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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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