visions he perceives.</p> +<p class="poetry">No sage am I, and yet, by Love’s +decree,<br /> + To me the world’s a masque of shadows too,<br +/> +And I a shadow also—since to me<br /> + The only real thing in life is—you.</p> +<h2><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>THE +WHIRLIGIG OF TIME</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Before</span> your feet,<br +/> +My love, my sweet,<br /> + Behold! your slave bows down;<br /> +And in his hands<br /> +From other lands<br /> + Brings you another crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">For in far climes,<br /> +In bygone times,<br /> + Myself was royal too:<br /> +Oh, I have been<br /> +A king, my queen,<br /> + Who am a slave for you!</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>MAGIC</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> was the spell +she wove for me?<br /> + Life was a common useful thing,<br /> + An eligible building site<br /> +To hold a house to shelter me.<br /> + There were no woodlands whispering;<br /> + No unimagined dreams at night<br +/> + About that house had folded wing,<br /> +Disordering my life for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was so safe until she came<br /> + With starry secrets in her eyes,<br /> + And on her lips the word of +power.<br /> +—Like to the moon of May she came,<br /> + That makes men mad who were born wise—<br /> + Within her hand the only flower<br +/> + Man ever plucked from Paradise;<br /> +So to my half-built house she came.</p> +<p class="poetry">She turned my useful plot of land<br /> + Into a garden wild and fair,<br /> + Where stars in garlands hung like +flowers:<br /> +A moonlit, lonely, lovely land.<br /> + Dim groves and glimmering fountains there<br /> + Embraced a secret bower of +bowers,<br /> + And in its rose-ringed heart we were<br /> +Alone in that enchanted land.</p> +<p class="poetry">What was the spell I wove for her,<br /> + Her mad dear magic to undo?<br /> + The red rose dies, the white rose +dies,<br /> +The garden spits me forth with her<br /> + On the old suburban road I knew.<br /> + My house is gone, and by my +side<br /> + A stranger stands with angry eyes<br /> +And lips that swear I ruined her.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>WINDFLOWERS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I was little +and good<br /> +I walked in the dappled wood<br /> +Where light white windflowers grew,<br /> +And hyacinths heavy and blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">The windflowers fluttered light,<br /> +Like butterflies white and bright;<br /> +The bluebells tremulous stood<br /> +Deep in the heart of the wood.</p> +<p class="poetry">I gathered the white and the blue,<br /> +The wild wet woodland through,<br /> +With hands too silly and small<br /> +To clasp and carry them all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some dropped from my hands and died<br /> +By the home-road’s grassy side;<br /> +And those that my fond hands pressed<br /> +Died even before the rest.</p> +<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>AS IT +IS</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">If</span> +you and I<br /> + Had wings to fly—<br /> +Great wings like seagulls’ wings—<br /> + How would we soar<br /> + Above the roar<br /> +Of loud unneeded things!</p> +<p class="poetry"> We two would rise<br /> + Through changing skies<br /> +To blue unclouded space,<br /> + And undismayed<br /> + And unafraid<br /> +Meet the sun face to face.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But wings we know not;<br /> + The feathers grow not<br /> +To carry us so high;<br /> + And low in the gloom<br /> + Of a little room<br /> +We weep and say good-bye.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>BEFORE +WINTER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wind is crying +in the night,<br /> + Like a lost child;<br /> +The waves break wonderful and white<br /> + And wild.<br /> +The drenched sea-poppies swoon along<br /> + The drenched sea-wall,<br /> +And there’s an end of summer and of song—<br /> + An end of all.</p> +<p class="poetry">The fingers of the tortured boughs<br /> + Gripped by the blast<br /> +Clutch at the windows of your house<br /> + Closed fast.<br /> +And the lost child of love, despair,<br /> + Cries in the night,<br /> +Remembering how once those windows were<br /> + Open and bright.</p> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>THE +VAULT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AFTER SEDGMOOR</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> need not call at +the Inn;<br /> + I have ordered my bed:<br /> +Fair linen sheets therein<br /> + And a tester of lead.<br /> +No musty fusty scents<br /> + Such as inn chambers keep,<br /> +But tapestried with content<br /> + And hung with sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">My Inn door bears no bar<br /> + Set up against fear.<br /> +The guests have journeyed far,<br /> + They are glad to be here.<br /> +Where the damp arch curves up grey,<br /> + Long, long shall we lie;<br /> +Good King’s men all are they,<br /> + A King’s man I.</p> +<p class="poetry">Old Giles, in his stone asleep,<br /> + Fought at Poictiers.<br /> +Piers Ralph and Roger keep<br /> + The spoil of their fighting years.<br /> +I shall lie with my folk at last<br /> + In a quiet bed;<br /> +I shall dream of the sword held fast<br /> + In a round-capped head.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>Good tale of men all told<br /> + My Inn affords;<br /> +And their hands peace shall hold<br /> + That once held swords.<br /> +And we who rode and ran<br /> + On many a loyal quest<br /> +Shall find the goal of man—<br /> + A bed, and rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">We shall not stand to the toast<br /> + Of Love or King;<br /> +We be all too tired to boast<br /> + About anything.<br /> +We be dumb that did jest and sing;<br /> + We rest who laboured and warred . . .<br /> +Shout once, shout once for the King.<br /> + Shout once for the sword!</p> +<h2><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>SURRENDER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, the nights were +dark and cold,<br /> + When my love was gone.<br /> +And life was hard to hold<br /> + When my love was gone.<br /> +I was wise, I never gave<br /> +What they teach a girl to save,<br /> +But I wished myself his slave<br /> + When my love was gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was all alone at night<br /> + When my love came home.<br /> +Oh, what thought of wrong or right<br /> + When my love came home?<br /> +I flung the door back wide<br /> +And I pulled my love inside;<br /> +There was no more shame or pride<br /> + When my love came home.</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>VALUES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Did</span> you deceive +me? Did I trust<br /> +A heart of fire to a heart of dust?<br /> +What matter? Since once the world was fair,<br /> +And you gave me the rose of the world to wear.</p> +<p class="poetry">That was the time to live for! +Flowers,<br /> +Sunshine and starshine and magic hours,<br /> +Summer about me, Heaven above,<br /> +And all seemed immortal, even Love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth<br +/> +The pains of death and the pains of birth;<br /> +And the thorns may be sharper than death—who +knows?—<br /> +That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose.</p> +<h2><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>IN THE +PEOPLE’S PARK</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Many’s</span> the +time I’ve found your face<br /> + Fresh as a bunch of flowers in May,<br /> +Waiting for me at our own old place<br /> + At the end of the working day.<br /> +Many’s the time I’ve held your hand<br /> + On the shady seat in the People’s Park,<br /> +And blessed the blaring row of the band<br /> + And kissed you there in the dark.</p> +<p class="poetry">Many’s the time you promised true,<br /> + Swore it with kisses, swore it with tears:<br /> +“I’ll marry no one without it’s you—<br +/> + If we have to wait for years.”<br /> +And now it’s another chap in the Park<br /> + That holds your hand like I used to do;<br /> +And I kiss another girl in the dark,<br /> + And try to fancy it’s you!</p> +<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>WEDDING DAY</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> enchanted +hour,<br /> +The magic bower,<br /> +Where, crowned with roses,<br /> +Love love discloses.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Kiss me, my lover;<br /> +Doubting is over,<br /> +Over is waiting;<br /> +Love lights our mating!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But roses wither,<br /> +Chill winds blow hither,<br /> +One thing all say, dear,<br /> +Love lives a day, dear!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Heed those old stories?<br /> +New glowing glories<br /> +Blot out those lies, love!<br /> +Look in my eyes, love!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ah, but the world knows—<br /> +Naught of the true rose;<br /> +Back the world slips, love!<br /> +Give me your lips, love!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Even were their lies true,<br /> +Yet were you wise to<br /> +Swear, at Love’s portal,<br /> +The god’s immortal.”</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>THE +LAST DEFEAT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Across</span> the field of +day<br /> +In sudden blazon lay<br /> +The pallid bar of gold<br /> +Borne on the shield of day.<br /> +Night had endured so long,<br /> +And now the Day grew strong<br /> +With lance of light to hold<br /> +The Night at bay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So on my life’s dull night<br /> +The splendour of your light<br /> +Traversed the dusky shield<br /> +And shone forth golden bright.<br /> +Your colours I have worn<br /> +Through all the fight forlorn,<br /> +And these, with life, I yield,<br /> +To-night, to Night.</p> +<h2><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>MAY +DAY</h2> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Will</span> you go +a-maying, a-maying, a-maying,<br /> + Come and be my Queen of May and pluck the may with +me?<br /> +The fields are full of daisy buds and new lambs playing,<br /> + The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossom’s +on the tree.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If I go with you, if I go a-maying,<br +/> + To be your Queen and wear my crown this May-day +bright,<br /> +Hand in hand straying, it must be only playing,<br /> + And playtime ends at sunset, and then +good-night.</p> +<p class="poetry">“For I have heard of maidens who laughed +and went a-maying,<br /> + Went out queens and lost their crowns and came back +slaves.<br /> +I will be no young man’s slave, submitting and obeying,<br +/> + Bearing chains as those did, even to their +graves.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“If you come a-maying, a-straying, +a-playing,<br /> + We will pluck the little flowers, enough for you and +me;<br /> +And when the day dies, end our one day’s playing,<br /> + Give a kiss and take a kiss and go home +free.”</p> +<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>GRETNA +GREEN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> night when I +kissed you,<br /> + My soul caught alight;<br /> +And oh! how I missed you<br /> + The rest of the night—<br /> +Till Love in derision<br /> + Smote sleep with his wings,<br /> +And gave me in vision<br /> + Impossible things.</p> +<p class="poetry">A night that was clouded,<br /> + Long windows asleep;<br /> +Dark avenues crowded<br /> + With secrets to keep.<br /> +A terrace, a lover,<br /> + A foot on the stair;<br /> +The waiting was over,<br /> + The lady was there.</p> +<p class="poetry">What a flight, what a night!<br /> + The hoofs splashed and pounded.<br /> +Dark fainted in light<br /> + And the first bird-notes sounded.<br /> +You slept on my shoulder,<br /> + Shy night hid your face;<br /> +But dawn, bolder, colder,<br /> + Beheld our embrace.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>Your lips of vermilion,<br /> + Your ravishing shape,<br /> +The flogging postillion,<br /> + The village agape,<br /> +The rattle and thunder<br /> + Of postchaise a-speed . . .<br /> +My woman, my wonder,<br /> + My ultimate need!</p> +<p class="poetry">We two matched for mating<br /> + Came, handclasped, at last,<br /> +Where the blacksmith was waiting<br /> + To fetter us fast . . .<br /> +At the touch of the fetter<br /> + The dream snapped and fell—<br /> +And I woke to your letter<br /> + That bade me farewell.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>THE +ETERNAL</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Your</span> dear desired +grace,<br /> + Your hands, your lips of red,<br /> +The wonder of your perfect face<br /> + Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed,<br /> + When you are +dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your beautiful hair<br /> + Dust in the dust will lie—<br /> +But not the light I worship there,<br /> + The gold the sunshine crowns you by—<br /> + This will not +die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your beautiful eyes<br /> + Will be closed up with clay;<br /> +But all the magic they comprise,<br /> + The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies<br /> + Pass not +away.</p> +<p class="poetry">All I desire and see<br /> + Will be a carrion thing;<br /> +But all that you have been to me<br /> +Is, and can never cease to be.<br /> +O Grave! where is thy victory?<br /> + Where, Death, thy sting?</p> +<h2><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>THE +POINT OF VIEW: I.</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was never +winter, summer only: roses,<br /> + Pink and white and red,<br /> +Shining down the warm rich garden closes;<br /> + Quiet trees and lawns of dappled +shadow,<br /> +Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,<br /> + Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;<br /> +Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,<br /> + Shadows of floating clouds on +sunny meadow.<br /> +In the hay-field, scented, grey,<br /> +Loving life and love, I lay;<br /> +By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;<br /> +Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Summer never was, was always winter only;<br /> + Cold and ice and frost<br /> +Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,<br /> + In a world of strangers, in the +welter<br /> +Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,<br /> + Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost<br /> +In a bitter unfamiliar street,<br /> + I found a doorway, crouched there +for just shelter,<br /> +Crouched and fought in vain for breath,<br /> +Cursed the cold and wished for death;<br /> +Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;<br /> +Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>THE +POINT OF VIEW: II.</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the wood of lost +causes, the valley of tears,<br /> + Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult +way;<br /> +Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:<br /> + “It is night, it is night, it has never been +day;<br /> +Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;<br /> +It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.<br /> +Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,<br /> + For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her +hands.”</p> +<h3>II</h3> +<p class="poetry">Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged +as you lie<br /> + In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,<br +/> +You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:<br /> + “It is day, it is day, it has never been +night!<br /> +Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;<br /> +It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,<br /> +Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer<br /> +Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”</p> +<h2><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>MARY +OF MAGDALA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mary</span> of Magdala came +to bed;<br /> +There were no soft curtains round her head;<br /> +She had no mother to hold of worth<br /> +The little baby she brought to birth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed:<br /> +“O God, I am very much afraid;<br /> +For out of my body, by sin defiled,<br /> +Thou biddest me make a little child.</p> +<p class="poetry">“O God, I have turned my face from +Thee<br /> +To that which the angels may not see;<br /> +How can I make, from my deep disgrace,<br /> +A child whose angel shall see Thy face?</p> +<p class="poetry">“O God, I have sinned, and I know well<br +/> +That the pains I bear are the pains of hell;<br /> +But the thought of the child that sin has given<br /> +Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala held her breath<br /> +In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death,<br /> +And through her heart, like the mortal knife,<br /> +Went the pang of joy and the pang of life.</p> +<p class="poetry">“We two are two alone,” said +she,<br /> +“And we are two who should be three;<br /> +Now who will clothe my baby fair<br /> +In the little garments that babies wear?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>There came two angels with quiet wings<br /> +And hands that were full of baby things;<br /> +And the new-born child was bathed and dressed<br /> +And laid again on his mother’s breast.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now who will sign on his brow the +mark<br /> +To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark?<br /> +Who will my baby’s sponsor be?”<br /> +“I, the Lord God, who died for thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now who will comfort him if he cry;<br +/> +And who will suckle him by and bye?<br /> +For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry,<br /> +And I think that my time has come to die.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I will dandle thy son as a mother +may;<br /> +And his lips shall lie where my own Son’s lay.<br /> +Come, dear little one, come to me;<br /> +The Mother of God shall suckle thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed;<br /> +“I never deserved a child,” she cried.<br /> +“Dear God, I am ready to go to hell,<br /> +Since with my little one all is well.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the Son of Mary did o’er her +lean.<br /> +“Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean.<br /> +Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done,<br /> +And My Mother shall give thee back thy son.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Frozen grass for a bearing bed,<br /> +A halo of frost round a woman’s head,<br /> +And pious folks who looked and said:<br /> +“A drab and her brat that are better dead.”</p> +<h1><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>THE +HOME-COMING</h1> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> was our +house. To this we came<br /> +Lighted by love with torch aflame,<br /> +And in this chamber, door locked fast,<br /> +I held you to my heart at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">This was our house. In this we knew<br /> +The worst that Time and Fate can do.<br /> +You left the room bare, wide the door;<br /> +You did not love me any more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where once the kind warm curtain hung<br /> +The spider’s ghostly cloth is flung;<br /> +The beetle and the woodlouse creep<br /> +Where once I loved your lovely sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet so the vanished spell endures,<br /> +That this, our house, still, still is yours.<br /> +Here, spite of all these years apart,<br /> +I still can hold you to my heart!</p> +<h2><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>AGE TO +YOUTH</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sunrise</span> is in your +eyes, and in your heart<br /> + The hope and bright desire of morn and May.<br /> +My eyes are full of shadow, and my part<br /> + Of life is yesterday.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sit<br +/> + And see your life unfolding like a scroll,<br /> +Rich with illuminated blazon, fit<br /> + For your arm-bearing soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">My soul bears arms too, but the scroll’s +rolled tight,<br /> + Yet the one strip of faded brightness shown<br /> +Proclaims that when ’twas splendid in the light<br /> + Its blazon matched your own.</p> +<h2><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>IN +AGE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wine of life was +rough and new,<br /> + But sweet beyond belief,<br /> +And wrong was false, and right was true—<br /> + The rose was in the leaf.</p> +<p class="poetry">In that good sunlight well we knew<br /> + The hues of wrong and right;<br /> +We slept among the roses through<br /> + The long enchanted night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now to our eyes, made dim with years,<br /> + Right intertwines with wrong.<br /> +How can we hear, with these tired ears,<br /> + The old, the magic song?</p> +<p class="poetry">But this we know—wine once was red,<br /> + Roses were red and dear;<br /> +Once in our ears the truths were said<br /> + That now the young men hear!</p> +<h2><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>WHITE +MAGIC</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> is the room to +which she came,<br /> + And Spring itself came with her;<br /> +She stirred the fire of life to flame,<br /> + She called all music hither.<br /> +Her glance upon the lean white walls<br /> + Hung them with cloth of splendour,<br /> +And still the rose she dropped recalls<br /> + The graces that attend her.</p> +<p class="poetry">The same poor room, so dull and bare<br /> + Before, in consecration,<br /> +She breathed upon its common air<br /> + The true transfiguration . . .?<br /> +This room the same to which she came<br /> + For one immortal minute?—<br /> +How can it ever be the same<br /> + Since she has once been in it!</p> +<h2><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>FROM +THE PORTUGUESE</h2> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I lived in the +village of youth<br /> +There were lilies in all the orchards,<br /> +Flowers in the orange-gardens<br /> +For brides to wear in their hair.<br /> +It was always sunshine and summer,<br /> +Roses at every lattice,<br /> +Dreams in the eyes of maidens,<br /> +Love in the eyes of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">When I lived in the village of youth<br /> +The doors, all the doors, stood open;<br /> +We went in and out of them laughing,<br /> +Laughing and calling each other<br /> +To shew each other our fairings,<br /> +The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br /> +The new rose, the new lover.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now I live in the town of age<br /> +Where are no orchards, no gardens.<br /> +Here, too, all the doors stand open,<br /> +But no one goes in or goes out.<br /> +We sit alone by the hearthstone<br /> +Where memories lie like ashes<br /> +Upon a hearth that is cold;</p> +<p class="poetry">And they from the village of youth<br /> +Run by our doorsteps laughing,<br /> +Calling, to shew each other<br /> +The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br /> +The new rose, the new lover.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Once we had all these things—<br /> +We kept them from the old people,<br /> +And now the young people have them<br /> +And will not shew them to us—<br /> +To us who are old and have nothing<br /> +But the white, still, heaped-up ashes<br /> +On the hearth where the fire went out<br /> +A very long time ago.</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>II</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">had</span> a mistress; I +loved her.<br /> +She left me with memories bitter,<br /> +Corroding, eating my heart<br /> +As the acid eats into the steel<br /> +Etching the portrait triumphant.<br /> +Intolerable, indelible,<br /> +Never to be effaced.</p> +<p class="poetry">A wife was mine to my heart,<br /> +Beautiful flower of my garden,<br /> +Lily I worshipped by day,<br /> +Scented rose of my nights.<br /> +Now the night wind sighing<br /> +Blows white rose petals only<br /> +Over the bed where she sleeps<br /> +Dreamless alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">I had a son; I loved him.<br /> +Mother of God, bear witness<br /> +How all my manhood loved him<br /> +As thy womanhood loved thy Son!<br /> +When he was grown to his manhood<br /> +He crucified my heart,<br /> +And even as it hung bleeding<br /> +He laughed with his bold companions,<br /> +Mocked and turned away<br /> +With laughter into the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those three I loved and lost;<br /> +But there was one who loved me<br /> +With all the fire of her heart.<br /> +Mine was the sacred altar<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Where she +burnt her life for my worship.<br /> +She was my slave, my servant;<br /> +Mine all she had, all she was,<br /> +All she could suffer, could be.<br /> +That was the love of my life,<br /> +I did not say, “She loves me”;<br /> +I was so used to her love<br /> +I never asked its name,<br /> +Till, feeling the wind blow cold<br /> +Where all the doors were left open,<br /> +And seeing a fireless hearth<br /> +And the garden deserted and weed-grown<br /> +That once was full of flowers for me,<br /> +I said, “What has changed? What is it<br /> +That has made all the clocks stop?”<br /> +Thus I asked and they answered:<br /> +“It is thy mother who is dead.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And now I am alone.<br /> +My son, too, some day will stand<br /> +Here, where I stand and weep.<br /> +He too will weep, knowing too late<br /> +The love that wrapped round his life.<br /> +Dear God spare him this:<br /> +Let him never know how I loved him,<br /> +For he was always weak.<br /> +He could not endure as I can.<br /> +Mother, my dear, ask God<br /> +To grant me this, for my son!</p> +<h2><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>THE +NEST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">That</span> was the skylark +we heard<br /> + Singing so high,<br /> +The little quivering bird<br /> + We saw, and the sky.<br /> +The earth was drenched with sun,<br /> + The sky was drenched with song;<br /> +We lay in the grass and listened,<br /> + Long and long and long.</p> +<p class="poetry">I said, “What a spell it is<br /> + Has made her rise<br /> +To pour out her world of bliss<br /> + In that world of skies!”<br /> +You said, “What a spell must pass<br /> + Between sky and plain,<br /> +Since she finds in this world of grass<br /> + Her nest again!”</p> +<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>THE +OLD MAGIC</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gray</span> is the sea, and +the skies are gray;<br /> +They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday;<br /> +And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream<br /> +Like tortured souls in an evil dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">There is white on the wings of the sea and +sky,<br /> +And white are the gulls’ wings wheeling by,<br /> +And white, like snow, is the pall that lies<br /> +Where love weeps over his memories.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the dead is dead, and its shroud is +wrought<br /> +Of good unfound and of wrong unsought;<br /> +Yet from God’s good magic there ever springs<br /> +The resurrection of holy things.</p> +<p class="poetry">See—the gold and blue of our yesterday<br +/> +In the eyes and the hair of a child at play;<br /> +And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled<br /> +Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.</p> +<h2><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>FAITH</h2> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">wall</span><br /> +Gray and tall,<br /> +And a sky of gray,<br /> +And a twilight cold;<br /> +And that is all<br /> +That my eyes behold.<br /> +But I know that unseen,<br /> +Beyond the wall,<br /> +On a lawn of green<br /> +White blossoms fall<br /> +In the waning light;<br /> +And beyond the lawn<br /> +Curtains are drawn<br /> +From windows bright.<br /> +And within she moves with her gracious hands<br /> +And the heart that loves and that understands,<br /> +Waiting to succour poor souls in need,<br /> +And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed.</p> +<p class="poetry">I know it all, though I cannot see;<br /> +But the tired-out tramp,<br /> +Dirty and ill,<br /> +In the evening’s damp,<br /> +In the Spring’s clean chill,<br /> +Knows not that there<br /> +Is the heart to care<br /> +For such as I and for such as he.<br /> +He slouches along, and sees alone<br /> +The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey<br /> +In all Thy world that is now so green,<br /> +I will bethink me of this spring day<br /> +And the house of welcome, known yet unseen;<br /> +The wall that conceals<br /> +And the faith that reveals.</p> +<h2><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>THE +DEATH OF AGNES</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> that the +sunlight dies in my eyes,<br /> + And the moonlight grows in my hair,<br /> +I who was never very wise,<br /> + Never was very fair,<br /> +Virgin and martyr all my life,<br /> + What has life left to give<br /> +Me—who was never mother nor wife,<br /> + Never got leave to live?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nothing of life could I clasp or claim,<br /> + Nothing could steal or save.<br /> +So when you come to carve my name,<br /> + Give me life in my grave.<br /> +To keep me warm when I sleep alone<br /> + A lie is little to give;<br /> +Call me “Magdalen” on my stone,<br /> + Though I died and did not live.</p> +<h2><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>IN +TROUBLE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> all for +nothing: I’ve lost him now.<br /> + I suppose it had to be;<br /> +But oh, I never thought it of him,<br /> + Nor he never thought it of me.<br /> +And all for a kiss on your evening out,<br /> + And a field where the grass was down . . .<br /> +And he ’as gone to God-knows-where,<br /> + And I may go on the town.</p> +<p class="poetry">The worst of all was the thing he said<br /> + The night that he went away;<br /> +He said he’d ’a married me right enough<br /> + If I hadn’t ’a been so gay.<br /> +Me—gay! When I’d cried, and I’d asked him +not,<br /> + But he said he loved me so;<br /> +An’ whatever he wanted seemed right to me . . .<br /> + An’ how was a girl to know?</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep +sound,<br /> + An’ it might be the best to do;<br /> +But when he made me a light-o’-love<br /> + He made me a mother too.<br /> +I’ve had enough sin to last my time,<br /> + If ’twas sin as I got it by,<br /> +But it ain’t no sin to stand by his kid<br /> + And work for it till I die.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>But oh! the long days and the death-long nights<br /> + When I feel it move and turn,<br /> +And cry alone in my single bed<br /> + And count what a girl can earn<br /> +To buy the baby the bits of things<br /> + <i>He</i> ought to ha’ bought, by rights;<br +/> +And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . .<br /> + And if he sleeps sound o’ nights.</p> +<h2><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>GRATITUDE</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">found</span> a starving +cat in the street:<br /> + It cried for food and a place by the fire.<br /> +I carried it home, and I strove to meet<br /> + The claims of its desire.</p> +<p class="poetry">And since its desire was a little fish,<br /> + A little hay and a little milk,<br /> +I gave it cream in a silver dish<br /> + And a basket lined with silk.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when we came to the grateful pause<br /> + When it should have fawned on the hand that fed,<br +/> +It turned to a devil all teeth and claws,<br /> + Scratched me and bit me and fled.</p> +<p class="poetry">To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay<br +/> + With a purr had been an easy task:<br /> +But its hate and my blood were required to pay<br /> + For the gifts that it did not ask.</p> +<h2><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>AT THE +LAST</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> are +you—you whose loving breath<br /> +Alone can stay my soul from death?<br /> +The world’s so wide, I seek it through,<br /> +Yet—dare I dream to win to you?<br /> +Perhaps your dear desirèd feet<br /> +Pass me in this grey muddy street.<br /> +Your face, it may be, has its shrine<br /> +In that dull house that’s next to mine.<br /> +But I believe, O Life, O Fate,<br /> +That when I call on Death and wait<br /> +One moment at the unclosing gate<br /> +I shall turn back for one last gaze<br /> +Along the trampled, sordid ways,<br /> +And in the sunset see at last,<br /> +Just as the barred gate holds me fast,<br /> +Your face, your face, too late.</p> +<h2><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>FEAR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> you were here,<br +/> +Hopes, dreams, ambitions, faith would disappear,<br /> +Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch your hand,<br /> +Forgetting all that now I understand.<br /> +For you confuse my life with memories<br /> +Of unrememberable ecstasies<br /> +Which were, and are not, and can never be; . . .<br /> +Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me.</p> +<h2><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>THE +DAY OF JUDGMENT</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the bearing and +doing are over,<br /> + And no more is to do or bear,<br /> +God will see us and judge us<br /> + The kind of men we were;<br /> +And our sins, so ugly and heavy,<br /> + We shall drag them into His sight,<br /> +And throw them down at the foot of the throne,<br /> + Foul on the steps of light.</p> +<p class="poetry">We shall not be shamed or frightened,<br /> + Though the angels are all at hand,<br /> +For He will look at our burden,<br /> + And He will understand.<br /> +He will turn to the little angels,<br /> + Agog to hear and obey,<br /> +And point to the festering sin-loads<br /> + With, “Take that rubbish away!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the steps will be cleared of the +burdens<br /> + That we threw down at His feet;<br /> +And we shall be washed in the tears of Christ,<br /> + And our tears bathe His feet.<br /> +And the harvest of all our sinning<br /> + That moment’s shame will reap—<br /> +When we look in the eyes that love us<br /> + And know we have made them weep.</p> +<h2><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>A +FAREWELL</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Good-bye</span>, good-bye; it is not hard to +part!<br /> +You have my heart—the heart that leaps to hear<br /> + Your name called by an echo in a +dream;<br /> + You have my soul that, like an +untroubled stream,<br /> +Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near—<br /> + Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"> What more could Life give if +we gave her leave<br /> +To give, and Life should give us leave to take?<br /> + Only each other’s arms, each +other’s eyes,<br /> + Each other’s lips, the +clinging secrecies<br /> +That are but as the written words to make<br /> + Records of what the heart and soul achieve.</p> +<p class="poetry"> This, only this we yield, my +love, my friend,<br /> +To Fate’s implacable eyes and withering breath.<br /> + We still are yours and mine, +though, by Time’s theft,<br /> + My arms are empty and your arms +bereft.<br /> +It is not hard to part—not harder than Death;<br /> + And each of us must face Death in the end!</p> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>IN +HOSPITAL</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> the shadow of +a hawthorn brake,<br /> + Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood,<br /> +Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake<br /> + And hidden violets smell of solitude;<br /> +Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing<br /> +Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring,<br /> +I should have said, “I love you,” and your eyes<br /> +Have said, “I, too . . . ” The gods saw +otherwise.</p> +<p class="poetry">For this is winter, and the London streets<br +/> + Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray<br +/> +Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets<br /> + Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away.<br +/> +And in the broken, trampled foreign wood<br /> +Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood,<br /> +And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star,<br /> +Under the shadow of the wings of war.</p> +<p>1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>PRAYER +IN TIME OF WAR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> Death is near, +and very near,<br /> +In this wild whirl of horror and fear,<br /> +When round the vessel of our State<br /> +Roll the great mountain waves of hate.<br /> +God! We have but one prayer to-day—<br /> +O Father, teach us how to pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">For prayer is strong, and very strong;<br /> +But we have turned from Thee so long<br /> +To follow gods that have no power<br /> +Save in the safe and sordid hour,<br /> +That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . .<br /> +O Father, teach us how to pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">We have done ill, and very ill,<br /> +Set up our will against Thy will.<br /> +That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed,<br /> +We stole our brothers’ daily bread.<br /> +Lord, we are sorry we went astray—<br /> +O Father, teach us how to pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now in this hour of desperate strife<br /> +For England’s life, her very life,<br /> +Teach us to pray that life may be<br /> +A new life, beautiful to Thee,<br /> +And in Thy hands that life to lay.<br /> +O Father, teach us how to pray.</p> +<p>1915.</p> +<h2><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>AT +PARTING</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Go</span>, since you must, +but, Dearest, know<br /> +That, Honour having bid you go,<br /> +Your honour, if your life be spent,<br /> +Shall have a costly monument.</p> +<p class="poetry">This heart, that fire and roses is<br /> +Beneath the magic of your kiss,<br /> +Shall turn to marble if you die<br /> +And be your deathless effigy.</p> +<p>1914.</p> +<h2><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>INVOCATION</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Spirit of +Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air,<br /> + The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by +day,<br /> +The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware,<br /> + Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, +far away.</p> +<p class="poetry">God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side +of my love,<br /> + Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, +O Lord,<br /> +Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above,<br +/> + Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable +sword.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my +dear in his fight,<br /> + That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff +in the blast,<br /> +And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right.<br +/> + Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor +at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">But if—ah, dear God, give me strength to +withhold nothing now!—<br /> + If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid +design,<br /> +Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his +brow . . .<br /> + Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall +<i>I</i> not give mine?</p> +<p>1914.</p> +<h2><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>TO +HER: IN TIME OF WAR</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Once</span> I made for you +songs,<br /> +Rondels, triolets, sonnets;<br /> +Verse that my love deemed due,<br /> +Verse that your love found fair.<br /> +Now the wide wings of war<br /> +Hang, like a hawk’s, over England,<br /> +Shadowing meadows and groves;<br /> +And the birds and the lovers are mute.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet there’s a thing to say<br /> +Before I go into battle,<br /> +Not now a poet’s word<br /> +But a man’s word to his mate:<br /> +Dear, if I come back never,<br /> +Be it your pride that we gave<br /> +The hope of our hearts, each other,<br /> +For the sake of the Hope of the World.</p> +<p>1915.</p> +<h2><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>THE +FIELDS OF FLANDERS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> year the fields +were all glad and gay<br /> +With silver daisies and silver may;<br /> +There were kingcups gold by the river’s edge<br /> +And primrose stars under every hedge.</p> +<p class="poetry">This year the fields are trampled and brown,<br +/> +The hedges are broken and beaten down,<br /> +And where the primroses used to grow<br /> +Are little black crosses set in a row.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of +dreams,<br /> +The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,<br /> +The tree of life with its fruit and bud,<br /> +Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.</p> +<p class="poetry">The changing seasons will bring again<br /> +The magic of Spring to our wood and plain:<br /> +Though the Spring be so green as never was seen<br /> +The crosses will still be black in the green.</p> +<p class="poetry">The God of battles shall judge the foe<br /> +Who trampled our country and laid her low . . .<br /> +God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,<br /> +Lest all we owe them we should repay.</p> +<p>1915.</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>SPRING +IN WAR-TIME</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the sprinkled +blackthorn snow<br /> + Lies along the lovers’ lane<br /> +Where last year we used to go—<br /> + Where we shall not go again.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the hedge the buds are new,<br /> + By our wood the violets peer—<br /> +Just like last year’s violets, too,<br /> + But they have no scent this year.</p> +<p class="poetry">Every bird has heart to sing<br /> + Of its nest, warmed by its breast;<br /> +We had heart to sing last spring,<br /> + But we never built our nest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Presently red roses blown<br /> + Will make all the garden gay . . .<br /> +Not yet have the daisies grown<br /> + On your clay.</p> +<p>1916.</p> +<h2><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>THE +MOTHER’S PRAYER</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> was my little +son<br /> + Who leapt and laughed on my knee:<br /> +Body we made with love,<br /> + Soul made with love by Thee.<br /> +This was the mystery<br /> + In which I worshipped Thy grace;<br /> +This was the sign to me—<br /> + The unveiling of Thy face . . .<br /> +This, that lies under Thy skies<br /> + Naked as on that day<br /> + When the floor of heaven gave way<br /> + And the glory of God shone through,<br /> + When the world was made new<br /> +And Thy word was made flesh for me . . .<br /> + He lies there, bare to Thy skies,<br /> + O Lord God, +see!</p> +<p class="poetry">Body that was in mine<br /> + A secret, sacred spell,<br /> +Little hands I have kissed<br /> + Trampled by beasts in Hell . . .<br /> +Growing beauty and grace . . .<br /> + Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .<br /> +Broken, battered, shattered . . .<br /> + Body that grew like a blossom!<br /> +All that was promised me<br /> + On my life’s royal day.<br /> +Every promise broken—<br /> + Only a ghost, and clay!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>O God, I kneel at Thy feet;<br /> + I lay my hands in Thine:<br /> +Thou gavest Thy Son for the world,<br /> + And shall <i>I</i> not give mine?<br /> +Only—O God, have pity!<br /> + All my defences are down:<br /> +God, I accept the Cross,<br /> + Let <i>him</i> have the Crown!</p> +<p class="poetry">By all that my love has borne,<br /> + By all that all mothers bear,<br /> +By the infinite patient anguish,<br /> + By the never-ceasing prayer,<br /> +By the thoughts that cut like a living knife,<br /> + By the tears that are never dry,<br /> +Take what he died to win You—<br /> + God, take Your victory!</p> +<p class="poetry">We have watched on till the light burned +low,<br /> + And watched the dawn awake;<br /> +We have lived hardly and hardly fared<br /> + For our sons’ sake.<br /> +All that was good in Thy earth,<br /> + All that taught us of Heaven,<br /> +All that we had in the world<br /> + We have given.<br /> +We pray with empty hands<br /> + And hearts that are stiff with pain.<br /> +O God! O God! O God!<br /> + Let the sacrifice not be vain.<br /> +This is his blood, Lord, see!<br /> +His blood that was shed for Thee;<br /> +Thy banner is dyed in that red tide<br /> +Lord, take Thy victory!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>God! give Thine angels power<br /> + To fight as he fought,<br /> +To scatter the hosts of evil,<br /> + To bring their boastings to naught—<br /> +Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . .<br /> + Michael, who wields Thy sword . . .<br /> +Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them,<br /> + Put forth Thy strength, O Lord.<br /> +See, Lord, this is his body,<br /> + Broken for Thee, for Thee . . .<br /> +My son, my little son,<br /> + Who leapt and laughed on my knee.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ”</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> Jesus came to +London,<br /> + Came to London to-day,<br /> +He would not go to the West End,<br /> + He would come down our way;<br /> +He’d talk with the children dancing<br /> + To the organ out in the street,<br /> +And say he was their big Brother,<br /> + And give them something to eat.</p> +<p class="poetry">He wouldn’t go to the mansions<br /> + Where the charitable live;<br /> +He’d come to the tenement houses<br /> + Where we ain’t got nothing to give.<br /> +He’d come so kind and so homely,<br /> + And treat us to beer and bread,<br /> +And tell us how we ought to behave;<br /> + And we’d try to mind what He said.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the warm bright West End churches<br /> + They sing and preach and pray,<br /> +They call us “Beloved brethren,”<br /> + But they do not act that way.<br /> +And when He came to the church door<br /> + He’d call out loud and free,<br /> +“You stop that preaching and praying<br /> + And show what you’ve done for Me.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given<br +/> + To the poor both blankets and tracts,<br /> +And we’ve tried to make them sober,<br /> + And we’ve tried to teach them facts.<br /> +But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,<br /> + And pawn the blankets for beer,<br /> +And we find them very ungrateful,<br /> + But still we persevere.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then He would say, “I told you<br /> + The time I was here before,<br /> +That you were all of you brothers,<br /> + All you that I suffered for.<br /> +I won’t go into your churches,<br /> + I’ll stop in the sun outside.<br /> +You bring out the men your brothers,<br /> + The men for whom I died!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Out of our beastly lodgings,<br /> + From arches and doorways about,<br /> +They’d have to do as He told them,<br /> + They’d have to call us out.<br /> +Millions and millions and millions,<br /> + Thick and crawling like flies,<br /> +We should creep out to the sunshine<br /> + And not be afraid of His eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’d see what God’s image looks +like<br /> + When men have dealt with the same,<br /> +Wrinkled with work that is never done,<br /> + Swollen and dirty with shame.<br /> +He’d see on the children’s forehead<br /> + The branded gutter-sign<br /> +That marks the girls to be harlots,<br /> + That dooms the boys to be swine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>Then He’d say, “What’s the good of +churches<br /> + When these have nowhere to sleep?<br /> +And how can I hear you praying<br /> + When they are cursing so deep?<br /> +I gave My Blood and My Body<br /> + That they might have bread and wine,<br /> +And you have taken your share and theirs<br /> + Of these good gifts of mine!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then some of the rich would be sorry,<br /> + And all would be very scared,<br /> +And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!”<br +/> + And He’d say, “You never +cared!”<br /> +And some would be sick and shameful<br /> + Because they’d know that they knew,<br /> +And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord.<br /> + Now tell us what to do!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I think He’d be sitting, likely,<br /> + For someone ’ud bring Him a chair,<br /> +With a common kid cuddled up on His knee<br /> + And the common sun on His hair;<br /> +And they’d be standing before Him,<br /> + And He’d say, “You know that you +knew.<br /> +Why haven’t you worked for your brothers<br /> + The same as I worked for you?</p> +<p class="poetry">“For since you’re all of you +brothers<br /> + It’s clear as God’s blessed sun<br /> +That each must work for the others,<br /> + Not thousands work for one.<br /> +And the ones that have lived bone-idle<br /> + If they want Me to hear them pray,<br /> +Let them go and work for their livings<br /> + The only honest way!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>“I’ve got nothing new to tell you,<br /> + You know what I always said—<br /> +But you’ve built their bones into churches<br /> + And stolen their wine and bread;<br /> +You with My Name on your foreheads,<br /> + Liar, and traitor, and knave,<br /> +You have lived by the death of your brothers,<br /> + These whom I died to save!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish He would come and say it;<br /> + Perhaps they’d believe it then,<br /> +And work like men for their livings<br /> + And let us work like men.<br /> +Brothers? They don’t believe it,<br /> + The lie on their lips is red.<br /> +They’ll never believe till He comes again,<br /> + Or till we rise from the dead!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Printed by the Anchor Press</i>, +<i>Ltd.</i>, <i>Tiptree</i>, <i>Essex</i>, <i>England</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MANY VOICES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1924-h.htm or 1924-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/2/1924 + + + +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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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk +from the 1922 Hutchinson and Co. edition. + + + + + +MANY VOICES + + + + +Contents: + +The Return +For Dolly--Who does not Learn her Lessons +Questions +The Daisies +The Touchstone +The December Rose +The Fire +Song +A Parting +The Gift of Life +Incompatibilities +The Stolen God--Lazarus to Dives +Winter +Sea-shells +Hope +The Prodigal's Return +The Skylark +Saturday Song +The Champion +The Garden Refused +These Little Ones +The Despot +The Magic Ring +Philosophy +The Whirligig of Time +Magic +Windflowers +As it is +Before Winter +The Vault--after Sedgmoor +Surrender +Values +In the People's Park +Wedding Day +The Last Defeat +May Day +Gretna Green +The Eternal +The Point of View: I +The Point of View: II +Mary of Magdala +The Home-coming +Age to Youth +In Age +White Magic +From the Portuguese +The Nest +The Old Magic +Faith +The Death of Agnes +In Trouble +Gratitude +At the Last +Fear +The Day of Judgment +A Farewell +In Hospital +Prayer in Time of War +At Parting +Invocation +To Her: In Time of War +The Fields of Flanders +Spring in War-time +The Mother's Prayer +Inasmuch as ye did it not + + + + +POEM: THE RETURN + + + +The grass was gray with the moonlit dew, +The stones were white as I came through; +I came down the path by the thirteen yews, +Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews. +And when I came to the high lych-gate +I waited awhile where the corpses wait; +Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay +Like the fallen ghost of the light of day. + +The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight, +The owls' spread wings were quiet and white, +The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh, +And all about were the rustling shy +Little live creatures that love the night - +Little wild creatures timid and free. +I passed, and they were not afraid of me. + +It was over the meadow and down the lane +The way to come to my house again: +Through the wood where the lovers talk, +And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk. +I wore the clothes that we all must wear, +And no one saw me walking there, +No one saw my pale feet pass +By my garden path to my garden grass. +My garden was hung with the veil of spring - +Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming; +It lay in the moon's cold sheet of light +In garlands and silence, wondrous and white +As a dead bride decked for her burying. + +Then I saw the face of my house +Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs: +I leaned my face to the window bright +To feel if the heart of my house beat right. +The firelight hung it with fitful gold; +It was warm as the house of the dead is cold. +I saw the settles, the candles tall, +The black-faced presses against the wall, +Polished beechwood and shining brass, +The gleam of china, the glitter of glass, +All the little things that were home to me - +Everything as it used to be. + +Then I said, "The fire of life still burns, +And I have returned whence none returns: +I will warm my hands where the fire is lit, +I will warm my heart in the heart of it!" +So I called aloud to the one within: +"Open, open, and let me in! +Let me in to the fire and the light - +It is very cold out here in the night!" +There was never a stir or an answering breath - +Only a silence as deep as death. + +Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried. +No one heard me, and none replied. +The golden silence lay warm and deep, +And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep; +And there was no one to hear or see - +To comfort me, to have pity on me. + +But deep in the silence something stirred - +Something that had not seen or heard - +And two drew near to the window-pane, +Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again, +And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread +Over the garlanded garden bed; +And--"How ghostly the moonlight is!" she said. + +Back through the garden, the wood, the lane, +I came to mine own place again. +I wore the garments we all must wear, +And no one saw me walking there. +No one heard my thin feet pass +Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass, +Along the path where the moonlight hews +Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews. + +In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep +It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep: +But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew, +And I cannot sleep as I used to do. + + + +POEM: FOR DOLLY--WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS + + + +You see the fairies dancing in the fountain, +Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray; +You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain, +Make gold and silver and diamonds every day; +You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams, +Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair; +You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams, +Rise from the bonfire's blue and liquid air. + +All the enchantment, all the magic there is +Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true. +Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies; +Every flower that blows is a miracle for you. +Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you. +Millions of magics beseech your little looks; +Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you. +Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books? + +Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer, +Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky, +Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer, +Tired hands will lay the folded magic by. +Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes, +Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . . +Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses, +Leave her her kingdom--she will not keep it long! + + + +POEM: QUESTIONS + + + +What do the roses do, mother, +Now that the summer's done? +They lie in the bed that is hung with red +And dream about the sun. + +What do the lilies do, mother, +Now that there's no more June? +Each one lies down in her white nightgown +And dreams about the moon. + +What can I dream of, mother, +With the moon and the sun away? +Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn, +And a lily that lives a day! + + + +POEM: THE DAISIES + + + +In the great green park with the wooden palings - +The wooden palings so hard to climb, +There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet, +And green things growing all the time; +And out in the open the daisies grow, +Pretty and proud in their proper places, +Millions of white-frilled daisy faces, +Millions and millions--not one or two. +And they call to the bluebells down in the wood: +"Are you out--are you in? We have been so good +All the school-time winter through, +But now it's playtime, +The gay time, the May time; +We are out and at play. Where are you?" + +In the gritty garden inside the railings, +The spiky railings all painted green, +There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia +With never a happy weed between. +There's a neat little grass plot, bald in places, +And very dusty to touch; +A respectable man comes once a week +To keep the garden weeded and swept, +To keep it as we don't want it kept. +He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine, +And we think he cuts it too much. +But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty, +The daisies play about. +They are so brave as well as so pretty, +You cannot keep them out. +I love them, I want to let them grow, +But that respectable man says no. +He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine +Like the French Revolution guillotine. +He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces, +The dear little white-frilled daisy faces; +Says things must be kept in their proper places +He has no frill round his ugly face - +I wish I could find his proper place! + + + +POEM: THE TOUCHSTONE + + + +There was a garden, very strange and fair +With all the roses summer never brings. +The snowy blossom of immortal Springs +Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there. +There were new heavens, and the earth was new, +And still I told my heart the dream was true. + +But when the sun stood still, and Time went out +Like a blown candle--when she came to me +Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree, +Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt, +And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near, +She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear. + +"It is no dream," she said. "What dream had stayed +So long? It is the blessed isle that lies +Between the tides of twin eternities. +It is our island; do not be afraid!" +Then, then at last my heart was well deceived; +I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed. + +Her real presence sanctified my faith, +Her very voice my restless fears beguiled, +And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled, +But when she said "I love you!" it was Death. +That, that at least could neither be nor seem - +Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream! + + + +POEM: THE DECEMBER ROSE + + + +Here's a rose that blows for Chloe, +Fair as ever a rose in June was, +Now the garden's silent, snowy, +Where the burning summer noon was. + +In your garden's summer glory +One poor corner, shelved and shady, +Told no rosy, radiant story, +Grew no rose to grace its lady. + +What shuts sun out shuts out snow too; +From his nook your secret lover +Shows what slighted roses grow to +When the rose you chose is over. + + + +POEM: THE FIRE + + + +I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes, +And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains. +Says he, "You take it easy! That ain't the way to do! +I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too. +So won't you name the day?" +But I said, "That I will not." +And I pushed him away, +Out among the raspberries all on a summer day. +And I says, "You ask in winter, if your love's so hot, +For it's summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full," says I, +"With the fair by and by, +And the village dance and all; +And the turkey poults is small, +And so's the ducks and chicks, +And the hay not yet in ricks, +And the flower-show'll be presently and hop-picking's to come, +And the fruiting and the harvest home, +And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done. +Can't you leave a girl alone? +Your love's too hot for me! +Can't you leave a girl be +Till the evenings do draw in, +Till the leaves be getting thin, +Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea? +That's the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!" + +* * * + +And he took it as I said it, an' not as it was meant. +And he went. + +* * * + +The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and +brown, +And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down, +And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit, +And he'd never come anigh again, and all my life was sick. +And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit +With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick. +For father, he lay dead +With the candles at his head, +And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall; +And I'd sent them all away, +Though they'd offered for to stay. +I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all. +Then I heard him. I'd a-known it for his footstep just as plain +If he'd brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane. +And I hadn't drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane; +And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide. +Says I, "You come inside; +For it's cold outside for you, +And it's cold here too; +And I haven't no more pride - +It's too cold for that," I cried. + +* * * + +Then I saw in his face +The fear of death, and desire. +And oh, I took and kissed him again and again, +And I clipped him close and all, +In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place, +With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall; +And "YOU warm my heart," I told him, "if there's any fire in men!" +And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then. +And I warmed my heart at the fire. + + + +POEM: SONG + + + +Now the Spring is waking, +Very shy as yet, +Busy mending, making +Grass and violet. +Frowsy Winter's over: +See the budding lane! +Go and meet your lover: +Spring is here again! + +Every day is longer +Than the day before; +Lambs are whiter, stronger, +Birds sing more and more; +Woods are less than shady, +Griefs are more than vain - +Go and kiss your lady: +Spring is here again! + + + +POEM: A PARTING + + + +So good-bye! +This is where we end it, you and I. +Life's to live, you know, and death's to die; +So good-bye! + +I was yours +For the love in life that loves while life endures, +For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures +I was yours. + +You were mine +For the moment that a garland takes to twine, +For the human hour that sorcery shews divine +You were mine. + +All is over. +You and I no more are love and lover; +Nought's to seek now, gain, attain, discover. +All is over. + + + +POEM: THE GIFT OF LIFE + + + +Life is a night all dark and wild, +Yet still stars shine: +This moment is a star, my child - +Your star and mine. + +Life is a desert dry and drear, +Undewed, unblest; +This hour is an oasis, dear; +Here let us rest. + +Life is a sea of windy spray, +Cold, fierce and free: +An isle enchanted is to-day +For you and me. + +Forget night, sea, and desert: take +The gift supreme, +And, of life's brief relenting, make +A deathless dream. + + + +POEM: INCOMPATIBILITIES + + + +If you loved me I could trust you to your fancy's furthest bound +While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round, +To the utmost of the meshes of the devil's strongest net . . . +If you loved me, if you loved me--but you do not love me yet! + +I love you--and I cannot trust you further than the door! +But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more +And more--until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men - +I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you +then! + + + +POEM: THE STOLEN GOD--LAZARUS TO DIVES + + + +We do not clamour for vengeance, +We do not whine for fear; +We have cried in the outer darkness +Where was no man to hear. +We cried to man and he heard not; +Yet we thought God heard us pray; +But our God, who loved and was sorry - +Our God is taken away. + +Ours were the stream and the pasture, +Forest and fen were ours; +Ours were the wild wood-creatures, +The wild sweet berries and flowers. +You have taken our heirlooms from us, +And hardly you let us save +Enough of our woods for a cradle, +Enough of our earth for a grave. + +You took the wood and the cornland, +Where still we tilled and felled; +You took the mine and quarry, +And all you took you held. +The limbs of our weanling children +You crushed in your mills of power; +And you made our bearing women toil +To the very bearing hour. + +You have taken our clean quick longings, +Our joy in lover and wife, +Our hope of the sunset quiet +At the evening end of life; +You have taken the land that bore us, +Its soil and stone and sod; +You have taken our faith in each other - +And now you have taken our God. + +When our God came down from Heaven +He came among men, a Man, +Eating and drinking and working +As common people can; +And the common people received Him +While the rich men turned away. +But what have we to do with a God +To whom the rich men pray? + +He hangs, a dead God, on your altars, +Who lived a Man among men, +You have taken away our Lord +And we cannot find Him again. +You have not left us a handful +Of even the earth He trod . . . +You have made Him a rich man's idol +Who came as a poor man's God. + +He promised the poor His heaven, +He loved and lived with the poor; +He said that the rich man's shadow +Should never darken His door: +But bishops and priests lie softly, +Drink full and are fully fed +In the Name of the Lord, who had not +Where to lay His head. + +This is the God you have stolen, +As you steal all else--in His name. +You have taken the ease and the honour, +Left us the toil and the shame. +You have chosen the seat of Dives, +We lie where Lazarus lay; +But, by God, we will not yield you our God, +You shall not take Him away. + +All else we had you have taken; +All else, but not this, not this. +The God of Heaven is ours, is ours, +And the poor are His, are His. +Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer! +For both He cannot be. +And if He is ours--O you rich men, +Then whose, in God's name, are ye? + + + +POEM: WINTER + + + +Hold your hands to the blaze; +Winter is here +With the short cold days, +Bleak, keen and drear. +Was there ever a day +With hawthorn along the way +Where you wandered in mild mid-May +With your dear? + +That was when you were young +And the world was gold; +Now all the songs are sung, +The tales all told. +You shiver now by the fire +Where the last red sparks expire; +Dead are delight and desire: +You are old. + + + +POEM: SEA-SHELLS + + + +I gathered shells upon the sand, +Each shell a little perfect thing, +So frail, yet potent to withstand +The mountain-waves' wild buffeting. +Through storms no ship could dare to brave +The little shells float lightly, save +All that they might have lost of fine +Shape and soft colour crystalline. + +Yet I amid the world's wild surge +Doubt if my soul can face the strife, +The waves of circumstance that urge +That slight ship on the rocks of life. +O soul, be brave, for He who saves +The frail shell in the giant waves, +Will bring thy puny bark to land +Safe in the hollow of His hand. + + + +POEM: HOPE + + + +O thrush, is it true? +Your song tells +Of a world born anew, +Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue +With hyacinth bells; +Of primroses deep +In the moss of the lane, +Of a Princess asleep +And dear magic to do. +Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true? +Will Spring come again? + +Will Spring come again? +Now at last +With soft shine and rain +Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain? +Will Winter be past? +In the brown of the copse +Will white wind-flowers star through +Where the last oak-leaf drops? +Will the daisies come too, +And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again? +O thrush, is it true? + + + +POEM: THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN + + + +I reach my hand to thee! +Stoop; take my hand in thine; +Lead me where I would be, +Father divine. +I do not even know +The way I want to go, +The way that leads to rest: +But, Thou who knowest me, +Lead where I cannot see, +Thou knowest best. + +Toys, worthless, yet desired, +Drew me afar to roam. +Father, I am so tired; +I am come home. +The love I held so cheap +I see, so dear, so deep, +So almost understood. +Life is so cold and wild, +I am thy little child - +I WILL be good. + + + +POEM: THE SKYLARK + + + +". . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is +the skylark come."--Robert A Field, in the New Age. + +"It is the skylark come." For shame! +Robert-a-Cockney is thy name: +Robert-a-Field would surely know +That skylarks, bless them, never go! + +* * * + +Love of my life, bear witness here +How we have heard them all the year; +How to the skylark's song are set +The days we never can forget. +At Rustington, do you remember? +We heard the skylarks in December; +In January above the snow +They sang to us by Hurstmonceux +Once in the keenest airs of March +We heard them near the Marble Arch; +Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air; +May found them singing everywhere; +And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune +Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June. +One unforgotten day at Rye +They sang a love-song in July; +In August, hard by Lewes town, +They sang of joy 'twixt sky and down; +And in September's golden spell +We heard them singing on Scaw Fell. +October's leaves were brown and sere, +But skylarks sang by Teston Weir; +And in November, at Mount's Bay, +They sang upon our wedding day! + +* * * + +Mr.-a-Field, go forth, go forth, +Go east and west and south and north; +You'll always find the furze in flower, +Find every hour the lovers' hour, +And, by my faith in love and rhyme, +The skylark singing all the time! + + + +POEM: SATURDAY SONG + + + +They talk about gardens of roses, +And moonlight over the sea, +And mountains and snow +And sunsetty glow, +But I know what is best for me. +The prettiest sight I know, +Worth all your roses and snow, +Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night, +When the barrows are set in a row. + +I've heard of bazaars in India +All glitter and spices and smells, +But they don't compare +With the naphtha flare +And the herrings the coster sells; +And the oranges piled like gold, +The cucumbers lean and cold, +And the red and white block-trimmings +And the strawberries fresh and ripe, +And the peas and beans, +And the sprouts and greens, +And the 'taters and trotters and tripe. + +And the shops where they sell the chairs, +The mangles and tables and bedding, +And the lovers go by in pairs, +And look--and think of the wedding. +And your girl has her arm in yours, +And you whisper and make her blush. +Oh! the snap in her eyes--and her smiles and her sighs +As she fancies the purple plush! + +And you haven't a penny to spend, +But you dream that you've pounds and pounds; +And arm in arm with your only friend +You make your Saturday rounds: +And you see the cradle bright +With ribbon--lace--pink and white; +And she stops her laugh +And you drop your chaff +In the light of the Saturday night. +And the world is new +For her and you - +A little bit of all-right. + + + +POEM: THE CHAMPION + + + +Young and a conqueror, once on a day, +Wild white Winter rode out this way; +With his sword of ice and his banner of snow +Vanquished the Summer and laid her low. + +Winter was young then, young and strong; +Now he is old, he has reigned too long. +He shall be routed, he shall be slain; +Summer shall come to her own again! + +See the champion of Summer wake +Little armies in field and brake: +"Cruel and cold has King Winter been; +Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!" + +First the aconite dots the mould +With little round cannon-balls of gold; +Then, to help in the winter's rout, +Regiments of crocuses march out. + +See the swords of the flag-leaves shine; +See the shield of the celandine, +And daffodil lances green and keen, +To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen. + +Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings +Banners that mock at defeated kings; +And wherever the green of the new grass peers, +See the array of victorious spears. + +Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound +Over the garden's battle-ground, +And lovely ladies crowd out to see +The long procession of victory. + +Little daisies with snowy frills, +Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils, +Primrose and cowslip, friends well met +With white wood-sorrel and violet. + +Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold; +Thousands of buttercups licked with gold; +Budding hedges and woods and trees - +Spring brings freedom and life to these. + +Then the triumphant Spring shall ride +Over the happy countryside; +Deep in the woods the birds shall sing: +"The King is dead--long live the King!" + +But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight; +He will ride on through the meadows bright +Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down +And lay at her feet the royal crown. + +She will lean down where the roses twine +Between the may-trees' silver shine, +And look in the eyes of the dying knight +Who led his army and won her fight. + +She will stoop to his lips and say, +"Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!" +While he smiles and sighs her arms between +And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen. + + + +POEM: THE GARDEN REFUSED + + + +There is a garden made for our delight, +Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. +I know it, but I do not know the way. +We slip and tumble in the doubtful night, +Where everything is difficult and new, +And clouds our breath has made obscure the day. + +The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive, +Still doing work that yet is never done; +The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice; +The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, +The black injustice that puts out the sun: +These are our portion, since they are our choice. + +Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose, +The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there; +There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet. +O roses, that for us shall not unclose! +O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear! +O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet! + + + +POEM: THESE LITTLE ONES + + + +"What of the garden I gave?" +God said to me; +"Hast thou been diligent to foster and save +The life of flower and tree? +How have the roses thriven, +The lilies I have given, +The pretty scented miracles that Spring +And Summer come to bring? + +"My garden is fair and dear," +I said to God; +"From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear. +Green-trimmed its sod. +The rose is red and bright, +The lily a live delight; +I have not lost a flower of all the flowers +That blessed my hours." + +"What of the child I gave?" +God said to me; +"The little, little one I died to save +And gave in trust to thee? +How have the flowers grown +That in its soul were sown, +The lovely living miracles of youth +And hope and joy and truth?" + +"The child's face is all white," +I said to God; +"It cries for cold and hunger in the night: +Its little feet have trod +The pavement muddy and cold. +It has no flowers to hold, +And in its soul the flowers you set are dead." +"Thou fool!" God said. + + + +POEM: THE DESPOT + + + +The garden mould was damp and chill; +Winter had had his brutal will +Since over all the year's content +His devastating legions went. + +The Spring's bright banners came: there woke +Millions of little growing folk +Who thrilled to know the winter done, +Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun. + +Not so the elect; reserved, and slow +To trust a stranger-sun and grow, +They hesitated, cowered and hid, +Waiting to see what others did. + +Yet even they, a little, grew, +Put out prim leaves to day and dew, +And lifted level formal heads +In their appointed garden beds. + +The gardener came: he coldly loved +The flowers that lived as he approved, +That duly, decorously grew +As he, the despot, meant them to. + +He saw the wildlings flower more brave +And bright than any cultured slave; +Yet, since he had not set them there, +He hated them for being fair. + +So he uprooted, one by one, +The free things that had loved the sun, +The happy, eager, fruitful seeds +Who had not known that they were weeds. + + + +POEM: THE MAGIC RING + + + +Your touch on my hand is fire, +Your lips on my lips are flowers. +My darling, my one desire, +Dear crown of my days and hours. +Dear crown of each hour and day +Since ever my life began. +Ah! leave me--ah! go away - +We two are woman and man. + +To lie in your arms and see +The stars melt into the sun; +Till there is no you and me, +Since you and I are one. +To loose my soul to your breath, +To bare my heart to your life - +It is death, it is death, it is death! +I am not your wife. + +The hours will come and will go, +But never again such an hour +When the tides immortal flow +And life is a flood, a flower . . . +Wait for the ring; it is strong, +It has a magic of might +To make all that was splendid and wrong +Sordid and right. + + + +POEM: PHILOSOPHY + + + +The sulky sage scarce condescends to see +This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves; +To him 'tis all illusion--only he +Is real amid the visions he perceives. + +No sage am I, and yet, by Love's decree, +To me the world's a masque of shadows too, +And I a shadow also--since to me +The only real thing in life is--you. + + + +POEM: THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME + + + +Before your feet, +My love, my sweet, +Behold! your slave bows down; +And in his hands +From other lands +Brings you another crown. + +For in far climes, +In bygone times, +Myself was royal too: +Oh, I have been +A king, my queen, +Who am a slave for you! + + + +POEM: MAGIC + + + +What was the spell she wove for me? +Life was a common useful thing, +An eligible building site +To hold a house to shelter me. +There were no woodlands whispering; +No unimagined dreams at night +About that house had folded wing, +Disordering my life for me. + +I was so safe until she came +With starry secrets in her eyes, +And on her lips the word of power. +- Like to the moon of May she came, +That makes men mad who were born wise - +Within her hand the only flower +Man ever plucked from Paradise; +So to my half-built house she came. + +She turned my useful plot of land +Into a garden wild and fair, +Where stars in garlands hung like flowers: +A moonlit, lonely, lovely land. +Dim groves and glimmering fountains there +Embraced a secret bower of bowers, +And in its rose-ringed heart we were +Alone in that enchanted land. + +What was the spell I wove for her, +Her mad dear magic to undo? +The red rose dies, the white rose dies, +The garden spits me forth with her +On the old suburban road I knew. +My house is gone, and by my side +A stranger stands with angry eyes +And lips that swear I ruined her. + + + +POEM: WINDFLOWERS + + + +When I was little and good +I walked in the dappled wood +Where light white windflowers grew, +And hyacinths heavy and blue. + +The windflowers fluttered light, +Like butterflies white and bright; +The bluebells tremulous stood +Deep in the heart of the wood. + +I gathered the white and the blue, +The wild wet woodland through, +With hands too silly and small +To clasp and carry them all. + +Some dropped from my hands and died +By the home-road's grassy side; +And those that my fond hands pressed +Died even before the rest. + + + +POEM: AS IT IS + + + +If you and I +Had wings to fly - +Great wings like seagulls' wings - +How would we soar +Above the roar +Of loud unneeded things! + +We two would rise +Through changing skies +To blue unclouded space, +And undismayed +And unafraid +Meet the sun face to face. + +But wings we know not; +The feathers grow not +To carry us so high; +And low in the gloom +Of a little room +We weep and say good-bye. + + + +POEM: BEFORE WINTER + + + +The wind is crying in the night, +Like a lost child; +The waves break wonderful and white +And wild. +The drenched sea-poppies swoon along +The drenched sea-wall, +And there's an end of summer and of song - +An end of all. + +The fingers of the tortured boughs +Gripped by the blast +Clutch at the windows of your house +Closed fast. +And the lost child of love, despair, +Cries in the night, +Remembering how once those windows were +Open and bright. + + + +POEM: THE VAULT--AFTER SEDGMOOR + + + +You need not call at the Inn; +I have ordered my bed: +Fair linen sheets therein +And a tester of lead. +No musty fusty scents +Such as inn chambers keep, +But tapestried with content +And hung with sleep. + +My Inn door bears no bar +Set up against fear. +The guests have journeyed far, +They are glad to be here. +Where the damp arch curves up grey, +Long, long shall we lie; +Good King's men all are they, +A King's man I. + +Old Giles, in his stone asleep, +Fought at Poictiers. +Piers Ralph and Roger keep +The spoil of their fighting years. +I shall lie with my folk at last +In a quiet bed; +I shall dream of the sword held fast +In a round-capped head. + +Good tale of men all told +My Inn affords; +And their hands peace shall hold +That once held swords. +And we who rode and ran +On many a loyal quest +Shall find the goal of man - +A bed, and rest. + +We shall not stand to the toast +Of Love or King; +We be all too tired to boast +About anything. +We be dumb that did jest and sing; +We rest who laboured and warred . . . +Shout once, shout once for the King. +Shout once for the sword! + + + +POEM: SURRENDER + + + +Oh, the nights were dark and cold, +When my love was gone. +And life was hard to hold +When my love was gone. +I was wise, I never gave +What they teach a girl to save, +But I wished myself his slave +When my love was gone. + +I was all alone at night +When my love came home. +Oh, what thought of wrong or right +When my love came home? +I flung the door back wide +And I pulled my love inside; +There was no more shame or pride +When my love came home. + + + +POEM: VALUES + + + +Did you deceive me? Did I trust +A heart of fire to a heart of dust? +What matter? Since once the world was fair, +And you gave me the rose of the world to wear. + +That was the time to live for! Flowers, +Sunshine and starshine and magic hours, +Summer about me, Heaven above, +And all seemed immortal, even Love. + +Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth +The pains of death and the pains of birth; +And the thorns may be sharper than death--who knows? - +That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose. + + + +POEM: IN THE PEOPLE'S PARK + + + +Many's the time I've found your face +Fresh as a bunch of flowers in May, +Waiting for me at our own old place +At the end of the working day. +Many's the time I've held your hand +On the shady seat in the People's Park, +And blessed the blaring row of the band +And kissed you there in the dark. + +Many's the time you promised true, +Swore it with kisses, swore it with tears: +"I'll marry no one without it's you - +If we have to wait for years." +And now it's another chap in the Park +That holds your hand like I used to do; +And I kiss another girl in the dark, +And try to fancy it's you! + + + +POEM: WEDDING DAY + + + +The enchanted hour, +The magic bower, +Where, crowned with roses, +Love love discloses. + +"Kiss me, my lover; +Doubting is over, +Over is waiting; +Love lights our mating!" + +"But roses wither, +Chill winds blow hither, +One thing all say, dear, +Love lives a day, dear!" + +"Heed those old stories? +New glowing glories +Blot out those lies, love! +Look in my eyes, love! + +"Ah, but the world knows - +Naught of the true rose; +Back the world slips, love! +Give me your lips, love! + +"Even were their lies true, +Yet were you wise to +Swear, at Love's portal, +The god's immortal." + + + +POEM: THE LAST DEFEAT + + + +Across the field of day +In sudden blazon lay +The pallid bar of gold +Borne on the shield of day. +Night had endured so long, +And now the Day grew strong +With lance of light to hold +The Night at bay. + +So on my life's dull night +The splendour of your light +Traversed the dusky shield +And shone forth golden bright. +Your colours I have worn +Through all the fight forlorn, +And these, with life, I yield, +To-night, to Night. + + + +POEM: MAY DAY + + + +Will you go a-maying, a-maying, a-maying, +Come and be my Queen of May and pluck the may with me? +The fields are full of daisy buds and new lambs playing, +The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossom's on the tree." + +"If I go with you, if I go a-maying, +To be your Queen and wear my crown this May-day bright, +Hand in hand straying, it must be only playing, +And playtime ends at sunset, and then good-night. + +"For I have heard of maidens who laughed and went a-maying, +Went out queens and lost their crowns and came back slaves. +I will be no young man's slave, submitting and obeying, +Bearing chains as those did, even to their graves." + +"If you come a-maying, a-straying, a-playing, +We will pluck the little flowers, enough for you and me; +And when the day dies, end our one day's playing, +Give a kiss and take a kiss and go home free." + + + +POEM: GRETNA GREEN + + + +Last night when I kissed you, +My soul caught alight; +And oh! how I missed you +The rest of the night - +Till Love in derision +Smote sleep with his wings, +And gave me in vision +Impossible things. + +A night that was clouded, +Long windows asleep; +Dark avenues crowded +With secrets to keep. +A terrace, a lover, +A foot on the stair; +The waiting was over, +The lady was there. + +What a flight, what a night! +The hoofs splashed and pounded. +Dark fainted in light +And the first bird-notes sounded. +You slept on my shoulder, +Shy night hid your face; +But dawn, bolder, colder, +Beheld our embrace. + +Your lips of vermilion, +Your ravishing shape, +The flogging postillion, +The village agape, +The rattle and thunder +Of postchaise a-speed . . . +My woman, my wonder, +My ultimate need! + +We two matched for mating +Came, handclasped, at last, +Where the blacksmith was waiting +To fetter us fast . . . +At the touch of the fetter +The dream snapped and fell - +And I woke to your letter +That bade me farewell. + + + +POEM: THE ETERNAL + + + +Your dear desired grace, +Your hands, your lips of red, +The wonder of your perfect face +Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed, +When you are dead. + +Your beautiful hair +Dust in the dust will lie - +But not the light I worship there, +The gold the sunshine crowns you by - +This will not die. + +Your beautiful eyes +Will be closed up with clay; +But all the magic they comprise, +The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies +Pass not away. + +All I desire and see +Will be a carrion thing; +But all that you have been to me +Is, and can never cease to be. +O Grave! where is thy victory? +Where, Death, thy sting? + + + +POEM: THE POINT OF VIEW: I. + + + +I + +There was never winter, summer only: roses, +Pink and white and red, +Shining down the warm rich garden closes; +Quiet trees and lawns of dappled shadow, +Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette, +Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread; +Good gold sun that kissed me when we met, +Shadows of floating clouds on sunny meadow. +In the hay-field, scented, grey, +Loving life and love, I lay; +By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep; +Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream. + +II + +Summer never was, was always winter only; +Cold and ice and frost +Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely, +In a world of strangers, in the welter +Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet, +Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost +In a bitter unfamiliar street, +I found a doorway, crouched there for just shelter, +Crouched and fought in vain for breath, +Cursed the cold and wished for death; +Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep; +Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream. + + + +POEM: THE POINT OF VIEW: II. + + + +I + +In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, +Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way; +Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears: +"It is night, it is night, it has never been day; +Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight; +It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night. +Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, +For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands." + +II + +Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie +In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, +You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear: +"It is day, it is day, it has never been night! +Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves; +It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, +Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer +Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands." + + + +POEM: MARY OF MAGDALA + + + +Mary of Magdala came to bed; +There were no soft curtains round her head; +She had no mother to hold of worth +The little baby she brought to birth. + +Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed: +"O God, I am very much afraid; +For out of my body, by sin defiled, +Thou biddest me make a little child. + +"O God, I have turned my face from Thee +To that which the angels may not see; +How can I make, from my deep disgrace, +A child whose angel shall see Thy face? + +"O God, I have sinned, and I know well +That the pains I bear are the pains of hell; +But the thought of the child that sin has given +Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven." + +Mary of Magdala held her breath +In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death, +And through her heart, like the mortal knife, +Went the pang of joy and the pang of life. + +"We two are two alone," said she, +"And we are two who should be three; +Now who will clothe my baby fair +In the little garments that babies wear?" + +There came two angels with quiet wings +And hands that were full of baby things; +And the new-born child was bathed and dressed +And laid again on his mother's breast. + +"Now who will sign on his brow the mark +To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark? +Who will my baby's sponsor be?" +"I, the Lord God, who died for thee." + +"Now who will comfort him if he cry; +And who will suckle him by and bye? +For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry, +And I think that my time has come to die." + +"I will dandle thy son as a mother may; +And his lips shall lie where my own Son's lay. +Come, dear little one, come to me; +The Mother of God shall suckle thee." + +Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed; +"I never deserved a child," she cried. +"Dear God, I am ready to go to hell, +Since with my little one all is well." + +Then the Son of Mary did o'er her lean. +"Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean. +Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done, +And My Mother shall give thee back thy son." + +Frozen grass for a bearing bed, +A halo of frost round a woman's head, +And pious folks who looked and said: +"A drab and her brat that are better dead." + + + +POEM: THE HOME-COMING + + + +This was our house. To this we came +Lighted by love with torch aflame, +And in this chamber, door locked fast, +I held you to my heart at last. + +This was our house. In this we knew +The worst that Time and Fate can do. +You left the room bare, wide the door; +You did not love me any more. + +Where once the kind warm curtain hung +The spider's ghostly cloth is flung; +The beetle and the woodlouse creep +Where once I loved your lovely sleep. + +Yet so the vanished spell endures, +That this, our house, still, still is yours. +Here, spite of all these years apart, +I still can hold you to my heart! + + + +POEM: AGE TO YOUTH + + + +Sunrise is in your eyes, and in your heart +The hope and bright desire of morn and May. +My eyes are full of shadow, and my part +Of life is yesterday. + +Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sit +And see your life unfolding like a scroll, +Rich with illuminated blazon, fit +For your arm-bearing soul. + +My soul bears arms too, but the scroll's rolled tight, +Yet the one strip of faded brightness shown +Proclaims that when 'twas splendid in the light +Its blazon matched your own. + + + +POEM: IN AGE + + + +The wine of life was rough and new, +But sweet beyond belief, +And wrong was false, and right was true - +The rose was in the leaf. + +In that good sunlight well we knew +The hues of wrong and right; +We slept among the roses through +The long enchanted night. + +Now to our eyes, made dim with years, +Right intertwines with wrong. +How can we hear, with these tired ears, +The old, the magic song? + +But this we know--wine once was red, +Roses were red and dear; +Once in our ears the truths were said +That now the young men hear! + + + +POEM: WHITE MAGIC + + + +This is the room to which she came, +And Spring itself came with her; +She stirred the fire of life to flame, +She called all music hither. +Her glance upon the lean white walls +Hung them with cloth of splendour, +And still the rose she dropped recalls +The graces that attend her. + +The same poor room, so dull and bare +Before, in consecration, +She breathed upon its common air +The true transfiguration . . .? +This room the same to which she came +For one immortal minute? - +How can it ever be the same +Since she has once been in it! + + + +POEM: FROM THE PORTUGUESE + + + +I + +When I lived in the village of youth +There were lilies in all the orchards, +Flowers in the orange-gardens +For brides to wear in their hair. +It was always sunshine and summer, +Roses at every lattice, +Dreams in the eyes of maidens, +Love in the eyes of men. + +When I lived in the village of youth +The doors, all the doors, stood open; +We went in and out of them laughing, +Laughing and calling each other +To shew each other our fairings, +The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, +The new rose, the new lover. + +Now I live in the town of age +Where are no orchards, no gardens. +Here, too, all the doors stand open, +But no one goes in or goes out. +We sit alone by the hearthstone +Where memories lie like ashes +Upon a hearth that is cold; + +And they from the village of youth +Run by our doorsteps laughing, +Calling, to shew each other +The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan, +The new rose, the new lover. + +Once we had all these things - +We kept them from the old people, +And now the young people have them +And will not shew them to us - +To us who are old and have nothing +But the white, still, heaped-up ashes +On the hearth where the fire went out +A very long time ago. + +II + +I had a mistress; I loved her. +She left me with memories bitter, +Corroding, eating my heart +As the acid eats into the steel +Etching the portrait triumphant. +Intolerable, indelible, +Never to be effaced. + +A wife was mine to my heart, +Beautiful flower of my garden, +Lily I worshipped by day, +Scented rose of my nights. +Now the night wind sighing +Blows white rose petals only +Over the bed where she sleeps +Dreamless alone. + +I had a son; I loved him. +Mother of God, bear witness +How all my manhood loved him +As thy womanhood loved thy Son! +When he was grown to his manhood +He crucified my heart, +And even as it hung bleeding +He laughed with his bold companions, +Mocked and turned away +With laughter into the night. + +Those three I loved and lost; +But there was one who loved me +With all the fire of her heart. +Mine was the sacred altar +Where she burnt her life for my worship. +She was my slave, my servant; +Mine all she had, all she was, +All she could suffer, could be. +That was the love of my life, +I did not say, "She loves me"; +I was so used to her love +I never asked its name, +Till, feeling the wind blow cold +Where all the doors were left open, +And seeing a fireless hearth +And the garden deserted and weed-grown +That once was full of flowers for me, +I said, "What has changed? What is it +That has made all the clocks stop?" +Thus I asked and they answered: +"It is thy mother who is dead." + +And now I am alone. +My son, too, some day will stand +Here, where I stand and weep. +He too will weep, knowing too late +The love that wrapped round his life. +Dear God spare him this: +Let him never know how I loved him, +For he was always weak. +He could not endure as I can. +Mother, my dear, ask God +To grant me this, for my son! + + + +POEM: THE NEST + + + +That was the skylark we heard +Singing so high, +The little quivering bird +We saw, and the sky. +The earth was drenched with sun, +The sky was drenched with song; +We lay in the grass and listened, +Long and long and long. + +I said, "What a spell it is +Has made her rise +To pour out her world of bliss +In that world of skies!" +You said, "What a spell must pass +Between sky and plain, +Since she finds in this world of grass +Her nest again!" + + + +POEM: THE OLD MAGIC + + + +Gray is the sea, and the skies are gray; +They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday; +And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream +Like tortured souls in an evil dream. + +There is white on the wings of the sea and sky, +And white are the gulls' wings wheeling by, +And white, like snow, is the pall that lies +Where love weeps over his memories. + +For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought +Of good unfound and of wrong unsought; +Yet from God's good magic there ever springs +The resurrection of holy things. + +See--the gold and blue of our yesterday +In the eyes and the hair of a child at play; +And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled +Is woven anew in the laugh of the child. + + + +POEM: FAITH + + + +A wall +Gray and tall, +And a sky of gray, +And a twilight cold; +And that is all +That my eyes behold. +But I know that unseen, +Beyond the wall, +On a lawn of green +White blossoms fall +In the waning light; +And beyond the lawn +Curtains are drawn +From windows bright. +And within she moves with her gracious hands +And the heart that loves and that understands, +Waiting to succour poor souls in need, +And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed. + +I know it all, though I cannot see; +But the tired-out tramp, +Dirty and ill, +In the evening's damp, +In the Spring's clean chill, +Knows not that there +Is the heart to care +For such as I and for such as he. +He slouches along, and sees alone +The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone. + +Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey +In all Thy world that is now so green, +I will bethink me of this spring day +And the house of welcome, known yet unseen; +The wall that conceals +And the faith that reveals. + + + +POEM: THE DEATH OF AGNES + + + +Now that the sunlight dies in my eyes, +And the moonlight grows in my hair, +I who was never very wise, +Never was very fair, +Virgin and martyr all my life, +What has life left to give +Me--who was never mother nor wife, +Never got leave to live? + +Nothing of life could I clasp or claim, +Nothing could steal or save. +So when you come to carve my name, +Give me life in my grave. +To keep me warm when I sleep alone +A lie is little to give; +Call me "Magdalen" on my stone, +Though I died and did not live. + + + +POEM: IN TROUBLE + + + +It's all for nothing: I've lost him now. +I suppose it had to be; +But oh, I never thought it of him, +Nor he never thought it of me. +And all for a kiss on your evening out, +And a field where the grass was down . . . +And he 'as gone to God-knows-where, +And I may go on the town. + +The worst of all was the thing he said +The night that he went away; +He said he'd 'a married me right enough +If I hadn't 'a been so gay. +Me--gay! When I'd cried, and I'd asked him not, +But he said he loved me so; +An' whatever he wanted seemed right to me . . . +An' how was a girl to know? + +Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep sound, +An' it might be the best to do; +But when he made me a light-o'-love +He made me a mother too. +I've had enough sin to last my time, +If 'twas sin as I got it by, +But it ain't no sin to stand by his kid +And work for it till I die. + +But oh! the long days and the death-long nights +When I feel it move and turn, +And cry alone in my single bed +And count what a girl can earn +To buy the baby the bits of things +HE ought to ha' bought, by rights; +And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . . +And if he sleeps sound o' nights. + + + +POEM: GRATITUDE + + + +I found a starving cat in the street: +It cried for food and a place by the fire. +I carried it home, and I strove to meet +The claims of its desire. + +And since its desire was a little fish, +A little hay and a little milk, +I gave it cream in a silver dish +And a basket lined with silk. + +And when we came to the grateful pause +When it should have fawned on the hand that fed, +It turned to a devil all teeth and claws, +Scratched me and bit me and fled. + +To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay +With a purr had been an easy task: +But its hate and my blood were required to pay +For the gifts that it did not ask. + + + +POEM: AT THE LAST + + + +Where are you--you whose loving breath +Alone can stay my soul from death? +The world's so wide, I seek it through, +Yet--dare I dream to win to you? +Perhaps your dear desired feet +Pass me in this grey muddy street. +Your face, it may be, has its shrine +In that dull house that's next to mine. +But I believe, O Life, O Fate, +That when I call on Death and wait +One moment at the unclosing gate +I shall turn back for one last gaze +Along the trampled, sordid ways, +And in the sunset see at last, +Just as the barred gate holds me fast, +Your face, your face, too late. + + + +POEM: FEAR + + + +If you were here, +Hopes, dreams, ambitions, faith would disappear, +Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch your hand, +Forgetting all that now I understand. +For you confuse my life with memories +Of unrememberable ecstasies +Which were, and are not, and can never be; . . . +Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me. + + + +POEM: THE DAY OF JUDGMENT + + + +When the bearing and doing are over, +And no more is to do or bear, +God will see us and judge us +The kind of men we were; +And our sins, so ugly and heavy, +We shall drag them into His sight, +And throw them down at the foot of the throne, +Foul on the steps of light. + +We shall not be shamed or frightened, +Though the angels are all at hand, +For He will look at our burden, +And He will understand. +He will turn to the little angels, +Agog to hear and obey, +And point to the festering sin-loads +With, "Take that rubbish away!" + +Then the steps will be cleared of the burdens +That we threw down at His feet; +And we shall be washed in the tears of Christ, +And our tears bathe His feet. +And the harvest of all our sinning +That moment's shame will reap - +When we look in the eyes that love us +And know we have made them weep. + + + +POEM: A FAREWELL + + + +Good-bye, good-bye; it is not hard to part! +You have my heart--the heart that leaps to hear +Your name called by an echo in a dream; +You have my soul that, like an untroubled stream, +Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near - +Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart. + +What more could Life give if we gave her leave +To give, and Life should give us leave to take? +Only each other's arms, each other's eyes, +Each other's lips, the clinging secrecies +That are but as the written words to make +Records of what the heart and soul achieve. + +This, only this we yield, my love, my friend, +To Fate's implacable eyes and withering breath. +We still are yours and mine, though, by Time's theft, +My arms are empty and your arms bereft. +It is not hard to part--not harder than Death; +And each of us must face Death in the end! + + + +POEM: IN HOSPITAL + + + +Under the shadow of a hawthorn brake, +Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood, +Where, 'mid brown leaves, the primroses awake +And hidden violets smell of solitude; +Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing +Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring, +I should have said, "I love you," and your eyes +Have said, "I, too . . . " The gods saw otherwise. + +For this is winter, and the London streets +Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray +Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets +Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away. +And in the broken, trampled foreign wood +Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood, +And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star, +Under the shadow of the wings of war. + +1916. + + + +POEM: PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR + + + +Now Death is near, and very near, +In this wild whirl of horror and fear, +When round the vessel of our State +Roll the great mountain waves of hate. +God! We have but one prayer to-day - +O Father, teach us how to pray. + +For prayer is strong, and very strong; +But we have turned from Thee so long +To follow gods that have no power +Save in the safe and sordid hour, +That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . . +O Father, teach us how to pray. + +We have done ill, and very ill, +Set up our will against Thy will. +That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed, +We stole our brothers' daily bread. +Lord, we are sorry we went astray - +O Father, teach us how to pray. + +Now in this hour of desperate strife +For England's life, her very life, +Teach us to pray that life may be +A new life, beautiful to Thee, +And in Thy hands that life to lay. +O Father, teach us how to pray. + +1915. + + + +POEM: AT PARTING + + + +Go, since you must, but, Dearest, know +That, Honour having bid you go, +Your honour, if your life be spent, +Shall have a costly monument. + +This heart, that fire and roses is +Beneath the magic of your kiss, +Shall turn to marble if you die +And be your deathless effigy. + +1914. + + + +POEM: INVOCATION + + + +The Spirit of Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air, +The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by day, +The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware, +Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, far away. + +God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side of my love, +Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, O Lord, +Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above, +Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable sword. + +Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my dear in his fight, +That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff in the blast, +And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right. +Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor at last. + +But if--ah, dear God, give me strength to withhold nothing now! - +If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid design, +Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his brow +. . . +Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall I not give mine? + +1914. + + + +POEM: TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR + + + +Once I made for you songs, +Rondels, triolets, sonnets; +Verse that my love deemed due, +Verse that your love found fair. +Now the wide wings of war +Hang, like a hawk's, over England, +Shadowing meadows and groves; +And the birds and the lovers are mute. + +Yet there's a thing to say +Before I go into battle, +Not now a poet's word +But a man's word to his mate: +Dear, if I come back never, +Be it your pride that we gave +The hope of our hearts, each other, +For the sake of the Hope of the World. + +1915. + + + +POEM: THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS + + + +Last year the fields were all glad and gay +With silver daisies and silver may; +There were kingcups gold by the river's edge +And primrose stars under every hedge. + +This year the fields are trampled and brown, +The hedges are broken and beaten down, +And where the primroses used to grow +Are little black crosses set in a row. + +And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams, +The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes, +The tree of life with its fruit and bud, +Are trampled down in the mud and the blood. + +The changing seasons will bring again +The magic of Spring to our wood and plain: +Though the Spring be so green as never was seen +The crosses will still be black in the green. + +The God of battles shall judge the foe +Who trampled our country and laid her low . . . +God! hold our hands on the reckoning day, +Lest all we owe them we should repay. + +1915. + + + +POEM: SPRING IN WAR-TIME + + + +Now the sprinkled blackthorn snow +Lies along the lovers' lane +Where last year we used to go - +Where we shall not go again. + +In the hedge the buds are new, +By our wood the violets peer - +Just like last year's violets, too, +But they have no scent this year. + +Every bird has heart to sing +Of its nest, warmed by its breast; +We had heart to sing last spring, +But we never built our nest. + +Presently red roses blown +Will make all the garden gay . . . +Not yet have the daisies grown +On your clay. + +1916. + + + +POEM: THE MOTHER'S PRAYER + + + +This was my little son +Who leapt and laughed on my knee: +Body we made with love, +Soul made with love by Thee. +This was the mystery +In which I worshipped Thy grace; +This was the sign to me - +The unveiling of Thy face . . . +This, that lies under Thy skies +Naked as on that day +When the floor of heaven gave way +And the glory of God shone through, +When the world was made new +And Thy word was made flesh for me . . . +He lies there, bare to Thy skies, +O Lord God, see! + +Body that was in mine +A secret, sacred spell, +Little hands I have kissed +Trampled by beasts in Hell . . . +Growing beauty and grace . . . +Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . . +Broken, battered, shattered . . . +Body that grew like a blossom! +All that was promised me +On my life's royal day. +Every promise broken - +Only a ghost, and clay! + +O God, I kneel at Thy feet; +I lay my hands in Thine: +Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, +And shall I not give mine? +Only--O God, have pity! +All my defences are down: +God, I accept the Cross, +Let HIM have the Crown! + +By all that my love has borne, +By all that all mothers bear, +By the infinite patient anguish, +By the never-ceasing prayer, +By the thoughts that cut like a living knife, +By the tears that are never dry, +Take what he died to win You - +God, take Your victory! + +We have watched on till the light burned low, +And watched the dawn awake; +We have lived hardly and hardly fared +For our sons' sake. +All that was good in Thy earth, +All that taught us of Heaven, +All that we had in the world +We have given. +We pray with empty hands +And hearts that are stiff with pain. +O God! O God! O God! +Let the sacrifice not be vain. +This is his blood, Lord, see! +His blood that was shed for Thee; +Thy banner is dyed in that red tide +Lord, take Thy victory! + +God! give Thine angels power +To fight as he fought, +To scatter the hosts of evil, +To bring their boastings to naught - +Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . . +Michael, who wields Thy sword . . . +Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them, +Put forth Thy strength, O Lord. +See, Lord, this is his body, +Broken for Thee, for Thee . . . +My son, my little son, +Who leapt and laughed on my knee. + + + +POEM: "INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . " + + + +If Jesus came to London, +Came to London to-day, +He would not go to the West End, +He would come down our way; +He'd talk with the children dancing +To the organ out in the street, +And say he was their big Brother, +And give them something to eat. + +He wouldn't go to the mansions +Where the charitable live; +He'd come to the tenement houses +Where we ain't got nothing to give. +He'd come so kind and so homely, +And treat us to beer and bread, +And tell us how we ought to behave; +And we'd try to mind what He said. + +In the warm bright West End churches +They sing and preach and pray, +They call us "Beloved brethren," +But they do not act that way. +And when He came to the church door +He'd call out loud and free, +You stop that preaching and praying +And show what you've done for Me." + +Then they'd say, "O Lord, we have given +To the poor both blankets and tracts, +And we've tried to make them sober, +And we've tried to teach them facts. +But they will sneak round to the drink-shop, +And pawn the blankets for beer, +And we find them very ungrateful, +But still we persevere." + +Then He would say, "I told you +The time I was here before, +That you were all of you brothers, +All you that I suffered for. +I won't go into your churches, +I'll stop in the sun outside. +You bring out the men your brothers, +The men for whom I died!" + +Out of our beastly lodgings, +From arches and doorways about, +They'd have to do as He told them, +They'd have to call us out. +Millions and millions and millions, +Thick and crawling like flies, +We should creep out to the sunshine +And not be afraid of His eyes. + +He'd see what God's image looks like +When men have dealt with the same, +Wrinkled with work that is never done, +Swollen and dirty with shame. +He'd see on the children's forehead +The branded gutter-sign +That marks the girls to be harlots, +That dooms the boys to be swine. + +Then He'd say, "What's the good of churches +When these have nowhere to sleep? +And how can I hear you praying +When they are cursing so deep? +I gave My Blood and My Body +That they might have bread and wine, +And you have taken your share and theirs +Of these good gifts of mine!" + +Then some of the rich would be sorry, +And all would be very scared, +And they'd say, "But we never knew, Lord!" +And He'd say, "You never cared!" +And some would be sick and shameful +Because they'd know that they knew, +And the best would say, "We were wrong, Lord. +Now tell us what to do!" + +I think He'd be sitting, likely, +For someone 'ud bring Him a chair, +With a common kid cuddled up on His knee +And the common sun on His hair; +And they'd be standing before Him, +And He'd say, "You know that you knew. +Why haven't you worked for your brothers +The same as I worked for you? + +"For since you're all of you brothers +It's clear as God's blessed sun +That each must work for the others, +Not thousands work for one. +And the ones that have lived bone-idle +If they want Me to hear them pray, +Let them go and work for their livings +The only honest way! + +"I've got nothing new to tell you, +You know what I always said - +But you've built their bones into churches +And stolen their wine and bread; +You with My Name on your foreheads, +Liar, and traitor, and knave, +You have lived by the death of your brothers, +These whom I died to save!" + +I wish He would come and say it; +Perhaps they'd believe it then, +And work like men for their livings +And let us work like men. +Brothers? They don't believe it, +The lie on their lips is red. +They'll never believe till He comes again, +Or till we rise from the dead! + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Many Voices by ,E. Nesbit + diff --git a/old/mnyvc10.zip b/old/mnyvc10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a576073 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/mnyvc10.zip |
