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diff --git a/22423.txt b/22423.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04cefe5 --- /dev/null +++ b/22423.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2364 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Thomas + +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: Poems + +Author: Edward Thomas + +Release Date: August 29, 2007 [EBook #22423] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Lewis Jones + + + + + +Edward Thomas (1917) _Poems_ + + +POEMS BY EDWARD THOMAS + + + +POEMS + + +BY + + +EDWARD THOMAS + +("EDWARD EASTAWAY") + + +LONDON +SELWYN & BLOUNT + +1917 + + +First printed, Oct., 1917. +Reprinted, Nov., 1917. + " Dec., 1917. + + +TO + +ROBERT FROST + + + +CONTENTS + + + + +THE TRUMPET +THE SIGN-POST +TEARS +TWO PEWITS +THE MANOR FARM +THE OWL +SWEDES +WILL YOU COME? +As THE TEAM'S HEAD-BRASS +THAW +INTERVAL +LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN +THE PATH +THE COMBE +IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE +WHAT SHALL I GIVE? +IF I WERE TO OWN +AND YOU, HELEN +WHEN FIRST +HEAD AND BOTTLE +AFTER YOU SPEAK +SOWING +WHEN WE TWO WALKED +IN MEMORIAM +FIFTY FAGGOTS +WOMEN HE LIKED +EARLY ONE MORNING +CHERRY TREES +IT RAINS +THE HUXTER +A GENTLEMAN +THE BRIDGE +LOB +BRIGHT CLOUDS +THE CLOUDS THAT ARE SO LIGHT +SOME EYES CONDEMN +MAY 23 +THE GLORY +MELANCHOLY +ADLESTROP +THE GREEN ROADS +THE MILL-POND +IT WAS UPON +TALL NETTLES +HAYMAKING +HOW AT ONCE +GONE, GONE AGAIN +THE SUN USED TO SHINE +OCTOBER +THE LONG SMALL ROOM +LIBERTY +NOVEMBER +THE SHEILING +THE GALLOWS +BIRDS' NESTS +RAIN +"HOME" +THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN +WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH +AN OLD SONG +THE PENNY WHISTLE +LIGHTS OUT +COCK-CROW +WORDS + + + +THE TRUMPET + +RISE up, rise up, +And, as the trumpet blowing +Chases the dreams of men, +As the dawn glowing +The stars that left unlit +The land and water, +Rise up and scatter +The dew that covers +The print of last night's lovers-- +Scatter it, scatter it! + +While you are listening +To the clear horn, +Forget, men, everything +On this earth newborn, +Except that it is lovelier +Than any mysteries. +Open your eyes to the air +That has washed the eyes of the stars +Through all the dewy night: +Up with the light, +To the old wars; +Arise, arise! + + +THE SIGN-POST + +THE dim sea glints chill. The white sun is shy. +And the skeleton weeds and the never-dry, +Rough, long grasses keep white with frost +At the hilltop by the finger-post; +The smoke of the traveller's-joy is puffed +Over hawthorn berry and hazel tuft. + +I read the sign. Which way shall I go? +A voice says: You would not have doubted so +At twenty. Another voice gentle with scorn +Says: At twenty you wished you had never been born. + +One hazel lost a leaf of gold +From a tuft at the tip, when the first voice told +The other he wished to know what 'twould be +To be sixty by this same post. "You shall see," +He laughed--and I had to join his laughter-- +"You shall see; but either before or after, +Whatever happens, it must befall, +A mouthful of earth to remedy all +Regrets and wishes shall freely be given; +And if there be a flaw in that heaven +'Twill be freedom to wish, and your wish may be +To be here or anywhere talking to me, +No matter what the weather, on earth, +At any age between death and birth,-- +To see what day or night can be, +The sun and the frost, the land and the sea, +Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,-- +With a poor man of any sort, down to a king, +Standing upright out in the air +Wondering where he shall journey, O where?" + + +TEARS + +IT seems I have no tears left. They should have fallen-- +Their ghosts, if tears have ghosts, did fall--that day +When twenty hounds streamed by me, not yet combed + out +But still all equals in their rage of gladness +Upon the scent, made one, like a great dragon +In Blooming Meadow that bends towards the sun +And once bore hops: and on that other day +When I stepped out from the double-shadowed Tower +Into an April morning, stirring and sweet +And warm. Strange solitude was there and silence. +A mightier charm than any in the Tower +Possessed the courtyard. They were changing guard +Soldiers in line, young English countrymen, +Fair-haired and ruddy, in white tunics. Drums +And fifes were playing "The British Grenadiers". +The men, the music piercing that solitude +And silence, told me truths I had not dreamed +And have forgotten since their beauty passed. + + +TWO PEWITS + +UNDER the after-sunset sky +Two pewits sport and cry, +More white than is the moon on high +Riding the dark surge silently; +More black than earth. Their cry +Is the one sound under the sky. +They alone move, now low, now high, +And merrily they cry +To the mischievous Spring sky, +Plunging earthward, tossing high, +Over the ghost who wonders why +So merrily they cry and fly, +Nor choose 'twixt earth and sky, +While the moon's quarter silently +Rides, and earth rests as silently. + + +THE MANOR FARM + +THE rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills +Ran and sparkled down each side of the road +Under the catkins wagging in the hedge. +But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; +Nor did I value that thin gilding beam +More than a pretty February thing +Till I came down to the old Manor Farm, +And church and yew-tree opposite, in age +Its equals and in size. The church and yew +And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness. +The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof, +With tiles duskily glowing, entertained +The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof +White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one. +Three cart-horses were looking over a gate +Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails +Against a fly, a solitary fly. + +The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained +Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught +And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter-- +Rather a season of bliss unchangeable +Awakened from farm and church where it had lain +Safe under tile and thatch for ages since +This England, Old already, was called Merry. + + +THE OWL + +DOWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved; +Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof +Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest +Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. + +Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, +Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. +All of the night was quite barred out except +An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry + +Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, +No merry note, nor cause of merriment, +But one telling me plain what I escaped +And others could not, that night, as in I went. + +And salted was my food, and my repose, +Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice +Speaking for all who lay under the stars, +Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. + + +SWEDES + +THEY have taken the gable from the roof of clay +On the long swede pile. They have let in the sun +To the white and gold and purple of curled fronds +Unsunned. It is a sight more tender-gorgeous +At the wood-corner where Winter moans and drips +Than when, in the Valley of the Tombs of Kings, +A boy crawls down into a Pharaoh's tomb +And, first of Christian men, beholds the mummy, +God and monkey, chariot and throne and vase, +Blue pottery, alabaster, and gold. + +But dreamless long-dead Amen-hotep lies. +This is a dream of Winter, sweet as Spring. + + +WILL YOU COME? + +WILL you come? +Will you come? +Will you ride +So late +At my side? +O, will you come? + +Will you come? +Will you come +If the night +Has a moon, +Full and bright? +O, will you come? + +Would you come? +Would you come +If the noon +Gave light, +Not the moon? +Beautiful, would you come? + +Would you have come? +Would you have come +Without scorning, +Had it been +Still morning? +Beloved, would you have come? + +If you come +Haste and come. +Owls have cried: +It grows dark +To ride. +Beloved, beautiful, come. + + +AS THE TEAM'S HEAD-BRASS + +As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn +The lovers disappeared into the wood. +I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm +That strewed an angle of the fallow, and +Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square +Of charlock. Every time the horses turned +Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned +Upon the handles to say or ask a word, +About the weather, next about the war. +Scraping the share he faced towards the wood, +And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed +Once more. + + The blizzard felled the elm whose crest +I sat in, by a woodpecker's round hole, +The ploughman said. "When will they take it away?" +"When the war's over." So the talk began-- +One minute and an interval of ten, +A minute more and the same interval. +"Have you been out?" "No." "And don't want +to, perhaps?" +"If I could only come back again, I should. +I could spare an arm. I shouldn't want to lose +A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so, +I should want nothing more. . . . Have many gone +From here?" "Yes." "Many lost?" "Yes: + good few. +Only two teams work on the farm this year. +One of my mates is dead. The second day +In France they killed him. It was back in March, +The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if +He had stayed here we should have moved the tree." +"And I should not have sat here. Everything +Would have been different. For it would have been +Another world." "Ay, and a better, though +If we could see all all might seem good." Then +The lovers came out of the wood again: +The horses started and for the last time +I watched the clods crumble and topple over +After the ploughshare and the stumbling team. + + +THAW + +OVER the land freckled with snow half-thawed +The speculating rooks at their nests cawed +And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass, +What we below could not see, Winter pass. + + +INTERVAL + +GONE the wild day: +A wilder night +Coming makes way +For brief twilight. + +Where the firm soaked road +Mounts and is lost +In the high beech-wood +It shines almost. + +The beeches keep +A stormy rest, +Breathing deep +Of wind from the west. + +The wood is black, +With a misty steam. +Above, the cloud pack +Breaks for one gleam. + +But the woodman's cot +By the ivied trees +Awakens not +To light or breeze. + +It smokes aloft +Unwavering: +It hunches soft +Under storm's wing. + +It has no care +For gleam or gloom: +It stays there +While I shall roam, + +Die, and forget +The hill of trees, +The gleam, the wet, +This roaring peace. + + +LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN + +LIKE the touch of rain she was +On a man's flesh and hair and eyes +When the joy of walking thus +Has taken him by surprise: + +With the love of the storm he burns, +He sings, he laughs, well I know how, +But forgets when he returns +As I shall not forget her "Go now." + +Those two words shut a door +Between me and the blessed rain +That was never shut before +And will not open again. + + +THE PATH + +RUNNING along a bank, a parapet +That saves from the precipitous wood below +The level road, there is a path. It serves +Children for looking down the long smooth steep, +Between the legs of beech and yew, to where +A fallen tree checks the sight: while men and women +Content themselves with the road and what they see +Over the bank, and what the children tell. +The path, winding like silver, trickles on, +Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss +That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk +With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain. +The children wear it. They have flattened the bank +On top, and silvered it between the moss +With the current of their feet, year after year. +But the road is houseless, and leads not to school. +To see a child is rare there, and the eye +Has but the road, the wood that overhangs +And underyawns it, and the path that looks +As if it led on to some legendary +Or fancied place where men have wished to go +And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends. + + +THE COMBE + +THE Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark. +Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar; +And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk +By beech and yew and perishing juniper +Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots +And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter, +The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds +Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper, +Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark +The Combe looks since they killed the badger there, +Dug him out and gave him to the hounds, +That most ancient Briton of English beasts. + + +IF I SHOULD EVER BY CHANCE + +IF I should ever by chance grow rich +I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, +Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, +And let them all to my elder daughter. +The rent I shall ask of her will be only +Each year's first violets, white and lonely, +The first primroses and orchises-- +She must find them before I do, that is. +But if she finds a blossom on furze +Without rent they shall all for ever be hers, +Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, +Roses, Pyrgo and Lapwater,-- +I shall give them all to my elder daughter. + + +WHAT SHALL I GIVE? + +WHAT shall I give my daughter the younger +More than will keep her from cold and hunger? +I shall not give her anything. +If she shared South Weald and Havering, +Their acres, the two brooks running between, +Paine's Brook and Weald Brook, +With pewit, woodpecker, swan, and rook, +She would be no richer than the queen +Who once on a time sat in Havering Bower +Alone, with the shadows, pleasure and power. +She could do no more with Samarcand, +Or the mountains of a mountain land +And its far white house above cottages +Like Venus above the Pleiades. +Her small hands I would not cumber +With so many acres and their lumber, +But leave her Steep and her own world +And her spectacled self with hair uncurled, +Wanting a thousand little things +That time without contentment brings. + + +IF I WERE TO OWN + +IF I were to own this countryside +As far as a man in a day could ride, +And the Tyes were mine for giving or letting,-- +Wingle Tye and Margaretting +Tye,--and Skreens, Gooshays, and Cockerells, +Shellow, Rochetts, Bandish, and Pickerells, +Marlins, Lambkins, and Lillyputs, +Their copses, ponds, roads, and ruts, +Fields where plough-horses steam and plovers +Fling and whimper, hedges that lovers +Love, and orchards, shrubberies, walls +Where the sun untroubled by north wind falls, +And single trees where the thrush sings well +His proverbs untranslatable, +I would give them all to my son +If he would let me any one +For a song, a blackbird's song, at dawn. +He should have no more, till on my lawn +Never a one was left, because I +Had shot them to put them into a pie,-- +His Essex blackbirds, every one, +And I was left old and alone. + +Then unless I could pay, for rent, a song +As sweet as a blackbird's, and as long-- +No more--he should have the house, not I: +Margaretting or Wingle Tye, +Or it might be Skreens, Gooshays, or Cockerells, +Shellow, Rochetts, Bandish, or Pickerells, +Martins, Lambkins, or Lillyputs, +Should be his till the cart tracks had no ruts. + + +AND YOU, HELEN + +AND you, Helen, what should I give you? +So many things I would give you +Had I an infinite great store +Offered me and I stood before +To choose. I would give you youth, +All kinds of loveliness and truth, +A clear eye as good as mine, +Lands, waters, flowers, wine, +As many children as your heart +Might wish for, a far better art +Than mine can be, all you have lost +Upon the travelling waters tossed, +Or given to me. If I could choose +Freely in that great treasure-house +Anything from any shelf, +I would give you back yourself, +And power to discriminate +What you want and want it not too late, +Many fair days free from care +And heart to enjoy both foul and fair, +And myself, too, if I could find +Where it lay hidden and it proved kind. + + +WHEN FIRST + +WHEN first I came here I had hope, +Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat +My heart at sight of the tall slope +Or grass and yews, as if my feet + +Only by scaling its steps of chalk +Would see something no other hill +Ever disclosed. And now I walk +Down it the last time. Never will + +My heart beat so again at sight +Of any hill although as fair +And loftier. For infinite +The change, late unperceived, this year, + +The twelfth, suddenly, shows me plain. +Hope now,--not health, nor cheerfulness, +Since they can come and go again, +As often one brief hour witnesses,-- + +Just hope has gone for ever. Perhaps +I may love other hills yet more +Than this: the future and the maps +Hide something I was waiting for. + +One thing I know, that love with chance +And use and time and necessity +Will grow, and louder the heart's dance +At parting than at meeting be. + + +HEAD AND BOTTLE + +THE downs will lose the sun, white alyssum +Lose the bees' hum; +But head and bottle tilted back in the cart +Will never part +Till I am cold as midnight and all my hours +Are beeless flowers. +He neither sees, nor hears, nor smells, nor thinks, +But only drinks, +Quiet in the yard where tree trunks do not lie +More quietly. + + +AFTER YOU SPEAK + +AFTER you speak +And what you meant +Is plain, +My eyes +Meet yours that mean-- +With your cheeks and hair-- +Something more wise, +More dark, +And far different. +Even so the lark +Loves dust +And nestles in it +The minute +Before he must +Soar in lone flight +So far, +Like a black star +He seems-- +A mote +Of singing dust +Afloat +Above, +That dreams +And sheds no light. +I know your lust +Is love. + + +SOWING + +IT was a perfect day +For sowing; just +As sweet and dry was the ground +As tobacco-dust. + +I tasted deep the hour +Between the far +Owl's chuckling first soft cry +And the first star. + +A long stretched hour it was; +Nothing undone +Remained; the early seeds +All safely sown. + +And now, hark at the rain, +Windless and light, +Half a kiss, half a tear, +Saying good-night. + + +WHEN WE TWO WALKED + +WHEN we two walked in Lent +We imagined that happiness +Was something different +And this was something less. + +But happy were we to hide +Our happiness, not as they were +Who acted in their pride +Juno and Jupiter: + +For the Gods in their jealousy +Murdered that wife and man, +And we that were wise live free +To recall our happiness then. + + +IN MEMORIAM (Easter, 1915) + +THE flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood +This Eastertide call into mind the men, +Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should +Have gathered them and will do never again. + + +FIFTY FAGGOTS + +THERE they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots +That once were underwood of hazel and ash +In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge +Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone +Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next + Spring +A blackbird or a robin will nest there, +Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain +Whatever is for ever to a bird: +This Spring it is too late; the swift has come. +'Twas a hot day for carrying them up: +Better they will never warm me, though they must +Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done +The war will have ended, many other things +Have ended, maybe, that I can no more +Foresee or more control than robin and wren. + + +WOMEN HE LIKED + +WOMEN he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob, +Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he +Loved horses. He himself was like a cob, +And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree. + +For the life in them he loved most living things, +But a tree chiefly. All along the lane +He planted elms where now the stormcock sings +That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train. + +Till then the track had never had a name +For all its thicket and the nightingales +That should have earned it. No one was to blame. +To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails. + +Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now +None passes there because the mist and the rain +Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough +And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane. + + +EARLY ONE MORNING + +EARLY one morning in May I set out, +And nobody I knew was about. + I'm bound away for ever, + Away somewhere, away for ever. + +There was no wind to trouble the weathercocks. +I had burnt my letters and darned my socks. + +No one knew I was going away, +I thought myself I should come back some day. + +I heard the brook through the town gardens run. +O sweet was the mud turned to dust by the sun. + +A gate banged in a fence and banged in my head. +"A fine morning, sir." a shepherd said. + +I could not return from my liberty, +To my youth and my love and my misery. + +The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet, +The only sweet thing that is not also fleet. + I'm bound away for ever, + Away somewhere, away for ever. + + +THE CHERRY TREES + +THE cherry trees bend over and are shedding +On the old road where all that passed are dead, +Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding +This early May morn when there is none to wed. + + +IT RAINS + +IT rains, and nothing stirs within the fence +Anywhere through the orchard's untrodden, dense +Forest of parsley. The great diamonds +Of rain on the grassblades there is none to break, +Or the fallen petals further down to shake. + +And I am nearly as happy as possible +To search the wilderness in vain though well, +To think of two walking, kissing there, +Drenched, yet forgetting the kisses of the rain: +Sad, too, to think that never, never again, + +Unless alone, so happy shall I walk +In the rain. When I turn away, on its fine stalk +Twilight has fined to naught, the parsley flower +Figures, suspended still and ghostly white, +The past hovering as it revisits the light. + + +THE HUXTER + +HE has a hump like an ape on his back; +He has of money a plentiful lack; +And but for a gay coat of double his girth +There is not a plainer thing on the earth + This fine May morning. + +But the huxter has a bottle of beer; +He drives a cart and his wife sits near +Who does not heed his lack or his hump; +And they laugh as down the lane they bump + This fine May morning. + + +A GENTLEMAN + +"HE has robbed two clubs. The judge at Salisbury +Can't give him more than he undoubtedly +Deserves. The scoundrel! Look at his photograph! +A lady-killer! Hanging's too good by half +For such as he." So said the stranger, one +With crimes yet undiscovered or undone. +But at the inn the Gipsy dame began: +"Now he was what I call a gentleman. +He went along with Carrie, and when she +Had a baby he paid up so readily +His half a crown. Just like him. A crown'd have + been +More like him. For I never knew him mean. +Oh! but he was such a nice gentleman. Oh! +Last time we met he said if me and Joe +Was anywhere near we must be sure and call. +He put his arms around our Amos all +As if he were his own son. I pray God +Save him from justice! Nicer man never trod." + + +THE BRIDGE + +I HAVE come a long way to-day: +On a strange bridge alone, +Remembering friends, old friends, +I rest, without smile or moan, +As they remember me without smile or moan. + +All are behind, the kind +And the unkind too, no more +To-night than a dream. The stream +Runs softly yet drowns the Past, +The dark-lit stream has drowned the Future and the + Past. + +No traveller has rest more blest +Than this moment brief between +Two lives, when the Night's first lights +And shades hide what has never been, +Things goodlier, lovelier, dearer, than will be or have + been. + + +LOB + +AT hawthorn-time in Wiltshire travelling +In search of something chance would never bring, +An old man's face, by life and weather cut +And coloured,--rough, brown, sweet as any nut,-- +A land face, sea-blue-eyed,--hung in my mind +When I had left him many a mile behind. +All he said was: "Nobody can't stop 'ee. It's +A footpath, right enough. You see those bits +Of mounds--that's where they opened up the barrows +Sixty years since, while I was scaring sparrows. +They thought as there was something to find there, +But couldn't find it, by digging, anywhere." + +To turn back then and seek him, where was the use? +There were three Manningfords,--Abbots, Bohun, and + Bruce: +And whether Alton, not Manningford, it was, +My memory could not decide, because +There was both Alton Barnes and Alton Priors. +All had their churches, graveyards, farms, and byres, +Lurking to one side up the paths and lanes, +Seldom well seen except by aeroplanes; +And when bells rang, or pigs squealed, or cocks crowed, +Then only heard. Ages ago the road +Approached. The people stood and looked and turned, +Nor asked it to come nearer, nor yet learned +To move out there and dwell in all men's dust. +And yet withal they shot the weathercock, just +Because 'twas he crowed out of tune, they said: +So now the copper weathercock is dead. +If they had reaped their dandelions and sold +Them fairly, they could have afforded gold. + +Many years passed, and I went back again +Among those villages, and looked for men +Who might have known my ancient. He himself +Had long been dead or laid upon the shelf, +I thought. One man I asked about him roared +At my description: "'Tis old Bottlesford +He means, Bill." But another said: "Of course, +It was Jack Button up at the White Horse. +He's dead, sir, these three years." This lasted till +A girl proposed Walker of Walker's Hill, +"Old Adam Walker. Adam's Point you'll see +Marked on the maps." + + "That was her roguery," +The next man said. He was a squire's son +Who loved wild bird and beast, and dog and gun +For killing them. He had loved them from his birth, +One with another, as he loved the earth. +"The man may be like Button, or Walker, or +Like Bottlesford, that you want, but far more +He sounds like one I saw when I was a child. +I could almost swear to him. The man was wild +And wandered. His home was where he was free. +Everybody has met one such man as he. +Does he keep clear old paths that no one uses +But once a life-time when he loves or muses? +He is English as this gate, these flowers, this mire. +And when at eight years old Lob-lie-by-the-fire +Came in my books, this was the man I saw. +He has been in England as long as dove and daw, +Calling the wild cherry tree the merry tree, +The rose campion Bridget-in-her-bravery; +And in a tender mood he, as I guess, +Christened one flower Love-in-idleness, +And while he walked from Exeter to Leeds +One April called all cuckoo-flowers Milkmaids. +From him old herbal Gerard learnt, as a boy, +To name wild clematis the Traveller's-joy. +Our blackbirds sang no English till his ear +Told him they called his Jan Toy 'Pretty dear.' +(She was Jan Toy the Lucky, who, having lost +A shilling, and found a penny loaf, rejoiced.) +For reasons of his own to him the wren +Is Jenny Pooter. Before all other men +'Twas he first called the Hog's Back the Hog's Back. +That Mother Dunch's Buttocks should not lack +Their name was his care. He too could explain +Totteridge and Totterdown and Juggler's Lane: +He knows, if anyone. Why Tumbling Bay, +Inland in Kent, is called so, he might say. + +"But little he says compared with what he does. +If ever a sage troubles him he will buzz +Like a beehive to conclude the tedious fray: +And the sage, who knows all languages, runs away. +Yet Lob has thirteen hundred names for a fool, +And though he never could spare time for school +To unteach what the fox so well expressed, +On biting the cock's head off,--Quietness is best,-- +He can talk quite as well as anyone +After his thinking is forgot and done. +He first of all told someone else's wife, +For a farthing she'd skin a flint and spoil a knife +Worth sixpence skinning it. She heard him speak: +'She had a face as long as a wet week' +Said he, telling the tale in after years. +With blue smock and with gold rings in his ears, +Sometimes he is a pedlar, not too poor +To keep his wit. This is tall Tom that bore +The logs in, and with Shakespeare in the hall +Once talked, when icicles hung by the wall. +As Herne the Hunter he has known hard times. +On sleepless nights he made up weather rhymes +Which others spoilt. And, Hob being then his name, +He kept the hog that thought the butcher came +To bring his breakfast 'You thought wrong,' said Hob. +When there were kings in Kent this very Lob, +Whose sheep grew fat and he himself grew merry, +Wedded the king's daughter of Canterbury; +For he alone, unlike squire, lord, and king, +Watched a night by her without slumbering; +He kept both waking. When he was but a lad +He won a rich man's heiress, deaf, dumb, and sad, +By rousing her to laugh at him. He carried +His donkey on his back. So they were married. +And while he was a little cobbler's boy +He tricked the giant coming to destroy +Shrewsbury by flood. 'And how far is it yet?' +The giant asked in passing. 'I forget; +But see these shoes I've worn out on the road +And we're not there yet.' He emptied out his load +Of shoes for mending. The giant let fall from his spade +The earth for damming Severn, and thus made +The Wrekin hill; and little Ercall hill +Rose where the giant scraped his boots. While still +So young, our Jack was chief of Gotham's sages. +But long before he could have been wise, ages +Earlier than this, while he grew thick and strong +And ate his bacon, or, at times, sang a song +And merely smelt it, as Jack the giant-killer +He made a name. He too ground up the miller, +The Yorkshireman who ground men's bones for flour. + +"Do you believe Jack dead before his hour? +Or that his name is Walker, or Bottlesford, +Or Button, a mere clown, or squire, or lord? +The man you saw,--Lob-lie-by-the-fire, Jack Cade, +Jack Smith, Jack Moon, poor Jack of every trade, +Young Jack, or old Jack, or Jack What-d'ye-call, +Jack-in-the-hedge, or Robin-run-by-the-wall, +Robin Hood, Ragged Robin, lazy Bob, +One of the lords of No Man's Land, good Lob,-- +Although he was seen dying at Waterloo, +Hastings, Agincourt, and Sedgemoor too,-- +Lives yet. He never will admit he is dead +Till millers cease to grind men's bones for bread, +Not till our weathercock crows once again +And I remove my house out of the lane +On to the road." With this he disappeared +In hazel and thorn tangled with old-man's-beard. +But one glimpse of his back, as there he stood, +Choosing his way, proved him of old Jack's blood +Young Jack perhaps, and now a Wiltshireman +As he has oft been since his days began. + + +BRIGHT CLOUDS + +BRIGHT clouds of may +Shade half the pond. +Beyond, +All but one bay +Of emerald +Tall reeds +Like criss-cross bayonets +Where a bird once called, +Lies bright as the sun. +No one heeds. +The light wind frets +And drifts the scum +Of may-blossom. +Till the moorhen calls +Again +Naught's to be done +By birds or men. +Still the may falls. + + +THE CLOUDS THAT ARE SO LIGHT + +THE clouds that are so light, +Beautiful, swift and bright, +Cast shadows on field and park +Of the earth that is so dark, + +And even so now, light one! +Beautiful, swift and bright one! +You let fall on a heart that was dark, +Unillumined, a deeper mark. + +But clouds would have, without earth +To shadow, far less worth: +Away from your shadow on me +Your beauty less would be, + +And if it still be treasured +An age hence, it shall be measured +By this small dark spot +Without which it were not. + + +SOME EYES CONDEMN + +SOME eyes condemn the earth they gaze upon: +Some wait patiently till they know far more +Than earth can tell them: some laugh at the whole +As folly of another's making: one +I knew that laughed because he saw, from core +To rind, not one thing worth the laugh his soul +Had ready at waking: some eyes have begun +With laughing; some stand startled at the door. + +Others, too, I have seen rest, question, roll, +Dance, shoot. And many I have loved watching +Some +I could not take my eyes from till they turned +And loving died. I had not found my goal. +But thinking of your eyes, dear, I become +Dumb: for they flamed, and it was me they burned. + + +MAY 23 + +THERE never was a finer day, +And never will be while May is May,-- +The third, and not the last of its kind; +But though fair and clear the two behind +Seemed pursued by tempests overpast; +And the morrow with fear that it could not last +Was spoiled. To-day ere the stones were warm +Five minutes of thunderstorm +Dashed it with rain, as if to secure, +By one tear, its beauty the luck to endure. + +At mid-day then along the lane +Old Jack Noman appeared again, +Jaunty and old, crooked and tall, +And stopped and grinned at me over the wall, +With a cowslip bunch in his button-hole +And one in his cap. Who could say if his roll +Came from flints in the road, the weather, or ale? +He was welcome as the nightingale. +Not an hour of the sun had been wasted on Jack +"I've got my Indian complexion back" +Said he. He was tanned like a harvester, +Like his short clay pipe, like the leaf and bur +That clung to his coat from last night's bed, +Like the ploughland crumbling red. +Fairer flowers were none on the earth +Than his cowslips wet with the dew of their birth, +Or fresher leaves than the cress in his basket. +"Where did they come from, Jack?" "Don't ask it, +And you'll be told no lies." "Very well: +Then I can't buy." "I don't want to sell. +Take them and these flowers, too, free. +Perhaps you have something to give me? +Wait till next time. The better the day . . . +The Lord couldn't make a better, I say; +If he could, he never has done." +So off went Jack with his roll-walk-run, +Leaving his cresses from Oakshott rill +And his cowslips from Wheatham hill. + +'Twas the first day that the midges bit; +But though they bit me, I was glad of it: +Of the dust in my face, too, I was glad. +Spring could do nothing to make me sad. +Bluebells hid all the ruts in the copse. +The elm seeds lay in the road like hops, +That fine day, May the twenty-third, +The day Jack Noman disappeared. + + +THE GLORY + +THE glory of the beauty of the morning,-- +The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; +The blackbird that has found it, and the dove +That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; +White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; +The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy +Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart:-- +The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning +All I can ever do, all I can be, +Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, +The happiness I fancy fit to dwell +In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day +Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, +Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start +And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops, +In hope to find whatever it is I seek, +Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things +That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? +Or must I be content with discontent +As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? +And shall I ask at the day's end once more +What beauty is, and what I can have meant +By happiness? And shall I let all go, +Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know +That I was happy oft and oft before, +Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, +How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to, +Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core. + + +MELANCHOLY + +THE rain and wind, the rain and wind, raved endlessly. +On me the Summer storm, and fever, and melancholy +Wrought magic, so that if I feared the solitude +Far more I feared all company: too sharp, too rude, +Had been the wisest or the dearest human voice. +What I desired I knew not, but whate'er my choice +Vain it must be, I knew. Yet naught did my despair +But sweeten the strange sweetness, while through the + wild air +All day long I heard a distant cuckoo calling +And, soft as dulcimers, sounds of near water falling, +And, softer, and remote as if in history, +Rumours of what had touched my friends, my foes, + or me. + + +ADLESTROP + +YES. I remember Adlestrop-- +The name, because one afternoon +Of heat the express-train drew up there +Unwontedly. It was late June. + +The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. +No one left and no one came +On the bare platform. What I saw +Was Adlestrop--only the name + +And willows, willow-herb, and grass, +And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, +No whit less still and lonely fair +Than the high cloudlets in the sky. + +And for that minute a blackbird sang +Close by, and round him, mistier, +Farther and farther, all the birds +Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. + + +THE GREEN ROADS + +THE green roads that end in the forest +Are strewn with white goose feathers this June, + +Like marks left behind by some one gone to the forest +To show his track. But he has never come back. + +Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest. +Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers. + +An old man along the green road to the forest +Strays from one, from another a child alone. + +In the thicket bordering the forest, +All day long a thrush twiddles his song. + +It is old, but the trees are young in the forest, +All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep. + +That oak saw the ages pass in the forest: +They were a host, but their memories are lost, + +For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest +Excepting perhaps me, when now I see + +The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge + of the forest, +And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song. + + +THE MILL-POND + +THE sun blazed while the thunder yet +Added a boom: +A wagtail flickered bright over +The mill-pond's gloom: + +Less than the cooing in the alder +Isles of the pool +Sounded the thunder through that plunge +Of waters cool. + +Scared starlings on the aspen tip +Past the black mill +Outchattered the stream and the next roar +Far on the hill. + +As my feet dangling teased the foam +That slid below +A girl came out. "Take care!" she said-- +Ages ago. + +She startled me, standing quite close +Dressed all in white: +Ages ago I was angry till +She passed from sight. + +Then the storm burst, and as I crouched +To shelter, how +Beautiful and kind, too, she seemed, +As she does now! + + +IT WAS UPON + +IT was upon a July evening. +At a stile I stood, looking along a path +Over the country by a second Spring +Drenched perfect green again. "The lattermath +Will be a fine one." So the stranger said, +A wandering man. Albeit I stood at rest, +Flushed with desire I was. The earth outspread, +Like meadows of the future, I possessed. + +And as an unaccomplished prophecy +The stranger's words, after the interval +Of a score years, when those fields are by me +Never to be recrossed, now I recall, +This July eve, and question, wondering, +What of the lattermath to this hoar Spring? + + +TALL NETTLES + +TALL nettles cover up, as they have done +These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough +Long worn out, and the roller made of stone: +Only the elm butt tops the nettles now. + +This corner of the farmyard I like most: +As well as any bloom upon a flower +I like the dust on the nettles, never lost +Except to prove the sweetness of a shower. + + +HAYMAKING + +AFTER night's thunder far away had rolled +The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, +And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled, +Like the first gods before they made the world +And misery, swimming the stormless sea +In beauty and in divine gaiety. +The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn +With leaves--the holly's Autumn falls in June-- +And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat. +The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit +With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd +Of children pouring out of school aloud. +And in the little thickets where a sleeper +For ever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper +And garden warbler sang unceasingly; +While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee +The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow +As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. +Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown +Travelled the road. In the field sloping down, +Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook, +Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook +Out in the sun; and the long waggon stood +Without its team, it seemed it never would +Move from the shadow of that single yew. +The team, as still, until their task was due, +Beside the labourers enjoyed the shade +That three squat oaks mid-field together made +Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, +And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but +Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. +The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, +But still. And all were silent. All was old, +This morning time, with a great age untold, +Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, +Than, at the field's far edge, the farmer's home, +A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. +Under the heavens that know not what years be +The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements +Uttered even what they will in times far hence-- +All of us gone out of the reach of change-- +Immortal in a picture of an old grange. + + +HOW AT ONCE + +How at once should I know, +When stretched in the harvest blue +I saw the swift's black bow, +That I would not have that view +Another day +Until next May +Again it is due? + +The same year after year-- +But with the swift alone. +With other things I but fear +That they will be over and done +Suddenly +And I only see +Them to know them gone. + + +GONE, GONE AGAIN + +GONE, gone again, +May, June, July, +And August gone, +Again gone by, + +Not memorable +Save that I saw them go, +As past the empty quays +The rivers flow. + +And now again, +In the harvest rain, +The Blenheim oranges +Fall grubby from the trees, + +As when I was young-- +And when the lost one was here-- +And when the war began +To turn young men to dung. + +Look at the old house, +Outmoded, dignified, +Dark and untenanted, +With grass growing instead + +Of the footsteps of life, +The friendliness, the strife; +In its beds have lain +Youth, love, age and pain: + +I am something like that; +Only I am not dead, +Still breathing and interested +In the house that is not dark:-- + +I am something like that: +Not one pane to reflect the sun, +For the schoolboys to throw at-- +They have broken every one. + + +THE SUN USED TO SHINE + +THE sun used to shine while we two walked +Slowly together, paused and started +Again, and sometimes mused, sometimes talked +As either pleased, and cheerfully parted + +Each night. We never disagreed +Which gate to rest on. The to be +And the late past we gave small heed. +We turned from men or poetry + +To rumours of the war remote +Only till both stood disinclined +For aught but the yellow flavorous coat +Of an apple wasps had undermined; + +Or a sentry of dark betonies, +The stateliest of small flowers on earth, +At the forest verge; or crocuses +Pale purple as if they had their birth + +In sunless Hades fields. The war +Came back to mind with the moonrise +Which soldiers in the east afar +Beheld then. Nevertheless, our eyes + +Could as well imagine the Crusades +Or Caesar's battles. Everything +To faintness like those rumours fades-- +Like the brook's water glittering + +Under the moonlight--like those walks +Now--like us two that took them, and +The fallen apples, all the talks +And silences--like memory's sand + +When the tide covers it late or soon, +And other men through other flowers +In those fields under the same moon +Go talking and have easy hours. + + +OCTOBER + +THE green elm with the one great bough of gold +Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one,-- +The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white, +Harebell and scabious and tormentil, +That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun, +Bow down to; and the wind travels too light +To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern; +The gossamers wander at their own will. +At heavier steps than birds' the squirrels scold. + +The rich scene has grown fresh again and new +As Spring and to the touch is not more cool +Than it is warm to the gaze; and now I might +As happy be as earth is beautiful, +Were I some other or with earth could turn +In alternation of violet and rose, +Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due, +And gorse that has no time not to be gay. +But if this be not happiness,--who knows? +Some day I shall think this a happy day, +And this mood by the name of melancholy +Shall no more blackened and obscured be. + + +THE LONG SMALL ROOM + +THE long small room that showed willows in the west +Narrowed up to the end the fireplace filled, +Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessed +What need or accident made them so build. + +Only the moon, the mouse and the sparrow peeped +In from the ivy round the casement thick. +Of all they saw and heard there they shall keep +The tale for the old ivy and older brick. + +When I look back I am like moon, sparrow and mouse +That witnessed what they could never understand +Or alter or prevent in the dark house. +One thing remains the same--this my right hand + +Crawling crab-like over the clean white page, +Resting awhile each morning on the pillow, +Then once more starting to crawl on towards age. +The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow. + + +LIBERTY + +THE last light has gone out of the world, except +This moonlight lying on the grass like frost +Beyond the brink of the tall elm's shadow +It is as if everything else had slept +Many an age, unforgotten and lost +The men that were, the things done, long ago, +All I have thought; and but the moon and I +Live yet and here stand idle over the grave +Where all is buried. Both have liberty +To dream what we could do if we were free +To do some thing we had desired long, +The moon and I. There's none less free than who +Does nothing and has nothing else to do, +Being free only for what is not to his mind, +And nothing is to his mind. If every hour +Like this one passing that I have spent among +The wiser others when I have forgot +To wonder whether I was free or not, +Were piled before me, and not lost behind, +And I could take and carry them away +I should be rich; or if I had the power +To wipe out every one and not again +Regret, I should be rich to be so poor. +And yet I still am half in love with pain, +With what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth, +With things that have an end, with life and earth, +And this moon that leaves me dark within the door. + + +NOVEMBER + +NOVEMBER'S days are thirty: +November's earth is dirty, +Those thirty days, from first to last; +And the prettiest things on ground are the paths +With morning and evening hobnails dinted, +With foot and wing-tip overprinted +Or separately charactered, +Of little beast and little bird. +The fields are mashed by sheep, the roads +Make the worst going, the best the woods +Where dead leaves upward and downward scatter. +Few care for the mixture of earth and water, +Twig, leaf, flint, thorn, +Straw, feather, all that men scorn, +Pounded up and sodden by flood, +Condemned as mud. + +But of all the months when earth is greener +Not one has clean skies that are cleaner. +Clean and clear and sweet and cold, +They shine above the earth so old, +While the after-tempest cloud +Sails over in silence though winds are loud, +Till the full moon in the east +Looks at the planet in the west +And earth is silent as it is black, +Yet not unhappy for its lack. +Up from the dirty earth men stare: +One imagines a refuge there +Above the mud, in the pure bright +Of the cloudless heavenly light: +Another loves earth and November more dearly +Because without them, he sees clearly, +The sky would be nothing more to his eye +Than he, in any case, is to the sky; +He loves even the mud whose dyes +Renounce all brightness to the skies. + + +THE SHEILING + +IT stands alone +Up in a land of stone +All worn like ancient stairs, +A land of rocks and trees +Nourished on wind and stone. + +And all within +Long delicate has been; +By arts and kindliness +Coloured, sweetened, and warmed +For many years has been. + +Safe resting there +Men hear in the travelling air +But music, pictures see +In the same daily land +Painted by the wild air. + +One maker's mind +Made both, and the house is kind +To the land that gave it peace, +And the stone has taken the house +To its cold heart and is kind. + + +THE GALLOWS + +THERE was a weasel lived in the sun +With all his family, +Till a keeper shot him with his gun +And hung him up on a tree, +Where he swings in the wind and rain, +In the sun and in the snow, +Without pleasure, without pain, +On the dead oak tree bough. + +There was a crow who was no sleeper, +But a thief and a murderer +Till a very late hour; and this keeper +Made him one of the things that were, +To hang and flap in rain and wind, +In the sun and in the snow. +There are no more sins to be sinned +On the dead oak tree bough. + +There was a magpie, too, +Had a long tongue and a long tail; +He could both talk and do-- +But what did that avail? +He, too, flaps in the wind and rain +Alongside weasel and crow, +Without pleasure, without pain, +On the dead oak tree bough. + +And many other beasts +And birds, skin, bone and feather, +Have been taken from their feasts +And hung up there together, +To swing and have endless leisure +In the sun and in the snow, +Without pain, without pleasure, +On the dead oak tree bough. + + +BIRDS' NESTS + +THE summer nests uncovered by autumn wind. +Some torn, others dislodged, all dark. +Everyone sees them: low or high in tree, +Or hedge, or single bush, they hang like a mark. + +Since there's no need of eyes to see them with +I cannot help a little shame +That I missed most, even at eye's level, till +The leaves blew off and made the seeing no game. + +'Tis a light pang. I like to see the nests +Still in their places, now first known, +At home and by far roads. Boys knew them not, +Whatever jays and squirrels may have done. + +And most I like the winter nests deep-hid +That leaves and berries fell into; +Once a dormouse dined there on hazel-nuts, +And grass and goose-grass seeds found soil and grew. + + +RAIN + +RAIN, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain +On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me +Remembering again that I shall die +And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks +For washing me cleaner than I have been +Since I was born into this solitude. +Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: +But here I pray that none whom once I loved +Is dying to-night or lying still awake +Solitary, listening to the rain, +Either in pain or thus in sympathy +Helpless among the living and the dead, +Like a cold water among broken reeds, +Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, +Like me who have no love which this wild rain +Has not dissolved except the love of death, +If love it be towards what is perfect and +Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. + + +"HOME" + +FAIR was the morning, fair our tempers, and +We had seen nothing fairer than that land, +Though strange, and the untrodden snow that made +Wild of the tame, casting out all that was +Not wild and rustic and old; and we were glad. + +Fair, too, was afternoon, and first to pass +Were we that league of snow, next the north wind + +There was nothing to return for, except need, +And yet we sang nor ever stopped for speed, +As we did often with the start behind. +Faster still strode we when we came in sight +Of the cold roofs where we must spend the night. +Happy we had not been there, nor could be. +Though we had tasted sleep and food and fellowship +Together long. + + "How quick" to someone's lip +The words came, "will the beaten horse run home." + +The word "home" raised a smile in us all three, +And one repeated it, smiling just so +That all knew what he meant and none would say. +Between three counties far apart that lay +We were divided and looked strangely each +At the other, and we knew we were not friends +But fellows in a union that ends +With the necessity for it, as it ought. + +Never a word was spoken, not a thought +Was thought, of what the look meant with the word +"Home" as we walked and watched the sunset blurred. +And then to me the word, only the word, +"Homesick," as it were playfully occurred: +No more. + + If I should ever more admit +Than the mere word I could not endure it +For a day longer: this captivity +Must somehow come to an end, else I should be +Another man, as often now I seem, +Or this life be only an evil dream. + + +THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN + +THERE'S nothing like the sun as the year dies, +Kind as it can be, this world being made so, +To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, +To all things that it touches except snow, +Whether on mountain side or street of town. +The south wall warms me: November has begun, +Yet never shone the sun as fair as now +While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough +With spangles of the morning's storm drop down +Because the starling shakes it, whistling what +Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot +That there is nothing, too, like March's sun, +Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's, +Or January's, or February's, great days: +And August, September, October, and December +Have equal days, all different from November. +No day of any month but I have said-- +Or, if I could live long enough, should say-- +"There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day" +There's nothing like the sun till we are dead. + + +WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH + +WHEN he should laugh the wise man knows full well: +For he knows what is truly laughable. +But wiser is the man who laughs also, +Or holds his laughter, when the foolish do. + + +AN OLD SONG + +THE sun set, the wind fell, the sea +Was like a mirror shaking: +The one small wave that clapped the land +A mile-long snake of foam was making +Where tide had smoothed and wind had dried +The vacant sand. + +A light divided the swollen clouds +And lay most perfectly +Like a straight narrow footbridge bright +That crossed over the sea to me; +And no one else in the whole world +Saw that same sight. + +I walked elate, my bridge always +Just one step from my feet: +A robin sang, a shade in shade: +And all I did was to repeat: +"I'll go no more a-roving +With you, fair maid." + +The sailors' song of merry loving +With dusk and sea-gull's mewing +Mixed sweet, the lewdness far outweighed +By the wild charm the chorus played: +"I'll go no more a-roving +With you, fair maid: +A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, +I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid." + +_In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid-- +Mark well what I do say-- +In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid +And she was a mistress of her trade: +I'll go no more a-roving +With you, fair maid: +A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, +I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid._ + + +THE PENNY WHISTLE + +THE new moon hangs like an ivory bugle +In the naked frosty blue; +And the ghylls of the forest, already blackened +By Winter, are blackened anew. + +The brooks that cut up and increase the forest, +As if they had never known +The sun, are roaring with black hollow voices +Betwixt rage and a moan. + +But still the caravan-hut by the hollies +Like a kingfisher gleams between: +Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burners +First primroses ask to be seen. + +The charcoal-burners are black, but their linen +Blows white on the line; +And white the letter the girl is reading +Under that crescent fine; + +And her brother who hides apart in a thicket, +Slowly and surely playing +On a whistle an olden nursery melody, +Says far more than I am saying. + + +LIGHTS OUT + +I HAVE come to the borders of sleep, +The unfathomable deep +Forest where all must lose +Their way, however straight, +Or winding, soon or late; +They cannot choose. + +Many a road and track +That, since the dawn's first crack, +Up to the forest brink, +Deceived the travellers +Suddenly now blurs, +And in they sink. + +Here love ends, +Despair, ambition ends, +All pleasure and all trouble, +Although most sweet or bitter, +Here ends in sleep that is sweeter +Than tasks most noble. + +There is not any book +Or face of dearest look +That I would not turn from now +To go into the unknown +I must enter and leave alone +I know not how. + +The tall forest towers; +Its cloudy foliage lowers +Ahead, shelf above shelf; +Its silence I hear and obey +That I may lose my way +And myself. + + +COCK-CROW + +OUT of the wood of thoughts that grows by night +To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,-- +Out of the night, two cocks together crow, +Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow: +And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand, +Heralds of splendour, one at either hand, +Each facing each as in a coat of arms: +The milkers lace their boots up at the farms. + + +WORDS + +OUT of us all +That make rhymes, +Will you choose +Sometimes-- +As the winds use +A crack in a wall +Or a drain, +Their joy or their pain +To whistle through-- +Choose me, +You English words? + +I know you: +You are light as dreams, +Tough as oak, +Precious as gold, +As poppies and corn, +Or an old cloak: +Sweet as our birds +To the ear, +As the burnet rose +In the heat +Of Midsummer: +Strange as the races +Of dead and unborn: +Strange and sweet +Equally, +And familiar, +To the eye, +As the dearest faces +That a man knows, +And as lost homes are: +But though older far +Than oldest yew,-- +As our hills are, old.-- +Worn new +Again and again: +Young as our streams +After rain: +And as dear +As the earth which you prove +That we love. + +Make me content +With some sweetness +From Wales +Whose nightingales +Have no wings,-- +From Wiltshire and Kent +And Herefordshire, +And the villages there,-- +From the names, and the things +No less. + +Let me sometimes dance +With you, +Or climb +Or stand perchance +In ecstasy, +Fixed and free +In a rhyme, +As poets do. + + +THE END + + + +PRINTED AT + +THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS + +KINGSTON, SURREY. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Thomas + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 22423.txt or 22423.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/4/2/22423/ + +Produced by Lewis Jones + +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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